The Perfect Lover (48 page)

Simon looked at her, a long, considering glance, then gave James his hand. “Ask for my opinion in three months.”

James laughed, shook his hand. “I suspect I’ll know your opinion somewhat earlier than that.”

Simon shook Charlie’s hand, then climbed up beside her. He flicked the reins the instant they were settled; with smiles and waves, they were off.

She sat back, and wondered. Her box and bandbox were strapped behind and Wilks had been dispatched with Lady O. There was, of course, nothing the least noteworthy in Simon driving her up to town, nothing the least scandalous in driving in an open carriage alone. They were following Lady O, in whose care she was. All perfectly aboveboard.

Except that he and she were not heading directly to London, but by way of somewhere else. Where she couldn’t imagine, let alone why.

Even though she’d expected not to head for town, she was nevertheless surprised when, on reaching the main gate and the lane, Simon turned his horses west, away from Ashmore.

“The west country?” She racked her brains. “Gabriel and Alathea? Or Lucifer and Phyllida?”

Simon grinned, shook his head. “You don’t know the place—you’ve never been there.
I
haven’t been there in years.”

“Will we reach there tonight?”

“In a few hours.”

She sat back and watched the hedgerows slide by. Realized the feeling enfolding her was contentment. Even though she didn’t have a clue where he was taking her.

A smile threatened; she suppressed it. Knew if he saw it he’d ask for an explanation; although she could make a good attempt, now was neither the time nor place.

The simple truth was, with no other man could she imagine being in such a situation and simply accepting it with such inner serenity.

She let her gaze drift to his face, watched for a while, then looked forward before he felt her gaze. She trusted him. Absolutely. Not just physically, although between them, in that arena, the truth was now clear—she was his, but he was also hers, and, it seemed, always had been—she also trusted him in all other spheres.

She trusted his strength—that he would never use it against her, but that it would be there, always, whenever she needed its protection. She trusted his loyalty, his will—most importantly, she trusted his heart.

Knew, in her own, that in the vulnerability he’d embraced, faced, and let her see, accepted that she had to see, lay a guarantee to last a lifetime.

Love. The wellspring of trust, the ultimate cornerstone for marriage.

Trust, strength, security—and love.

She, and he, had it all.

All they needed to go on with.

Wherever he was taking her.

Settling back, she faced forward, willing to follow the road before them wherever it led.

It led to the town of Queen Charlton in Somerset, and ultimately to a house called Risby Grange. Simon stopped in the village and took a large room at the inn. Portia made sure she kept her gloves on all the time, but detected no hint that the innwife suspected they were not man and wife.

Perhaps Charlie was right, and the underlying truth showed, regardless of the existence of formalities.

Leaving their bags at the inn, they followed a winding lane, and in midafternoon drove in through the arched gatehouse of Risby Grange.

Simon halted the horses just inside the gatehouse. Before them, sprawled across the crest of the gently rising lawns, the house lay basking in the sunshine, its pale grey stone half-covered with creeper, mullioned windows winking below crenellated battlements.

The house was old, solid, well-kept, but appeared to be deserted.

“Who lives here?” she asked.

“At present, no one other than a caretaker.” Simon set the bays trotting up the drive. “I doubt he’ll be around. I’ve got a key.”

She looked at him, waiting, but he said no more. Reaching the court before the shallow steps leading up to the front door, he turned the horses onto the adjacent lawn. They both jumped down; after tying the reins to a tree and checking the curricle’s brake, he took her hand and they crossed the graveled court, climbed the steps.

He rang the bell; they could hear it jangling deep in the house. They waited, but no one came to let them in.

“The caretaker’s also the gamekeeper—he’s probably out.” Drawing a large key from his pocket, Simon slid it into the lock, turned, then pushed the door wide.

He went in first, looking around; she followed on his heels.

Immediately forgot all her questions over why they were there as curiosity took flight. From the wood-paneled hall with its stained-glass windows, she went from room to room, not waiting for him but leading the way.

From outside, the house had appeared sprawling; inside, it was even more so. Rooms opened from flagged corridors, more corridors sprang from halls, leading hither and yon. Yet every room was gracious, warm, filled with excellent furniture lovingly cared for, with rich fabrics and pretty things, with antiques, and some pieces she recognized as more than that. They were heirlooms.

A fine patina of dust lay over everything, but the house did not exude the musty chill of a place long deserted. Instead, it felt like it was waiting—as if one owner had recently departed, but another was expected at any time. It was a house built for laughter, for warmth and happiness, for a large family to fill its sprawling vastness. That atmosphere pervaded, so definite it was tangible; this was a house that had seen generations grow, that lived and breathed and remained confident of its future, indeed, was eagerly awaiting it.

She knew the Cynster motto,
To have and to hold,
well enough, recognized it and their coat of arms in various forms—on cushions, on a carved panel, in a pane of stained glass.

Eventually, in the big room on the first floor at the top of the main stairs, standing before the magnificent bay window that overlooked the forecourt, she turned to Simon; he stood leaning against the doorframe, watching her. “Whose house is this?”

He studied her, replied, “Mine.”

She raised her brows, waited.

He grinned. “It was Great-aunt Clara’s. All the others were already married and had their own homes, so she willed this place to me.”

She tilted her head, studied him in return. “Why did we come here?”

Simon pushed away from the doorjamb, walked toward her. “I was on my way here all along—I stopped at the house party on the way.”

Halting beside her, he took her hand, drew her around to face the long view over the lawns to the gatehouse. “I told you—I hadn’t been here for years. My memories of it . . . I didn’t know how accurate they were. I wanted to confirm it was as I remembered—a house that calls for a wife and family.”

He glanced at her as she glanced at him. “I was right. It does. It’s a house that’s supposed to be a home.”

She held his gaze. “Indeed. And what were you planning to do once you’d confirmed your recollection?”

His lips lifted. “Why, find myself a wife”—he raised her hand to his lips, kept his eyes on hers—“and start a family.”

She blinked. “Oh.” Blinked again, looked out over the lawns.

He closed his hand about hers. “What is it?”

A moment passed, then she said, “You remember when you found me at the lookout, and I vowed I would consider every eligible gentleman . . . the reason I’d decided to do so was that I’d realized I wanted to have children of my own—a family of my own. To do that, I needed a husband.”

Her lips twisted; she looked at him. “Of course, by that I meant a suitable gentleman who would fall in with my wishes and allow me to rule our joint lives.”

“No doubt.” His tone was acerbic. When she said nothing more but continued to watch him, as if studying him, assessing him anew, he softly asked, “Is that why you’re marrying me?”

She hadn’t said she would, yet both knew it, a given—an understanding already acknowledged, albeit not in words. Her dark eyes sparked, registering his tack, then they softened. Her lips curved.

“Lady O is really quite amazing.”

He’d lost the thread. “How so?”

“She informed me that wanting children, while a perfectly acceptable reason to bring one to consider marriage, was not of itself a sufficiently good reason to marry. However, she assured me that if I kept looking—considering gentlemen to marry—the right reason would eventually present itself.”

He twined his fingers with hers. “And has it?”

She met his eyes, her smile serene. “Yes. I love you, and you love me. Lady O is, as always, right—no other reason will do.”

He drew her into his arms, felt their bodies react the instant they touched, not just sexually but with a deeper, more comforting familiarity. He gloried in the feeling, gloried in her as she draped her arms over his shoulders, as between his hands, he felt her supple strength, in her dark eyes saw an intellect every bit the equal of his. “It won’t be easy.”

“Assuredly not—I refuse to promise to be a comfortable wife.”

His lips twitched. “You’re quite comfortable enough—‘obedient’ is the word you want, or ‘acquiescent’—you’ve never been either.”

“Nonsense—I am when it suits me.”

“Therein lies the rub.”

“I’m not going to change.”

He looked into her eyes. “I don’t want you to. If you can accept that I’m similiarly unlikely to change, we can go on from there.”

Portia smiled. Theirs would not be the marriage she’d wanted; it would be the marriage she needed. “Despite all prior experience, we’ve managed remarkably well so far. If we try, do you think we could make this last a lifetime?”

“With both of us trying, it’ll last.” He paused, then added, “We have the right reasons, after all.”

“Indubitably.” She drew his lips to hers. “I’m starting to believe that love can indeed conqueror all.”

He paused, their lips separated by a breath. “Even us?”

She made a frustrated sound. “You, me—
us
. Now kiss me.”

Simon smiled. And did.

He’d reached the end of his journey and found all he’d been seeking; in her arms, he’d found his true goal.

The Pavilion, Brighton
October, 1815.

H
is Royal Highness’s straits must be dire indeed if he needs must summon His Britannic Majesty’s best simply to bask in the reflected glory.”

The drawled comment contained more than a little cynicism; Tristan Wemyss, fourth Earl of Trentham, glanced across the stuffy music room, packed with guests, sycophants, and all manner of toadies, at its subject.

Prinny stood in the center of a circle of admirers. Decked out in gold braid and crimson, with epaulets high and fully fringed, their Regent was in genial and expansive good humor, retelling heroic tales of derring-do drawn from the dispatches of recent engagements, most notably that of Waterloo.

Both Tristan and the gentleman standing beside him, Christian Allardyce, Marquess of Dearne, knew the real stories; they had been there. Easing free of the throng, they’d retreated to the side of the opulent chamber to avoid hearing the artful lies.

It was Tristan who’d spoken.

“Actually,” Tristan murmured, “I’d viewed tonight more in the nature of a distraction—a feint, if you will.”

Christian raised heavy brows. “Listen to my stories of England’s greatness—don’t worry that the Exchequer’s empty and the people are starving?”

Tristan’s lips quirked downward. “Something like that.”

Dismissing Prinny and his court, Christian surveyed the others crowding the circular room. It was an all-male company primarily composed of representatives from every major regiment and arm of the services recently active; the chamber was a sea of colorful dress uniforms, of braid, polished leather, fur, and even feathers. “Telling that he chose to stage what amounts to a victory reception in Brighton rather than London, don’t you think? I wonder if Dalziel had any say in that?”

“From all I’ve gathered, our Prince is no favorite in London, but it seems our erstwhile commander has taken no chances with whose names he volunteered for the guest list tonight.”

“Oh?”

They were talking quietly, out of habit disguising their communication as nothing more than a social exchange between acquaintances. Habit died hard, especially since, until recently, such practices had been vital to staying alive.