When She Said I Do (25 page)

Instead it had been quite nearly sacred—a benediction, a blessing, a gift.

He’d been too lost in her sweet, hot cock-sucking to realize it at the time, but she had put her hands upon him, sliding them over his hot skin like cool balm, soothing and stroking even as she sucked and tantalized him. For all that he’d plunged deep into her mouth, he felt as though he were the one invaded, assaulted, deflowered.

She’d done something to him. She’d ensnared him, ensorcelled him with her giving mouth. He was not the same man he’d been a week ago.

Yet he was not the same man he’d been three years ago, either. He was someone new—someone with all the youthful arrogance gone, yet with his eager romantic heart still struggling to beat. He was a man with all his bitterness and despair gone, yet with scars—honorable battle scars. She was a gift, a lesson in humility and generosity. As lessons went, he’d not got off too badly.

The sun began to peek out over the easternmost hilltop. Ren snapped his mind back, away from the way she’d run her small questing hands all over his naked, broken body, and focused his mind upon today’s mission.

He meant to find the giant.

*   *   *

Callie had been ordered to sit today and frankly she didn’t mind. She’d thought she might work on her drawings, but her specimens had faded and she hadn’t brought any fresh home from yesterday’s venture.

The day outside was gray and chill, making the window seat unappealing.

Reading didn’t tempt her, for her head still ached. Sewing seemed pointless, for the ivory gown was far too ruined to rescue. The blue she was wearing was all she had, but she had hopes that Mr. Button would keep his promise of others within days.

In the meantime, she found herself in the unique state of … well, boredom.

Boredom was a dangerous state for a Worthington. Things tended to explode, or at least catch fire. Or flood.

In one corner of the library stood a dainty Chinese cupboard. It was just a small red-lacquered box, really, set high on outrageously carved legs finished in gold leaf. In the somber room it fairly glowed, drawing Callie’s restless gaze.

She hobbled closer, bending to admire the inlaid ivory pictures on the doors. The intricate designs looked like nonsense at first, but as she peered more closely, she realized that the figures were people … oh, no … animals? Yes, definitely people, but with the heads of animals. There were tangles of them, leading round and round in a sort of square spiral …

Callie’s eyes widened. Oh. Animal-headed people who were … er … fornicating.

Straightening, she crossed her arms and gazed dubiously at the cupboard. Really? And she’d thought Mr. Porter such a respectable sort of man. She knew he had an erotic side, of course, but she’d no idea he had a
whimsical
erotic side.

The cupboard was positively exuberant with naughty-boy enjoyment. Callie knew it when she saw it. Five brothers, after all.

She bent to examine the pictures again, following the pattern of tiny orgies with one fingertip … just in case, well, there was something
new
.

It wasn’t as though she’d never seen erotica before. Her mother had a lovely collection of illustrations from an ancient Indian sexual text. One learned where one could.

The pressure of her seeking fingertips released something inside the latch and the little bowed door swung open into her hand.

Oh, well, don’t mind if I do
.

Callie went awkwardly to her knees to peer inside. One by one she lifted out an assortment of tiny objects.

First she pulled out a folded packet of silk. She unfolded it to find nothing within, then realized that the swath was a long sort of shawl, as fine as spiderweb, dyed in the most brilliant pattern of Turkish blue and emerald green. It was as vibrant and lovely as a peacock’s feather. Callie longed for it with all her girlish heart, but she carefully folded it up and set it aside. She found another small cubical box. Nested inside was a stunning ring of exquisite sapphire. The stone was easily the size of Callie’s own thumbprint. The jewel was surrounded by smaller green stones that must be emeralds. Though Callie had never seen them before.… except among the jewels in the casket in her room.

This ring, however, was no antique treasure. It was cut and mounted in an ostentatious height, very much the style of a ring recently presented by the Duke of York to his mistress and much gossiped about in the tattle sheets.

It had to have been created some time in the last five years or so. Ellie would know. She kept on top of all the latest trends among the wealthy and titled—just in case she ever became one, Callie supposed. If anyone could rise so far, it would be Elektra Worthington.

The ring and the exotic silk shawl had doubtless been intended for the same lady … one with a taste for the vivid and ostentatious.

Mr. Porter had been in love. With someone who quite obviously didn’t remain long enough to receive the ring Callie now clenched in her hand. A ring from the last five years. Scars that were four years old.

Gifts refused and rejected? Mr. Porter summarily dismissed from some shallow woman’s favor?

Had he loved her?

Did he love her still?

Rage rose within Callie at the imagined rejection he’d suffered, at the unfeeling female who had looked at his suffering and his scars and then looked away.

She was being ridiculous, creating stories about matters of which she knew nothing. Perhaps the lady was still waiting for Mr. Porter, languishing somewhere, while he refused, stubborn man, to show her his ruined face and beg for her love. Now her ire rose against Mr. Porter himself!

Callie looked down at the treasures in her hands and laughed out loud at herself. She was becoming as fanciful and romantic as Mama.

Firmly setting aside the ring and, a little more slowly, the shawl, Callie reached back into the opening.

Next she extracted a letter in an envelope of the finest rag linen paper with a waxen seal in a design that made Callie’s eyes pop. She set it aside, trying to remember that prying wasn’t nice.

She dipped her hand farther inside. The compartment was narrow but deep, like a long loaf of bread. Toward the back of the shelf she found a small inlaid wooden box, flat and oblong. The box was richly made but simple. Its only decoration was a carved emblem on the lid that rather alarmingly resembled the waxen seal of the letter.

Callie raised the lid slowly, unable to resist the sensation that she was committing some petty act of spying.

A medal, gleaming golden and rich, lying on a velvet bed. An ornate Latin inscription ran the edge of it, around the cast profile of none other than—

Callie’s gaze slid to the letter. She picked it up, weighing the hefty paper in her hand. It was addressed to “R.” That was all. Just “R.”

Mr. Lawrence Porter was in possession of a letter that was written to someone else. By Callie’s easily rationalized Worthington reasoning, that meant she had as much right to read it as he did.

The seal was broken anyway, lifted whole off the paper of the envelope beneath the flap.

Callie peeked. Then frowning, she pulled the entire letter from its envelope and opened the folded missive.

My dearest Ren,

I’ve sent you the damn medal anyway, even though I know you’ll loathe it. In addition I’ve entered your name in the Rolls of Knighthood, regardless of your protest.

Bloody hell, Ren, when are you going to get off your high horse and forgive us all? I’d command it but I know you’d just disobey me and then I’d have to hang you for treason, you stubborn bastard.

I hope you like the Chinese cabinet. Even though I know you won’t. Once upon a time, you would have laughed out loud.

Come back to Us soon. Our patience wears thin. Damned thin. Geo

Then beneath, scrawled large in a careless hand, were three letters that stole Callie’s breath clean away.

“H.R.H.”

His Royal Highness
.

Geo. George. Prince George. The Prince Regent.

I’m reading Royal Post
.

Callie’s hand began to shake and the letter began to flutter obligingly.
I’m fluttering Royal Post
.

Now I’m stuffing the Royal Letter back into the Royal Envelope and locking it back into the Royal Deviant Cupboard
. Callie slammed the little perverted door and stepped back from the cupboard as if it were on fire.

Then it struck her. Lawrence.
Ren
.

“Ren.” Callie breathed the name aloud. Mr. Porter suddenly became someone warmer, easier, more understandable. More
Ren
.

Are you sure it isn’t just the affectionately exasperated letter from the Prince Regent
?

Callie’s knees weakened and she sank to the carpet to sit tailor-fashion, gazing perplexedly at the cavorting ivory figures as she absently rubbed her ankle.

A medal. A knighthood. A friend named George.

Who are you, Mr. Porter?

And when do I get to meet Ren?

Chapter 21

Callie hesitated before answering the knocker that morning. As she hobbled through the front hall, it occurred to her that the giant might simply walk in.

Or it could be Betrice, coming by to see how she was feeling. Whichever, Callie refused to take on her husband’s hermitlike attitudes. She flung the door open with a welcoming smile—a smile that widened when she spied the small, puckish fellow upon her doorstep.

“Mr. Button!”

He waved a handful of wildflowers at her in an elegantly ridiculous bow. “For you, madam.”

Callie took them with a laugh. “How did you know I like wildflowers?”

He lifted a brow. “Cabot is privy to absolutely everything known to any village maiden—they simply won’t leave him alone!”

Callie took a moment to muse upon the male perfection of Cabot—a tribute most deserved!—before grabbing Button by the arm and dragging him into a spontaneous hug. “Oh, Mr. Button, I’m so glad you’re here!”

It took two cups of tea and a raid upon the larder before he’d managed to squeeze every detail of her adventure from her. They sat in companionable silence over cake and cheese in the kitchen while he savored his tea and contemplated her tale.

“And you have no notion of what made the horse bolt?”

Callie shook her head, then noticed the way the little man was stirring his tea, the tea in which he took no sugar or milk. “Why do you ask? What is it you know?”

Mr. Button sighed. “It is Cabot again. The dairymaid at Springdell, who is stepping out with the groom, Jakes … she told him that Jakes told her that the filly had a cut across the top of her haunch. A … a slice, actually. The sort of crease a … well, that a bullet might make, if aimed just a mite too high.”

Callie felt her belly go cold. “Or too low … and a bit to the right…”

“Or the silly thing might have run into a thornbush!” Mr. Button leaned close and patted her on the hand. “Just in case, I do think you should stay close to your husband. These things never seem to happen when he’s with you.”

Callie leaned away from him. “I should say not!”

Button smiled proudly at her. “Look at you, bristling like a furious kitten. Does he know he has such a valiant defender?”

Callie deflated grumpily. “No. He thinks I hate him. I’ve tried in every way to show him that I won’t reject him … I wouldn’t, either, no matter how scarred he might be! I wouldn’t be like that—that woman!”

She told him of her discovery of the scarf and the ring and the medal … although she kept the letter from the Prince Regent to herself. Truly, he wouldn’t believe her anyway!

Then she remembered something. “Oh, no!” She turned to Mr. Button in a panic. “I’ve arranged for my gown—but what of Mr. Porter! I simply assumed he had something to wear—but it is a masque! What sort of man keeps a selection of costumes in his wardrobe?”

Mr. Button blinked. “I have several available at all times … but then, I am in a rather specialized line of work.”

She spread her hands. “Precisely my point! Oh, what shall I do? The ball is tomorrow and I haven’t—I haven’t even told him—”

Mr. Button’s eyes widened. “Oh, goodness, don’t do
that.
It is so much easier to apologize after the fact!”

She nodded. “Yes, well, that was my thinking, but if he must be fitted with a mask and— Oh, what have I done?”

Mr. Button took her hands in his. “My dear, don’t fret. Truly, I have already thought of everything. All I shall need is a suit of his clothing to copy.”

“But what of fittings and—”

“No fittings necessary.”

Callie frowned. “But how—” Then she sniffled back her panic and laughed damply. “Because you are skilled beyond the understanding of mortal woman.”

He twinkled at her. “How marvelous to be so well understood!” He went on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Furthermore, I shall offer my services as valet for the evening! I still know how to dress a gentleman, I believe. Goodness, you should have seen Cabot before I got hold of him.” He shuddered. “Really, the most poisonous weskits!”

Callie mused upon the thought of Cabot in a poisonous weskit … then out of a poisonous weskit … then in nothing at all—

Mr. Button’s fingers snapped sharply in front of her nose. “Now, now, dear—like I try to tell the village maids, there is no use pining for what one cannot have! Furthermore, you’re married!” He took her hand and dragged her from the kitchen.

Callie grumbled. “I might be wed, but I still have a pulse!” She stumbled along behind him, up the stairs and into her bedchamber. Her ankle twinged a bit, but really, it was much better than she’d expected. She’d be quite able to dance tomorrow!

Mr. Button spun her into her room with a laugh. “I shall have more things for you tomorrow, but I believe this will come in very handily … perhaps tonight?”

Callie halted in her mad, giddy spin, frozen by the shimmering thing of beauty draped over her bed. “Oh, Button!” Stepping forward hesitantly, she reached out one hand to stroke disbelieving fingers over sheer, rose-pink silk. She picked it up—it weighed no more than a spiderweb—and held it before her. Turning to the mirror she saw that it covered no more than a spiderweb, as well!