A Bride Unveiled (31 page)

She whimpered, but he couldn’t hold back. He thrust harder, the unstoppable, perfect thrusts that he had dreamed of. He filled her and overflowed her so that she was bound to him alone for all time.

 

 

Kit lay content in the gathering shadows, his bride in his arms. There was supposed to be a champagne supper at midnight in the park to informally open the party. Right now, however, he could hear laughter from the gardens, children fighting and getting scolded by their governesses. In a few years he might be chasing his own offspring across Monk’s Huntley.

Anything was possible, he mused.

It wasn’t even Friday, when the house party officially began, and he had married the love of his life, patched up a feud with an old friend, and fought a duel against a young fool.

Who could predict what the future held?

“Kit?” she whispered, as moonlight spilled into the room. The fire had burned to embers. She slid her hand down his side and between his thighs; a few hours of pleasure had made her more comfortable communicating in this manner.

He nudged his knee between hers and sank his hard shaft deep into her swollen depths. “I’ll have to be gentle with you this time,” he said softly, undulating his hips. “You’re going to ache at the dance tomorrow night.”

She liked the idea. But she liked the idea of taking even more of him inside her. “I took dance lessons for years with a demanding master. I can manage.”

“Maybe.” He withdrew, smiling down at her before he fastened her to the bed. “But I’m a different kind of master. This training is a little more intensive.”

W
inifred had not wanted to bring her daughter along with her to see the baroness. An invitation from Lady Ashfield could mean another reprimand, and there was no reason for the child to hear any stinging words. But at the last minute Winifred’s sister had been called away from the shop in the back room of which Elsie could have waited. Winnie could hardly leave her little girl at the fencing academy.

“Now, you mind yourself, Elsie,” she whispered as they stood together on the steps of the town house. She squeezed her daughter’s gloved hand and checked her chin for crumbs. “The baroness is a fierce lady at times,” she added, lifting her hand away to raise the brass knocker. “And she can be frightening. Just play with your dolls in the garden or in the kitchen if she gives you permission to—”

The door swung open.

Winifred blinked in surprise at the old butler’s face. The creases were engraved a decade deeper. His smile was so welcoming it left her at a loss for words.

“Miss Higgins,” he said with a deep bow. “Please come into the drawing room. The baroness is expecting you.” He gestured to an open door in the first of two hallways. “And,
you
, Miss Higgins,” he said with a courteous bow to Elsie, “are expected in the kitchen for tea with Cook.”

Elsie turned to her mother. “May I?”

Winifred nodded. A maidservant had appeared in the other corridor and beckoned Elsie with a friendly smile. Winifred looked up into Twyford’s face, her courage faltering. “I expect I’m about to get what I deserve,” she said quietly.

“No doubt, miss.”

A footman arrived to take her gloves, jacket, and beaded reticule. Whatever warmth she had seen on Twyford’s face must have been her imagination. She could not detect a spark of emotion in his eyes as he led her into the baroness’s presence.

Frightening?

No. Lady Ashfield looked small and vulnerable on her tapestry chair by the window. Again Winifred wondered if she was imagining things. It seemed to her that a smile crossed the old woman’s face before the solemnity Winnie recognized took its place. Still, she didn’t imagine Lady Ashfield’s voice, as dignified as ever, when it resounded across the room.

“Dear me, Miss Higgins. Was that your daughter who just went past like a ghost?”

“Yes, madam,” she replied with a curtsy.

“She is how old?”

Winifred rose, swallowing hard. “Nine, madam,” she said, waiting for the woman to question her about the husband she didn’t have and likely never would. Then she reminded herself that Lady Ashfield had lost the baron not that long ago.

“You must be curious why I have invited you here today. Do sit down.”

Winifred considered bolting for the door. But something held her. Not curiosity. Perhaps it was a need to let go of old grievances. “I did wonder, yes.”

“As you might have heard, my niece was recently married to her childhood sweetheart.”

Winifred reached behind her for the chair, afraid she would collapse in an undignified heap on the carpet. Twyford darted from the doorway to whisk the chair against her sinking weight. Before she could thank him, he returned to his post, she straightened her back, and the baroness resumed the conversation.

“I will be returning to Monk’s Huntley in a month or two, Miss Higgins, and I am in need of a companion.”

“A companion?”

“If you are available. I have plenty of room for you and your young girl in that house.”

 

 

 

Almost a month had gone by since the house party. Godfrey was still unmarried, a sorrowful condition for a man his age. On the other hand, business at the emporium had never been better. His connection to the Boscastle family, however tenuous, had vastly improved the flow of customers through his doors. One of them might be a well-off lady who would make a suitable wife.

Indeed, quite a few ladies had stopped by the emporium to offer their sympathy for his broken engagement and to state that Fenton must be a rogue to have stolen Godfrey’s bride from him in such a brash manner. But Godfrey suspected otherwise.

He suspected that Fenton had married Violet to save her from ruin, and for that he had earned Godfrey’s respect. And if they had been meant to be together all along?

Well, life went on. Godfrey took to heart one customer’s advice that he should stand firm under the circumstances and that fate had a way of rewarding gentlemen like him in the long run.

Really, that was all that counted, Godfrey thought. To be regarded as a gentleman. To keep stepping up in society. And now, because of losing Violet, he hadn’t fallen down the ladder; he had only climbed up a little higher, and his aspirations seemed unlimited. Why, Miss Charlotte Boscastle, the headmistress of the Scarfield Academy for Young Ladies here in London, had stopped by the emporium today with her mentor, the Duchess of Scarfield, to shop, and no sooner had Godfrey hastened to serve her than that young rogue from the fencing school, the Duke of Wynfield, strolled into the shop as if he owned the place.

Godfrey had little time to lament what he had lost.

Nobility shopped here.

 

 

Violet strolled with Jane through the well-maintained gardens of the marchioness’s Park Lane mansion. She had just passed her husband, fencing with his private student in the summerhouse, the senior footman, Weed, cheering on his young master. The marquess stood on the steps, watching his son with equal parts pride and anxiety.

The pungent sweetness of herbs rose from the sunlit path the two women followed. “Can you smell the rosemary?” Jane asked, lifting her skirts. “It stays on your slippers forever. What was it that Shakespeare said? Something about rosemary being for remembrance.” And she paused, giving Violet a conspiratorial smile. “I read the most outrageous story last week that claimed you and your talented husband had fallen in love at the Duke of Wenderfield’s picnic breakfast.”

“An utter falsehood.”

“And,” Jane continued, “that the pair of you had conducted an assignation in the pavilion, arranged by an unnamed marchioness.”

“What will people say next?”

Jane feigned a look of complete innocence. “What they will no doubt be talking about, and what
I
should not tell you until it is formally announced, is that the marquess has petitioned for your husband’s baronetcy and that his patent has been approved. With prestige will come prosperity. But you can’t tell anyone I’ve told you this yet. I’ve never been good at keeping secrets, but didn’t you say that it was one of your best traits?”

Violet bit her bottom lip to stifle a guilty smile. “I’ve kept a few,” she said after a moment.

Jane shook her head. “Intriguing ones, I gather. Ah, I think the gentlemen are finished. Grayson was going to break the good news to your husband after the lesson. Don’t forget—I didn’t mention a thing. I shall leave you alone to talk.”

Violet stood for a moment. “Jane?”

“Yes?”

“You might not be good at keeping secrets, but you are skilled at matchmaking.”

“Am I?”

“My husband has accused me of the same thing. I can’t imagine why.”

It wasn’t long after Jane returned to the house with the marquess, Weed bringing the young heir by the hand, that Kit sauntered across the garden to meet Violet.

She restrained herself from running into his arms and taking his foil hostage, as he had done her heart. “Nice to see you,” he said, lowering his head to kiss her in full view of anyone who happened to be watching from the house. “I do believe we’ve come up in the world.”

“Have we?” she asked, remembering her promise to Jane. “And what does that mean?”

He reached with his hand for hers. “For one thing, we are moving to a fancier part of town. For another, we will not be called Mr. and Mrs. Fenton for too much longer.”

“No?” she asked, her eyes glittering at the pleased grin he gave her.

“How does Sir Christopher Fenton and Lady Fenton sound to you?”

She looked up at him, unable to conceal the happiness she felt that he had received his due. “I can’t think of anyone in the world who deserves it more than you, Kit. But the truth is, I knew you were a knight from the moment I saw you chasing dragons in the churchyard.”

He smiled down at her, the subtle scent of rosemary, of remembrance, wafting in the air around them. “And you were the lady I fought for and wanted to win.”

“With help from our friends.”

He laced his fingers with hers. “Sometimes I used to make up endings for my life. I’d imagine that I had a family who would find me. But nothing could have turned out better than this.”

“Maybe they will find you, Kit.”

He laughed. “We’ll have our own family by then if they do.”

H
ome for Christmas at Monk’s Huntley.Kit had never thought, years ago, to see this day. He hadn’t dreamed that he would return as Sir Christopher Fenton to the place that held his strongest memories. He stood at the garden gate through which he had carried Violet and given her up for what he’d feared would be forever.

He listened to the voices of friends and family,
his
family behind him, and he felt the restraints of the past slipping away.

“I lost the present I had for Eldbert,” Violet said, beautiful against a background of snow in her cranberry silk gown and matching cloak. “I know it was sitting by the door and now it’s gone.”

“No, it isn’t,” Kit said, putting his hands in his pockets to keep from touching her. Even though she was his wife, he had to subdue certain instincts in the presence of others. “I helped Twyford load everything in the carriage before we delivered the pies and gifts to the workhouse.” And he’d made sure that the children got their share first.

Winifred’s daughter came dashing through the garden from the rear of the house. Moments later the baroness and Winifred appeared at the front door, bundled up for the drive to Lord Charnwood’s Christmas dinner.

“Elsie, stop!” Winifred called in exasperation. “Don’t you dare leave this garden without me.”

“I only wanted to walk to the slope and see what the churchyard looks like in the snow.”

“Not by yourself, miss!” her mother cried in alarm. “And where are your gloves?”

Elsie danced off in the direction of the garden gate, twirling around Kit and Violet. “It’s snowing.” She lifted her face and stuck her tongue into the air. “I love winter. I love snow.”

“You won’t love a cold bum if you slip on the ice,” the baroness called after her. “Watch where you are going, child. Where is my walking cane?”

“Right here, ma’am.” Kit pivoted and strode up beside her, hooking his arm around hers.

“That is good of you, Sir Christopher. But what about Violet?”

“I have another arm,” he answered, looking past her to his wife.

Francesca glanced up at him in approval. “And what will you do when the child Violet is expecting arrives?”

He smiled. “I have shoulders, ma’am.”

“Strong shoulders,” Violet said, and took his other arm. “To go with his character.”

Kit said nothing, but the look they exchanged could well have melted every snowflake falling from the sky. He heard the jingle of harnesses in the winter stillness, and Eldbert singing from the driver’s box of his lumbering coach.

He sang as they squeezed into his coach with his father, Dr. Tomkinson, Twyford and the footman heavily muffled and hanging on the back for the short drive. By the time the driver deposited the group outside the wreath-festooned doors of Viscount Charnwood’s mansion, every voice was raised in song.

Kit hesitated before he followed the others into the house. But Violet stopped on the entrance steps to wait for him, her expression worried. “What have you forgotten?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s something I remembered. Go in from the cold.”

“You—Oh.” She laughed, her face clearing. “The trousers.”

“Yes. Scene of a past sin. I haven’t been here since.”

“Well, Ambrose is waiting in the hall for you, and if it’s any consolation, he appears to be fully dressed.”