A Wicked Pursuit (29 page)

“No,” she whispered miserably. “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Gus,” he said. “I’m the one who should be down on my knees, begging your forgiveness in every way I can. But I can’t. Damnation, I can’t. But I can do the one thing I should have done long ago.”

He reached into the pocket of his coat, fumbling a bit, before he drew out the little plush-covered box. Of course she recognized it. Of course she knew what it was, but knowing still didn’t keep her from gasping, her hand fluttering to her mouth.

“Dearest Gus,” he said, opening the box to take out the ring. “Would you do me the greatest honor in the world, and be my wife, my love, my life?”

The ring was even more magnificent than she remembered, the large round stone surrounded by smaller ones, like an icy white flower blooming with diamonds. She swallowed hard, her head spinning as she willed herself not to faint. What kind of useless woman fainted when the man she loved asked her to marry him?

“Oh, Harry,” she said, blurting out the first thing that came to her. “That’s—that’s the ring you brought for my sister.”

He stared at her. “It’s my mother’s ring,” he said. “I brought it with me to Wetherby, yes, but it never came near your sister’s hand.
This
is where it belongs.”

He took her hand and gently, easily, slipped the ring onto her finger.

She stared down at it in wonder, hoping he didn’t notice how her hand was shaking. “It fits me,” she said. “It wouldn’t have fit Julia.”

He laughed, delighted. “Julia wouldn’t have fit me, either. I was just too much of a blockhead to see it at first. You’re the one I love, Gus, and the one who was meant for me. The only one.”

“Harry,” she whispered, overwhelmed. “When you said this afternoon that things hadn’t happened as you’d wished, I thought you had regrets about—about what we’d done, and wished to be free.”

He stared at her, incredulous. “Why in blazes would I ever think that, Gus? Why would I regret loving you?”

She shook her head, unable to answer. So far she’d said everything wrong that she could, babbling on about Julia and telling him she’d doubted him. She looked up from the ring to his face, letting herself tumble into the infinite love she found in his eyes.

“Oh, goodness, Harry,” she said, faltering. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“You could say yes,” he said. “That would do.”

“Yes,” she said, never realizing how magical a word it could be. “Yes, Harry, I’ll marry you, and—and oh, I do love you so much, and—”

But whatever else she’d intended to say was lost between them as he pulled her from the bench and into his arms and kissed her. He kissed her exactly the way that she liked, impetuous and demanding and rather masterful, turning her breathless and mussing her clothes and hair and generally making her think only very wicked, wanton thoughts with him as the centerpiece. She was sure that no other man could ever kiss her like this, despite having no kissing experience where other men were concerned—which, considering she now was going to forsake all others and be Harry’s wife, was perfectly, perfectly fine.

When at last they separated, he was breathing hard, and even by the lantern’s light she could see that he was flushed, and that his forehead, right where his hair fell forward, was glistening with a tiny beading of sweat. True, the evening was warm, but she was certain that she’d done that to him, just by kissing him. She’d
aroused
the Earl of Hargreave, and she grinned, unable to help herself.

“Don’t you smile at me like that, Gus,” he warned. “Because when you do, I forget entirely about going in to dinner with Father and Celia and think about other things that I’d rather be doing with you. Here. Now. On this bench.”

“Ooh,” she said, blushing but intrigued. “If we’re thinking of the same things, then you are making me forget about dinner, too. I’m not sure, however, that a stone bench would be the most comfortable of places on which to lie.”

“One does not necessarily need to lie anywhere, Gus,” he said. “Your ignorance is appalling. Your husband will have his work cut out for him, teaching you everything you need to know.”

“My husband.” She ran her hand lightly down his chest in wonder, her smile wobbling. The ring on her hand was beautiful, the weight unfamiliar, and yet so full of sparkling promise for their shared future. “My husband, Harry.”

“My wife, Gus.” He raised her hand and kissed the back, then turned it and kissed her palm, giving it a seductive little nip that sent chills rippling up her spine. “But if we don’t go into the house soon, Father will hunt us down. You must trust me that that would not be an experience you would enjoy.”

She laughed softly and leaned forward to kiss him again. “Can we tell them? About getting married?”

He wasn’t entirely paying attention to what she was asking as he trailed his fingers over the tops of her breasts. “We can, and we will. I do not wish for a long engagement.”

She sighed, surprised by exactly how pleasurable that grazing little touch was. “I don’t suppose I might come to your room again this evening?”

“What, for another round on the chamber horse?” he said, more to her breasts than to her. “As much as I wish it, no. I suspect that this may in fact be the last time we’ll be allowed alone together. Father feels your father has been negligent in guarding your virtue.”

“Father trusts me,” she said defensively.

“Yes, he did, didn’t he,” Harry said drily. “He trusted me with you as well, and we both know how that has turned out. Not that I would wish it otherwise, mind you. But my father is here to see that propriety reigns once again, no matter the hour of the day or night.”

Gus sighed with regret. It was sobering to realize that while Father had followed Julia to London to make sure she didn’t misbehave with gentlemen, she had been the one who’d leaped headfirst into mischief with Harry. So while she could understand the duke’s reasons for wanting a show of propriety, the wicked part of her—a part she hadn’t known she possessed, and the part of her that was even now arching her back so that his fingers could dip into the front of her gown and under her stays and shift to find her breasts—argued differently. They were going to be married and they’d already made love once, so where was the harm in doing it again?

But his mention of the hour did remind her of her promise to Mrs. Buchanan. That quarter hour she’d allotted to Harry must nearly be done by now.

“What is the time?” she asked.

He pulled out his gold watch, flipping the lid open with his thumb. “Nearly eight thirty. Later than I’d thought, though I’ll grant it is nearly dark now, isn’t it?”

“Eight thirty!” cried Gus, stunned. “Harry, we were to sit at the table at eight!”

To her horror, he actually shrugged his silk-covered shoulders. “Father won’t care, once we tell him the reason.”

“But I’ve kept Mrs. Buchanan waiting, Harry,” she said, slipping from the bench and tugging her bodice back into place. “She’s been working herself and the staff into an absolute frenzy all day to make a meal worthy of your father, and now I will have spoiled it.”

“
We
spoiled it,” he said mildly, though he did reach for his crutch. “And I’d do it again, too, given the choice.”

“Oh, yes, and lose the best cook in Norfolk,” Gus said. “You go explain to your father and Her Grace. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve done my best to placate Mrs. Buchanan.”

“Gus, wait,” he said, standing, and finally he looked as concerned as she did. “Don’t tell the servants about us before we tell Father. You can’t do that.”

“It will serve you right if I do,” she said, only half teasing. “I will see you in the drawing room with your father and stepmother.”

“Gus, please,” he said softly. “Please.”

He reached out to take her hand, which she knew was as much to keep her from leaving without him as it was from fondness. But she was willing to pretend she didn’t, because she was fond of him as well.

“Please listen to me, Gus,” he said, his voice an interesting mixture of male reason and humbled pleading. “If your cook is the marvel you claim, then she will have devised a way to keep everything simmering in your absence. No doubt she has done it before, and will do it again. She will cope. You, however, will have but one chance to walk into that drawing room by my side, ready to announce that we will be man and wife. Only one, Gus. My own dear, dear Gus.”

She sighed, unable to resist him when he called her that. She kissed him again, unable to resist that as well.

“Very well, then, Harry,” she said. “I’ll concede, and go with you, instead of downstairs. But if the pudding is dry or the joint too done, you cannot say a word. Not a single word, not over so much as one burned crumb.”

He bowed his head in agreement, then smiled wickedly, taking every bit of the acquiescence from the bow.

“I love you, too, Gus,” he said. “Now come. A fine dinner of burned crumbs awaits.”

Harry had
looked forward to this dinner. Having Gus accept his proposal had made him vastly happy, and proud as hell, and he could not wait to share that happiness and pride with his father. It should have been a meal full of rejoicing and good humor with people he loved.

Instead it was a complete and unmitigated disaster, and the disaster had nothing to do with dry puddings or burned roasts, either.

Everything began well enough. He’d made their announcement as soon as they’d joined Father and Celia in the drawing room. There’d been appropriate congratulations all around, and a gratifying welcome to the family for Gus by Father, who’d kissed her on the cheek and told her she’d be the daughter he’d always wanted. She’d smiled and blushed prettily at that, and Harry had dared to hope he’d never have to hear again about how daunting Father was.

Things were still agreeable when they’d gone into dinner. Since there were only four of them, Gus had decided not to use the dining room with the awkwardness of its long, grand table, but instead had a smaller square table set in the parlor overlooking the gardens. It was much more intimate, almost French in feeling, and the cloth, the silver, and the china were all impeccably presented, with Gus assuming the role of hostess with ease, directing servants and making appropriate small talk. Even the food was surprisingly good, despite Gus’s worries, without a hint of suffering from the delay.

Harry could tell Father and Celia were impressed, especially since he suspected their expectations had been very low on account of Gus’s age. He was thoroughly proud of her. She looked ravishing, and ravishable as well, her gown displaying her figure to admirable effect. At least he was spending a good deal of time admiring it.

And then, thanks to Father, everything went wrong.

“You’re an admirable hostess, Augusta,” Father said as the table was being cleared. “Your father should be proud to have such an accomplished daughter acting in his stead while he is away.”

Gus smiled with pleasure, and Harry did, too. Gus was uneasy with compliments about her person, not trusting them to be real, but praising her about how the household was run was guaranteed to please her. Father had done well with that.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. “I’ll be sure to relay your kind words when I write to my father about our betrothal.”

“Writing won’t be necessary, my dear,” Father said, helping himself to the bowl of candied caraway seeds that had been placed on the table near him. “You may tell him yourself when he returns here later this week.”

“This week?” Gus said, frowning a bit. “Though I should like to see him again so soon, I don’t expect him to return to the abbey until later in the summer.”

“He’ll be here,” Father said confidently. “When I wrote to him earlier today, I told him I expected him here for the wedding on Saturday. I’ve no doubt he’ll oblige. What gentleman would dare ignore his own daughter’s wedding?”

Gus’s expression clouded with confusion. “I do not understand, Your Grace,” she said slowly. “Surely you do not mean our wedding.”

“I don’t believe there’s another,” he said, clearly delighting in his revelation. “I’ve also sent off to the archbishop for a special license so there’s no need for banns, and while I’ve had no response as yet from your local vicar about my request for an hour for the service, I’m sure he will accommodate us. You two will be wed on Saturday, no mistake of that.”

“But I’ve only just accepted Harry’s proposal, not three hours ago, and we told you in less than two,” Gus said, perplexed. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but these preparations you’ve made do not seem possible.”

At once Harry reached out to place his hand over hers, mentally blasting his father’s thoughtlessness. This was exactly what he didn’t wish to happen, and now it had.

“You agreed that a long betrothal would not suit us, Gus,” he said, hoping she’d focus on their shared future, and not consider too closely what his father had just said. “I love you so much that I’ve no wish to wait a day longer than I must.”

“But that’s only four days, Harry,” she said with a plaintiveness that struck straight to Harry’s heart. “That’s no time to make preparations.”

“It’s plenty of time for whatever preparations need doing,” Father said with such heartiness that Harry wished he could throttle him. “It’s a wedding, not a coronation.”

Gus glanced at Harry, making it silently clear that, to her, their wedding was every bit as important as any coronation.

“If you please, Your Grace,” she countered bravely, “I should rather like a new gown to wear to my wedding, but four days—”

“Plenty of time, my dear,” Father declared, sweeping aside her objections with a wave of his hand, his jeweled rings catching the candlelight. “Celia, what is the name of your mantua maker? That charming woman I tithe to? We’ll have her and her seamstresses brought up here tomorrow, and make whatever fancy Augusta desires.”

“Mistress Wilkerson, in Bond Street,” Celia said. “Brecon, pray be aware that she will send you an astounding bill for her services. Mantua makers are not like ordinary tradesmen. They do not like to be hauled about on male whims, and she will expect to be paid accordingly.”