Mad About the Major (15 page)

“I'll say it again, you lied to me,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and ignoring the obvious.

How she'd lied to him.

Oh, not really lied, just not been as forthcoming as she might have been.

And he knew it as well.

“I lied to you? Really, Birdie.” He shook his head, that teasing light dancing in his eyes.

“Yes, you lied,” she insisted, feeling some of the outrage in her heart melting away under the teasing light of his gaze.

He wasn't going to melt her heart. Not in the least.

“And you left me,” she said, the words coming out in a rush before she could stop them.

As well as a veil of tears. She turned and dashed them away with her sleeve.

If he was going to be the heir to a dukedom, then she was going to be Lady Arabella Tremont.

And Lady Arabella did not cry in public.

Meanwhile, the door to the room rattled hard, followed by the heavy thud of a fist as it pounded against the door.

“Somersale! You let my daughter out of there!” Parkerton demanded.

“Birdie?” Kingsley said quietly, taking her hand and pulling her away from the door.

The room was much larger than she had first thought, a long deep library that took up nearly one corner of the east wing of the house. He led her to the far side, where a long settee sat in a secluded alcove.

“You are no gentleman,” she said, sniffing through a new spate of tears and sitting down on the spot he nodded toward. When he handed over his handkerchief, she took it and blew noisily into it. “Why, you broke into that house!”

There, let him explain that.

“It is hardly unlawful when you own the place.”

“Your house?” she gasped. Suddenly so many things made sense. How he knew where to go . . . which window to open.

He closed the distance between them. “Our house.” And then he gathered her close and held her, one hand wound possessively around her waist, the other brushing the stray curls away from her face, his fingers brushing over her ear, sending a jolt of memories through her.

“Ours?” Arabella shivered despite her resolve to be furious with him, doing her best not to think of a lifetime of nights in that grand bed, in that room that now held so many passionate memories.

“Yes, Birdie,” he whispered, kissing her brow. “Yours if you so desire.”

She looked warily at him. “Whyever did you leave me?”

“I only went to get something for us to eat. When I returned, you were gone.”

“You came back?”

“Of course I did. I had grand plans for our day. After all, it was my turn to choose three things for you to do.”

“Me?” She stole a glance up at him.

“Yes, you,” he said, sitting down beside her. “After I discovered you gone, I searched for you high and low all over London,” he told her.

“You did?”

He nodded. “Of course. You took my heart when you left. I rather wanted it and you back.”

She had lost her heart as well, and with his declaration, she now knew without a doubt, she'd gained it back.

Her heart and so much more.

“Birdie, I love you.”

He what? She could only gape at him. “You do?”

He nodded.

From the door came more pounding and threats. Now even the Duke of Marbury was adding his own complaints of high-­handed behavior and insinuations of madness.

Kingsley shook his head, as if he'd never heard such nonsense, then shifted so he all but blocked the door. “I have traveled all over the Continent, and never spent a day in such joy as our day yesterday. Our own London holiday. I want that for the rest of our lives.”

“But . . . but . . .” She glanced over her shoulder, where even now, from behind the locked door, her father was threatening to call for seconds.

“No buts, Birdie. The truest joy in life, I've come to realize since I met you, is having someone to share the journey with. I don't want anyone else beside me, save you.”

Was he saying what she thought he was? Proposing?

Yet before she answered, something he'd said before teased her. “What did you mean when you said you had three tasks for me?”

He brushed a stray strand of her hair away from her face and tucked it back behind her ear. “First, I wanted you to wear that outrageous gown of yours.”

Her brow furrowed, for it was hardly what she expected. “Whatever for?”

“I thought it would be the perfect wedding dress—­”

“A wedding dress?”

“Well, yes. Because the second thing I wanted you to do was to accompany me to the archbishop's office to obtain a Special License. I rather thought his face would be quite amusing to see when asked to perform a marriage ceremony between the Duke of Marbury's heir and some unknown chit all rigged out like a Flemish—­”

“Oh, Kingsley, you are a wicked devil!” she said, swatting his shoulder.

“It is my list—­” he pointed out.

“And for your third request?” she asked.

“Oh, it began something like this,” he said, catching hold of her and drawing her close.

Arabella went willingly, for it was exactly where she belonged. In his arms and with him kissing her.

And kiss her he did. His lips hungry and full of passion.

Her body came alive, and she saw her life unfolding before her, days of adventure and nights . . . oh, such perfect nights.

Yet another furious spate of pounding began, for it seemed the duchess had joined the fray and was now threatening to have the entire match called off.

“Whatever are we going to do?” she asked, glancing again at the door. There was still a very Tremont part of her that didn't like to agree with her father—­and give in to the match he'd arranged. The one she'd been so vehemently opposed to.

“What are we going to do?” Kingsley's eyes twinkled with merriment. “This.”

He hauled her up against him and began to kiss her, deeply, skillfully, leaving her shivering, and when she'd all but forgotten who might be right behind the door, she let out of a rather loud mew of pleasure.

“Oh, Kingsley!”

From outside the door came an indignant exclamation from the Duke of Parkerton. “Bloody hell!”

And the door came shattering open.

Three days later

“W
hat has you smiling, Justina?” Peg asked as the two of them shared breakfast.

Mrs. Spenser looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. “Our dear Birdie has done what the pair of us failed to do.”

“Whatever is that?” Peg asked.

“See for yourself,” the lady declared, handing over the morning paper. “Right there, under Announcements.”

And even Peg, crusty, worldly Peg, had to smile at the two lines printed there.

The Marquess of Somersale married suddenly to Lady Arabella Tremont.

By Special License.

 

E
PILOGUE

Venice, one year later

“W
hatever are you laughing over?” the Marquess of Somersale asked his wife.

The marchioness held up the letter she was reading. “It is from Aunt Josephine.”

“Why, there's only two lines on the entire page—­what could be so humorous?”

“She's giving me marital advice,” Arabella told him. She cleared her throat and read it in a voice much like her great-­aunt's raspy tones. “ ‘Make love to that scoundrel as often as possible. Love, Aunt Josephine.' ”

“A fine woman, your dear aunt,” Kingsley said, grinning at his wife.

“Indeed,” she agreed. “What did the letter from your father say?”

They had arrived in Venice just the day before and the British ambassador had sent over a packet of correspondence that had been waiting for them—­including lengthy missives from both their fathers.

Kingsley snorted and began to read aloud. “ . . . I do hope you took my advice and did not traipse over the Alps like a ragtag pair of Gypsies.”

Arabella sniffed. “Hardly. We followed Hannibal's route. Write him and tell him we got on rather well, even without the elephants.”

For it had been an amazing journey. Hiking through the grand peaks—­starry nights like she'd never seen. Magnificent sunrises over ragged mountains. Bright little alpine flowers tucked alongside the rocky paths.

Making love in the little wayside inns that they'd found.

Traipsing indeed! It had been perfect.

“He also instructs us to make sure and dine with the Marquess of Nettleham while we are in Rome. He insists we continue on there immediately.”

“Rome?” Arabella shook her head. “Must we? We only just got here.”

Outside, she could hear the water of the canal lapping against the house they had taken for the month. The fabled city was a jewel beckoning them to come explore.

“It is your day to choose, Birdie,” he said, rising from the table and taking her hand.

Three boons—­one day was Arabella's to choose, the next was his. And so it had been since the day they had wed.

“It is my day, isn't it?” She grinned as she recalled the three boons he'd requested the day before.

The last one having taken all night to accomplish.

She sighed and curled into his arms. “I don't want to go to Rome.”

“And as a gentleman, I vow to follow your every wish,” he said.

She looked up at him, this man she loved, her Kingsley, and told him exactly what she wanted.

And as a gentleman, he set to work immediately . . . by slowly removing her gown.

 

We hope you loved
Mad About the Major
!

Be sure to check out the series this short novel ties into,

The Bachelor Chronicles

S
OMETHING
A
BOUT
E
M
MALINE

T
HIS
R
AKE OF
M
INE

L
OVE
L
ETTERS
F
ROM A
D
UKE

C
ONFESS
IONS OF A
L
ITTLE
B
LA
CK
G
OWN

M
EMOIRS OF A
S
CANDALOUS
R
ED
D
RES
S

H
OW
I
M
ET
M
Y
C
OUNT
ESS

M
AD
A
BOUT THE
D
U
KE

L
ORD
L
ANGLEY
I
S
B
ACK IN
T
OWN

 

Can't get enough Regency romance?

Lavinia Tempest has only ever desired one thing: a good match to a titled man of fortune. But her plans all come to naught when she causes a disastrous pile up on the dance floor at Almack's.

Alaster Rowland, “Tuck” to his friends, carries some of the blame for Lavinia's cow-­handed entrance into Society, and worse, he's wagered that he can make her and her sister, Louisa, the most sought-­after ladies in London . . .

Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next lively, witty installment in
Elizabeth Boyle's Rhymes With Love series,

T
HE
K
NAVE OF
H
EARTS

Coming soon from Avon Romance

 

A
laster Rowland woke up Thursday afternoon with a dreadful hangover and the foreboding sense that disaster lurked just beyond his door.

In other words, it was a rather typical day for “Tuck” Rowland.

Even as he began to stir, his manservant came bustling into the room, tray in hand.

“What's the damage, Falshaw?” Tuck asked as he reached for the steaming cup of coffee. No fine pekoe for him. He started each day with a bracing concoction.

“Your uncle has sent round a note,” the fellow told him.

“That bad, eh?”

“So it seems,” Falshaw said with an uncharacteristic note of censure. A real valet wouldn't dare such a tone, but then again Tuck couldn't afford the talents of a proper valet. However, Falshaw had his own unique talents—­like being able to discourage creditors and making ends meet when there were no ends to be had, so truly he was the best man for his employment. “And you made a wager.”

Nothing new there, Tuck noted, as he pulled on his wrapper and strode over to the window.

“Regarding a pair of ladies,” Falshaw continued.

Again, nothing new. He'd wagered on more than his fair share of opera dancers and flirts. Why there was this one time—­

“Ladies,” Falshaw repeated, and this time the censure was more telling.

Ladies?

Tuck turned a skeptical gaze toward his employee.

“Lady Charleton's goddaughters,” the man supplied, as if prodding at Tuck's lack of memories from the night before.

“Oh, God, no,” he muttered before taking another gulp of coffee. That rather explained the note from his uncle, Lord Charleton.

“Yes, indeed,” Falshaw replied, sounding a bit too gleeful.

If Tuck didn't know better, he'd suspect that Falshaw rather liked seeing his employer periodically roasted by his only respectable relation.

“I'm in the suds, aren't I?” It wasn't so much a question as an utterance, but that didn't stop Falshaw from happily answering.

“Aye, my lord.” Then Falshaw told him just how deep he'd wagered.

L
ord Charleton's butler, Brobson, showed Tuck into the foyer. “Your uncle will see you in his library momentarily.” Then the fellow strode off as if he had just admitted a plague victim into the household.

Yes, indeed. It was as bad as all that.

As he stood there, shuffling about a bit nervously, Tuck heard something. Coming to a standstill, he listened intently.

Crying. And then a huge sniffle. The sort that would leave a perfectly good handkerchief utterly useless.

Yes, as bad as all that—­and perhaps more.

He glanced at the door. The one that led to the street and London beyond. Where perhaps he could start anew. Join a circus. Ship off to parts unknown. Drown himself in the Thames.

He shook his head at any of those options. He wasn't overly fond of travel and the discomforts and inconveniences of being away from one's own bed, and he was a perfectly good swimmer.

The crying now rose in pitch and fervor, and jangled on his nerves. Bother, it would jangle on any man's sensibilities.

Besides, it wrenched at his heart. He'd never admit this to anyone, not even if they were to forgive all his debts, but a woman's tears were his undoing.

Tuck strode over to the door and pushed it open.

He immediately wished he hadn't.

Admittedly he'd been a bit drunk the previous night, but certainly he'd have remembered
this
.

The puffy, red face. Yes, she'd been crying, but that wasn't the end of the matter. Her dress was entirely plain and provincial. Her hair stuck out a bit in a few places.

But to her credit, it appeared she was nearing the end, for certainly much more and she'd risk flooding the carpet. The girl took a deep breath and straightened, as if recalling the words of some long past governess. Then her gaze became more focused, as if she'd finally realized she was no longer alone. And her eyes took on a wild-­eyed rage that prodded him to consider making a hasty retreat.

“You!” she gasped, stalking forward with all the fury of, well, a fury.

Alaster Rowland was many things. A fool wasn't one of them. He took as many steps backward as he could until he bumped into the wall, having misjudged the angle of his retreat.

Now he was trapped.

Even with his back to the wall, he tried to reel back a bit. The woman hunting him was a veritable horror. A wet, hot mess of tears and scalding anger.

She couldn't be the same chit he'd met last night, the one who he had the vaguest recollection had been quite fetching.

“You wretched, horrible man!”

Apparently his memory wasn't as good as he'd hoped. But certainly he hadn't been
that
drunk.

“How could you?” she raged, wagging a finger at him. “You've ruined me!”

Ruined her?

He wanted to rush in and assure her, having taken a second glance at that lady, that he could promise her with all certitude that nothing of the sort had happened.

He'd have remembered taking this descendant of Medusa to his bed.

Meanwhile, the lady in question had dissolved into another spate of tears. Her snuffling and sniffing had him digging in his coat for his handkerchief, which he surrendered like a white flag.

She managed a gulping sob that seemed to quell her tears, and then she blew into the poor, hapless square of linen, trumpeting like an ailing swan, a sound that nearly split his ears and pierced the last remnants of his hangover.

Having continued to blow and snuffle—­good heavens, how much more could there be inside such a petite thing?—­she finally finished with one last shuddering sob, and then offered his handkerchief back.

“Um, you can keep that,” he offered. “Miss Tempest, isn't it?'

She had turned from him and was dabbing at the corners of her eyes—­as if there was a dry spot left on that bit of cloth.

“Of course I am Miss Tempest,” she snapped. “We met last night.” Then slowly, and almost warily her head tipped toward him, her gaze sweeping up to meet his, her eyes finally widening as she came to a shocked realization. “You don't remember me.”

He'd wager he wouldn't easily forget the fire blazing in her eyes at that moment. Clear blue eyes that left no doubt what the lady thought of him.

“I wouldn't say that precisely,” he offered. “But certainly you were wearing a different gown—­” Lord, he hoped she was wearing a different gown—­for the one she had on was positively dreadful.

She snorted and took another step back from him. “Whyever did you let go of me? I was dancing.”

Tout au contraire
. He was neck-­deep in a wager that proved beyond a doubt that what she'd been doing the previous night was anything but dancing.

“And now you've ruined me,” she finished.

“I hardly think I've done all that,” he told her, doing his best to glance in any direction but hers.

Yet he found it an impossible feat. Like when one happened upon a carriage accident and everything is a tangle.

How can one not look?

Nor would this chit be ignored. “You let go of me.”

Glancing at her, he doubted anyone would blame him for abandoning her.

“And now,” she began, until another bout of sniffles and gulps and some noise with which he was utterly unfamiliar came choking out of her, leaving him just a bit fearful.

“And now?” he prompted, if only to be done with all this.

“Everything is lost. If only I hadn't fallen into . . . fallen into . . .” At this she flopped down on the settee and continued to cry, leaving him aimlessly adrift in the middle of the room.

“Miss Tempest, I am—­” he began.

“I know what you are. And now all is lost.” Sniff. “We are both ruined. My sister and I.” Sniff. Sniff. “We'll be sent home for certain. Today, if not tomorrow.”

He hadn't truly been listening, for he'd been rather horrified to see the fate of his handkerchief, but a few words stuck in his ears.

Namely, “sent home” and “today, if not tomorrow.”

Sent home? But if the Tempest sisters went home . . . However would he win his wager?

Winnings he needed desperately. No, no, no, this would never do. And so he told her.

“Home? I hardly see why. Besides, Uncle wouldn't be so cruel as to send you both—­”

“He won't have a choice,” she declared, waving what was once a proudly white bit of linen that now sagged in surrender. “Did you look at the salver when you came in?”

“Well, no—­” Since it wasn't something he usually noticed.

“It is empty,” she told him, with another shuddering sigh of despair. “Empty!”

His brow furrowed up.

“Mr. Rowland, if ever there was clearer evidence that my sister and I are ruined it is that empty salver out there. Your uncle will have no choice but to send us home.”

Now it was Tuck's turn to sag down onto the settee beside her, for suddenly he couldn't breathe.

If he couldn't win this wager, he'd be forced to . . .

He didn't want to think of what he would be forced to do.

Decamp to God knows where. For this time Charleton would cut him off. Blame him for this mess, just as Miss Tempest was now.

He stole a glance over at the lady beside him, and listened as she went on about all the things that she'd never have now—­a decent match, a good home, a marriage of some note—­and knew that this was a tragedy of epic proportions.

His, to be exact. Everything she desired was suddenly everything he did as well.

“All is not lost, Miss Tempest. Never is,” he began, Uncle Hero's words coming out of nowhere.

“I don't see how—­”

“London society is terribly fickle—­one day you are on the outs, and the next an Original, a Diamond to be desired by one and all.”

“A Diamond?” she managed, her eyes brightening at the notion.

That was it. That tiny spark was enough to relight his memories of the night before.

Good heavens, she could be rather fetching—­though right now it was nearly impossible to see past the red nose and blotchy complexion.

Her eyes, though puffy and red-­rimmed as they were, still twinkled with a bit of hope and something else.

Determination.

And with that determined light in her eyes, he had to admit, she lent him a bit of hope as well.

He looked her over again, pulling from his memory the image of an elegant young lady. Breathtaking, really, if his unreliable recollections could be trusted. And if he was right, then yes, she had everything possible to make this happen. With a little help. And time.

Oh, demmit, time. That was a bit of a problem. How long did he have? A fortnight. Now it was his turn to shudder. A fortnight? What had he been thinking?

That was just it—­he hadn't been.

“Miss Tempest, you must have faith,” he told her, getting to his feet. There was much to be done.

“But—­” she began.

He wasn't listening. “You must trust me—­”

“Trust you?” Her astonishment all but filled the room.

Well, it wasn't like he'd asked her to dance half naked at the opera.

“Yes, you must trust me. Because I can put this all to rights. I can.” He tried to sound far more confident than he felt.

After all, he had only two bloody weeks to pull off this miracle.

“You can?” There it was again, that bit of hope. But all too quickly she quashed it. “I don't see how—­”

“Believe me, you will,” he promised, holding out his hand to her. “Let me be your guide.”

She stared at his hand, much as she had earlier given such scant regard to his handkerchief.

Oh, his poor handkerchief. He'd mourn the loss later.

“I cannot dance,” she told him, taking his hand and letting him pull her to her feet.

“You were last night.” At least he thought she'd been, before he'd . . . Well, no use in going over what happened. It had and it was done. Now it was time to move forward.

“Nothing but a fluke,” she said, glancing down at the floor. Or perhaps her feet.

“Come now, Miss Tempest,” he said softly, coaxing her to look up at him. “Will you allow me the privilege of helping you find your perfect match?”