The Bridegroom (32 page)

“What happened next?” he said, removing the last pin.

“I have no idea,” she answered with a nervous laugh.

“How about a kiss?”

Fortunately, he did not require a response, because her heart leaped into her throat, preventing speech entirely. His hands caught in her hair and angled her face up to his. The kiss was tender—for about two seconds—and then it was hungry, ravenous, voracious.

Becky had always believed there must be something wrong with her, because she had never felt any great desire to be kissed by her husband. Had never very much liked the way he touched her. Never wanted to have him inside her, because it was at best uncomfortable and at worst hurtful.

Everything was so different with Mick. She could not touch him enough, could not get close enough to him, could not get enough of his kisses. She could hardly bear to let him go long enough to strip off his clothes or the rest of her own. For the first time, she asked for what she wanted.

“I want you inside me. Now.”

Becky gave a sob of joy when Mick thrust deep inside her.

He paused, his weight braced on his straining arms, his features taut, his eyes burning with need. “Have I hurt you?” he asked. “Shall I stop?”

“Penrith said a man cannot stop.”

He brushed a curl away from her forehead. “I can always stop, though sometimes it may be difficult. Shall I stop?” he asked again.

Mick started to withdraw, but Becky wrapped her arms around him and held him where he was. “No,” she said. “It feels good, Mick. It never did before. Never!”

She heard his agonized moan and reached up to stop it with her mouth. She had never kissed a man; she had always been the one who was kissed. She let her tongue slip into Mick’s mouth, enraptured by the taste of him, mimicking the movement of their bodies below.

When at last they lay sated together,
both
their bodies slicked with sweat, Mick’s arms wrapped tightly around her, and their bodies spooned together as though they were one, Becky said the only words she knew to thank him for what he had done.

“I love you, Mick.”

She heard him catch his breath, felt the muscles tense in his arms and thighs, before he replied, “I love you, too, Becky. Will you marry me?”

Reggie had never realized how many customs must be observed from springtime until harvest when one wanted to begin farming. She had come home from the picnic ready to put a plough to the land the very next day, but George had told her, “It canna be done, milady.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Ye canna begin ploughing until the moon be on the wane. Then there is the blessing by his lordship, and—”

“What blessing?”

Reggie had listened for another half hour to everything George had to say before she sought out Carlisle in his library.

“Caught you!” she said, when she saw what he was reading.

His ears pinkened. It was the pamphlet on improving yield. “It was sitting here on my desk when I came in.”

“I am glad you are studying, because it seems there is a great deal we both need to learn about farming,” she
said. “In fact, I came here to see if you are aware of all the folk customs that must be observed if we are to have a good crop.”

He raised an arrogant brow. “If I farm at all, I intend to use modern methods.”

“That makes a great deal of sense,” she agreed. “But what would be the harm in following the old customs? As George described them to me, they seem relatively simple and absolutely harmless.”

His brows arrowed down. “Give me an example of these simple, harmless customs.”

“Well, you will have to bless the plough.”

Carlisle snickered. “You’re joking.”

“I am entirely serious. You must drink a glass of whiskey, then fill the glass again and pour it over the bridle of the plough, and say, ‘God speed this plough.’ Of course, there can be no further work the day of the blessing, and usually there is a dance to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” he asked.

“Why, the blessing, of course.”

“It is a moot point, because I have not made up my mind to farm.”

“Oh, you will not have to do anything,” Reggie said. “I will manage it all. Except the blessing. You will have to be there for that.”

“Reggie, I—”

“Please, my lord,” she said, crossing to where he sat at his desk. “Think of all the hungry mouths this work will feed. And consider how much richer you will be when the crops are harvested.”

“I am rich enough,” he said.

“The land is yours,” she said, refusing to take no for an answer. “You might as well use it.”

“Giving me back the land does not make up for everything else he did,” Carlisle said, leaning forward across his desk.

“No one said it did,” Reggie replied. “But I believe my father must have felt very bad about what he did to return so much valuable land without asking for anything in return.”

“He got his pound of flesh from my back,” Carlisle snarled.

“For Christ’s sake, lad. No one says ye have to give up yer blasted revenge. Just farm the damned land!”

Reggie started and whirled to find Pegg sitting in the wing chair before the fire. “I didn’t see you there,” she said, laying a hand against her pounding heart.

He rose from the chair and stumped across the room to join them. “In all the years we spent at sea, ye never opened yer mouth but out came dreams of comin’ home and farmin’ the land. Why pretend now ye dinna care?”

“Blackthorne killed those dreams!” Carlisle shot back as he rose from his chair to confront Pegg.

“Aye, some dreams are dead,” Pegg agreed. He glanced at Reggie, then met and held Carlisle’s brooding gaze. “But others may still come true. Grab what ye can, lad, and forget what’s lost.”

Pegg stumped out of the library, leaving Reggie alone with her husband. It always came back to the same sad refrain, she thought. Carlisle could not live in the present, and could not see any future, because he was still mired in the misery of the past.

“Will you farm, my lord?” she asked.

“Bloody hell,” he said.

“Will you bless the plough?” she demanded.

“Yes, damn it, I will bless the bloody plough! Are you happy now?”

Reggie smiled. Brilliantly. “Oh, yes, my lord. Quite happy.”

Simms entered the library and announced, “I have escorted someone claiming to be a sinner to the drawing room. If I may be allowed to say so, the iniquitous female bears a startling resemblance to your ladyship.”

“It must be my sister,” Reggie said to Carlisle. “Something must have happened to bring her back here so soon.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asked.

Reggie was both surprised and grateful for Carlisle’s offer of support. “If I need you, I will send one of the underfootmen to find you.” She was at the door when she turned back and said, “Thank you, Clay.”

Reggie would have run all the way to the drawing room if she had not been so aware of all the eyes focused on her. Apparently the word had spread that she was a twin. The same superstitious Scots who demanded the observance of certain rituals to guarantee a good crop were ogling her as though she were a freak of nature. She felt like yelling “Boo!” and watching them scatter but managed to control the impulse.

She arrived in the drawing room to find Becky wrapped in a shawl and standing close to the fireplace.

“Has something happened to Father or Kitt? Are Gareth and Meg and Lily all right?” Reggie asked.

“Everyone is fine,” Becky hurried to reassure her.

That was when Reggie stopped to take a good look at her sister. Becky’s face glowed with joy, but her eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed by dark half-moons. “What on earth has befallen you?”

“I am in love,” Becky said with a smile and a shrug.

“With Mick, of course,” Reggie said, returning the smile with a grin. She crossed the room and hugged her sister hard. “I’m so happy for you. I’m presuming Mick has confessed to loving you as well.”

“Yes,” Becky said. “And he has proposed marriage.”

Reggie’s hands dropped, and she took a step back from her sister. “And you said …”

Becky paced away toward the fireplace and held out her hands to the flames. “I have told him I need time to think before I answer him.” She pivoted to face Reggie. “I have done nothing but think all night, and I don’t see how I can marry him.”

Now Reggie understood the contradictory reddened eyes and dark half-moons that accompanied the glow of joy on her sister’s face. “You want to marry Mick, but you don’t think the marriage will work out because Mick is not the least plump in the pocket, has no title, and Society will not approve,” Reggie said, speaking what she guessed were her sister’s conclusions.

Becky nodded miserably.

“Do you really care what anyone else thinks?”

“I am concerned what Papa may say.”

“Papa likes Mick.”

“As a son-in-law?” Becky said dubiously. “I am the
daughter of a
duke
. Mick has no father at all. It is not done.”

“What is the worst Papa can do if you marry Mick without his approval?” Reggie asked.

“Let Mick go without a reference,” Becky said promptly. “I could not bear it if Mick was to suffer as a consequence of loving me.”

“I am sure Mick has weighed the danger and must be willing to accept any consequences, if he has asked for your hand. Has Mick said he will speak to Papa?”

“I have told Mick I will do it … if I agree to marry him.”

“You had better let me do it,” Reggie said. “You are likely to—”

“I said I will do it,” Becky said, her chin lifting. “And I shall. If I decide to marry Mick.”

“Well, well,” Reggie said with a grin. “My sister has acquired a backbone. It seems love agrees with you.”

“I do love him, more than I ever believed possible,” Becky said. “But there are so many ways I am afraid I will not measure up to what he will expect of me.”

“Do you think Mick would ask you to do anything he did not think you capable of doing?” Reggie asked.

“I suppose not.”

“Then you have your answer,” Reggie said, spreading her hands wide, as though the problem were solved.

“You are forgetting Lily,” Becky said. “She is Penrith’s daughter, and a duke’s granddaughter. Is it fair—”

“What Lily needs most is love, and she will have more of it from Mick than she ever got from Penrith. If
you are worried whether Lily will be able to make a good match, watch and see if Papa does not give her a large enough dowry to ensure that she takes when she makes her bow to Society.”

“And our other children?”

Reggie smiled and took Becky’s hands in her own. “Will be blessed to have the two best parents in the world and an aunt who will sponsor them in London whenever they wish to go.”

A tear slid onto Becky’s cheek. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is. Love is too wonderful to waste. Be happy, Becky. And make Mick happy.”

“I will,” she said, laughing through her tears.

“When are you going to tell him?” Reggie asked.

“Papa is planning a dance for the St. John’s Eve celebration next week. I suppose I will tell Mick then, so he can make the announcement of our engagement during the festivities. That way there will be no turning back.

“Papa has invited everyone—Uncle Marcus and Aunt Lizzie, the Duke of Braddock and his duchess, the Earl of Denbigh and his countess, the earl’s friend Percival Porter—”

“Denbigh is Trent now,” Reggie corrected, “since Denbigh’s grandfather cocked up his toes.”

“Oh, I had forgotten. Which makes Charlotte a duchess, not a countess. And of course, the entire neighborhood has been invited, since all of them are farmers who will be celebrating St. John’s Eve along with Papa.”

“We have not been invited,” Reggie said, her eyes bleak.

“But you have. I helped Kitt pen the invitations, and I know she sent one to Carlisle. Perhaps he has not shared it with you yet.”

“I suspect he does not intend to share it with me at all,” Reggie said. “He is determined I shall not see Papa, and that Papa shall not see me.”

“Why not come without him?” Becky suggested.

“I may just do that. I don’t want to miss the announcement of your engagement to Mick. Since Carlisle has not shared the invitation with me, he will think I know nothing about it, so I should be able to sneak away to attend.”

“It is too bad you cannot come together,” Becky said.

It was as close to a criticism of Reggie’s marriage as Becky was likely to make. Reggie wanted to defend Carlisle, but the truth was, though she loved him, she thought he was wrong. Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Perhaps I will leave enough clues for him to figure out where I am—after I am safely gone.”

“You are incorrigible,” Becky said with a laugh.

“I know. And impossible and hopeless. But I am determined to make a silk purse from the sow’s ear I have married.”

Becky giggled. “Oh, do not let Carlisle hear you describe him in such terms.”

“Of course not,” Reggie said with a grin. “To his face he is always ‘my lord.’ ”

• • •

B
ecky could not keep the smile off her face. She had never been so happy as she was in the days preceding the St. John’s Eve celebration. She had made up her mind to marry Mick, and she was determined to live her life as happily as she could from now on. She was a little uncertain what her father’s grand company—a houseful of dukes and lords, and even a marquess she had never met before—would think when Mick announced their engagement that evening, but she was determined not to quail before them.