The Duke Diaries (24 page)
“Why Fridays?”
“As far as I understood it, Sussex would have preferred to go to Tattersalls with my brother for the Friday auctions.”
The Prince Regent clapped his hands together in glee. “You should have added that in your description.”
“I daresay, it was bad enough,” she replied.
The prince half lowered his lids over his eyes. “I should enjoy reading the rest of your writings, my dear. When may I expect to have them?”
It was no idle request, and they both knew it.
“I am so sorry, Your Majesty, but in the interest of succession I burned them before I came here.”
He leveled a glare that would have withered a bigger man. “Too bad.” Prinny readjusted his cap. “Let’s see, where was I?”
“Punishment. Mine. ”
“Right. Yes, I have it. You are to relearn the hazards of martyrdom from your brother, who will reeducate you on the importance of remaining who you are by means of regular beating, with a rod not more than one-inch thick, and solitary confinement in a dungeon.”
She swallowed. “I see.”
“I’m not finished, my dear. You demanded punishment and I shall gladly bestow it even if it saddens C. So the last part is simple. After your confinement, you shall enter a new state of confinement. You’ll marry the boy and bear his heirs. We need more C’s in the world. You’re on your own regarding his martyrdom. He’s in complete denial.”
“Uh . . . Right. Um, and who is C?”
He snorted. “With a naturalist mother such as yours, surely you know all about that creature with a prehensile tail, independent eyeballs, and the ability to blend into surroundings.”
She stood stock-still.
“You may tell him that he has earned his retirement.” The Prince Regent rubbed his nightcap, exposing an inch of graying stubble on one side of his head and long strands on the other.
“Are you telling me—”
“Absolutely not.”
“But—”
“My dear Lady V, if you say one more word, I may just change my mind and have you thrown in
my
dungeon with nothing to eat except . . .” He looked at her with a question in his wise but weary eyes.
“Fig tarts?” she said with hope.
“Excellent . . . another liar to add to my list.”
At that precise moment someone—someone identified by his prehensile tail, independent eyeballs, and the ability to blend into surroundings—crashed through the royal door.
He slapped one hand against the other. “Finally . . . I was getting a bit worried about my abilities in my declining years.”
Prinny chuckled. “ ‘Act old later’ has always been my motto.”
Their eyes met, and she could not feel her hands.
The prince chuckled again. “All right, all right, enough of that . . . one could hope you have the Special License with you, C. I’m not sure I can stand one more round of gossip concerning C’s and V’s and so on and so forth, and round and round. My God, have neither of you any respect for my nerves at all? Scandalous. Find a chamber. But be ready in six hours. And find her a real hat to replace that bird’s nest falling to pieces, C. That is a royal command.”
T
he return ride to Derbyshire was the exact opposite of his ride to Town. He would not let her gallop. And he would not leave her side.
They stopped at every inn, as early in the day as he could wheedle from her. And she had let him. If only to prove that she could keep that Fitzroy obdurate nature in check now that she was a Lennox.
Up to a point.
Forty miles from Rutledge, to be exact. All evidence of an obedient wife in the making disappeared that late morning.
Thank God.
“Rory?”
“Yes, my love.”
“I’m not stopping anymore.”
“Sorry?” He smiled to himself.
“Look, I’m tired.”
The smile fell from him and he rushed on, “Let’s go back to the inn. I’m tired, too,” he lied.
“No,” she said. “You misunderstand. I’m tired of all these villages and stops in inns. I want to go home.”
“I sent word on ahead to James that we’d arrive at Boxwood the day after tomorrow.”
She halted her mare. “No. I want to go to your home.”
“Our home,” he corrected. “But it’s five miles farther.”
She smiled. “Then we’ll just have to race the last five miles. Last one there forfeits whatever the other wants.”
He just couldn’t deny her when she looked at him with a huge smile on her face and the corners of her eyes crinkling with laughter in her heart.
Of course he let her win. There wasn’t another option.
As they rode past the end post, she wore the same expression. But said not a word.
They rode side by side into the stable. Dawn was streaking pink tentacles in the sky.
As they rounded the corner from the stables, a short distance to the main entrance, she stopped.
Her mouth fell open.
The door was gone.
“Oh my God. We’ve been robbed.”
He grasped her waist and pulled her close. “No we haven’t. I asked Cheever to do it when I left.”
“Are you out of your mind? We’ll be robbed blind.”
“Who in hell cares? It’s just things, Verity. Replaceable.”
She shook her head. “Where are the servants?”
“I sent word ahead from the last inn. I gave them leave for the next two days. I think they were glad to go, to be honest. They think I’ve taken leave of my senses.”
“You have.”
“Your cousin doesn’t think so.”
“Pardon me? When was she here?”
“Jealous?”
“Be serious, Rory.”
“She told me to open the door to my cage. And I find—unlike you, apparently—that she gives excellent advice. You would do well to listen to her.”
“You’re right.”
“Sweetest words in the English language.” He picked her up and nuzzled her head, relishing the feel of her in his arms and the scent of her in his mind. “By the by, I haven’t told you the latest gossip in the county.”
She stiffened in his arms.
“It’s not what you think.”
“Really,” she retorted, doubt dripping from the word.
“You’ll like it very much.”
“Well, are you going to tell me?”
“I’m trying to learn how to maintain suspense, in the same fashion you managed in your diaries.”
“I see.” She did not go on.
He waited. And waited. And finally sighed as he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber that was now hers. “I see I haven’t quite mastered the art of it.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she whispered.
He stayed silent.
She finally could not hold back her laughter another moment. “Enough. I can’t stand it. Tell me!”
“All right, then.”
When he did not go on, she beat his chest with her fists. She was stronger than she appeared.
“Far too curious, in addition to being far too stubborn. A quite lethal combination.”
“Very nearly, in your case,” she said dryly. She said not another word.
He carried her down three more corridors, made a left past the Blue Room, filled with war trophies that boggled the mind. It was the only door he had not personally removed from the hinges. That one would stay locked. Forever.
“Rory?”
“Yes, my love.”
“The thing of it is . . .”
“Yes, my love?”
“You see . . .”
He sighed. “You’re so much better at this than I.”
“It’s all in the timing.”
He gently tipped her to regain her footing in front of the opening to his chamber. Then he kissed her. He gazed into her eyes and kissed her again.
And once again with more feeling.
“Stop.” She finally pushed against his chest. “I give up. You are much better than I could have possibly known.”
“Well, you are a good teacher.”
She smiled at him.
“So shall I tell you finally?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Rory?”
“Yes, my love?”
“If you have any intention to make love to me before I fall dead asleep—and I think you know that when I say dead asleep you understand the full nature of the probability—then you had better just spit it out.”
He smiled.
“Is it that important?”
“Well, I think so. If we are going to live on this gossip-infested peak, which puts London to shame, I had better learn how to whisper over scandalbroth with the best of them.”
She arched a brow and leaned forward in the overt nature of a gossip of the finest water. “So?”
“Miss Phoebe Talmadge is soon to exchange her name for another.”
“Really?” She obviously did not believe him. “And who told you this?”
“The ostler’s daughter at the last posting house.”
“Then it’s true,” she said, quite serious now. “And who is the lucky, very rich man?” She paused. “If you tell me it’s James, I might have to go back to the posting inn and do bodily harm.” She stared at him with those big brown eyes of hers. “And then find a snake-charmer for James.”
He finally let her out of her misery. “Mr. Armitage. Your vicar.” He shook his head like a seasoned magpie.
Her eyes widened. And then she laughed. “Do be serious. Gossip has to resemble something that could actually happen. Plagues in jungles, revolution in London, me with you.” She whispered the last.
He kissed her tenderly again. He didn’t know how much longer he could wait. He had been too long without her in his arms.
“Seriously?” She began to laugh again.
“That is not how I expect my wife to react to my kisses.”
“No, Rory.” She wiped her eyes. “Tell me the truth of it.”
He crossed his hand over his heart, just like Mrs. Greer had the night that was the best and worst of his life.
“But how could it be?” Wonder filling her voice.
He arched a brow and whispered in her ear. “I saw them talking by the water goblets in Boxwood’s alcove.”
“You’ll do very well here,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
He watched her tug on one end of his neckcloth, which fell open. He felt her fingers on his skin and then her lips in the hollow of his neck.
It was his undoing. He picked her up and carried her to his bed.
“You know, Rory, you are going to have to stop this picking me up business. I’m beginning to feel like an infant. I do know how to walk.”
“Not until the day after tomorrow you don’t.” He plopped her down onto his bed. God, he wanted her. He needed her.
Hell.
Want
and
need
were words that didn’t suffice for the sensations he felt when he saw her in his bed.
He placed his knee on the edge of the bed to climb in after her.
“Wait!” She sat up suddenly.
“No more,” he ground out.
“No really,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
“Verity, my love, I can’t wait any longer.”
Her eyes softened. “All right, Rory, but promise me that the first thing you’ll do the day after tomorrow is to return what is rightfully mine.”
“You already have my heart. You had it at ‘cheetah.’ ”
She burst out laughing. God how he loved her laugh.
“So you’re not referring to my heart, I take it.”
“No. I want my hat back.”
He still hadn’t quite figured out this particular species known as woman.
She rolled her eyes. “The one you held as blackmail all those years ago under my pine tree.”
His eyes widened in disbelief. “It was you?”
“Of course it was me. Who did you think it was?”
“I didn’t see anyone. It was so hideous, I thought someone had put it out of its misery by leaving it to molder. You know, ashes to ashes and all that.”
“You
love
my hats.”
“Indeed,” he replied. “I would even die for them.”
It was the last coherent word that was heard by either of the sole occupants of Rutledge Hall for a good long time.
Unless one considers broken phrases, punctuated by pleading and much laughter, as coherent.
Only one thing was certain.
Goodness of spirit proved it triumphed in the end as long as one part charm is mixed with a large pinch of wit, with side helpings of courage and perseverance. It was, indeed, a perfect recipe for happiness.
SOPHIA NASH was born in Switzerland and raised in France and the United States, but says her heart resides in Regency England. Her ancestor, an infamous French admiral who traded epic cannon fire with the British Royal Navy, is surely turning in his grave.
Before pursuing her long-held dream of writing, Sophia was an award-winning television producer for a CBS affiliate, a congressional speechwriter, and a nonprofit CEO. She lives in the Washington, D.C., suburbs with her husband and two children.
Sophia’s novels have won twelve national awards, including the prestigious RITA® Award, and two spots on
Booklist
’s “Top Ten Romances of the Year.” Readers may contact her via her website:
www.sophianash.com
.
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