The Player (Rockliffe Book 3) (33 page)

He tried to think of something to say and then
gave up when she pressed warm kisses against his throat and jaw.
 
Instinct took over.
 
Sliding one hand to her nape, he tilted her
face up and brushed her lips with his. She sighed and closed her eyes.
 
He kissed one corner of her mouth, then slid
his tongue slowly across her lower lip to the other.
 
Her breath hitched and her lips parted.
 
Adrian arms tightened about her and he
covered her mouth with his own.
 
He
wanted to be careful, to take it slowly.
 
And had it not been for the tiny sound in her throat and the way she
instantly responded to his kiss, he might have managed it.
 
As it was, desire flared hot and insistent
and the most he could manage was to stop his hands going anywhere they
shouldn’t.

Caroline didn’t even try to think.
 
She tangled her fingers in his hair and gave
herself up to physical sensation and the intoxicating joy of being in his
arms.
 
He trailed little kisses along her
jaw and his teeth grazed her ear-lobe; then his mouth returned to ravish hers,
sending little tremors rippling through her and causing her to press herself
more tightly against him.

Much though he was enjoying it, it was this last
that succeeded in bringing back some semblance of self-control before she
became aware of his physical state.
 
He
wanted her so badly it alarmed him … but they weren’t married yet. Tomorrow,
he’d have the right to ask.
 
Tonight, he
didn’t.
 
Slowly, gently, he released her
mouth and set a little distance between them, breathing rather fast.
 
Equally slowly, her eyes opened and she
looked up at him, her expression not unlike what he imagined his own to be.

Holding her gaze, he said, ‘Should I apologise for
that?’

And Caroline said huskily, ‘Not unless you’re
sorry.’

‘I’m not.’
 
He drew an unsteady breath. ‘If you want the truth, I’m only sorry we’re
not married yet.’

‘Oh,’ she said, vaguely.
 
‘Good.’
 
And, after a moment, ‘So am I.’

~
 
*
 
*
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

The previous day’s rain had dried up over-night and
the morning of the wedding dawned bright and cold.

At Wynstanton Priors, the Duchess of Rockliffe shooed
her husband and his brother out of the house with instructions to call on the
newly-weds but not to outstay their welcome.
 
Ignoring Nicholas’s knowing smile, Rockliffe pulled his wife into his
arms for a lingering kiss and informed her that he’d be back to resume looming
no later than the following afternoon – sooner, if possible.

At The King’s Head in Deal, Marcus Sheringham ate
an early breakfast and prepared to resume his vigil on Devereux House. He now
knew exactly how many people resided there. Aside from Sarre and the girl, the
household consisted of two elderly couples, a pretty young maid and a sandy-haired
French fellow.
 
He’d also surreptitiously
scanned the parish registers of all three Sandwich churches and found no record
of any marriage.
 
Since it hadn’t taken
place so far, it was unlikely – as he’d always suspected – that it ever would.
He’d tracked Sarre into town and back again through yesterday’s rain, taking care
to remain out of sight.
 
He hadn’t seen
the Earl go near a church – but it would do no harm to check. If there was no
activity around the house during the morning, he decided he might ride over to
have a chat with the various vicars.

*
 
*
 
*

At Devereux House, Caroline spent the morning
bathing, washing her hair, counting the hours until it was time to dress and
day-dreaming about Adrian.
 
Downstairs,
Betsy pursued a relentless campaign of preparations for after the ceremony
which had Sally, Mr Clayton and Mr
Bailes
running
hither and thither carrying things and turned every room upside down.

Evicted in due course even from his own bedchamber
while the bed-linens were changed and the hangings thoroughly beaten, Adrian
stole a bottle of wine and sought refuge with Bertrand saying, ‘Thank God one
only has to do this once. Mrs Clayton is apparently too busy to brew a pot of
coffee and everywhere looks like a battle-zone.’

Bertrand poured two glasses and handed one to his
lordship.

‘Mrs Holt is a force of nature.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.
 
Caroline’s got the right idea.
 
I gather she’s barred her door against
invaders.
 
I wish I’d thought of it.’

‘Bride’s prerogative.
 
And either your room or hers has to be made
ready for the wedding-night.’

‘Ah.’
 
Adrian took a sip of wine.
 
‘Yes.
 
I suppose so.’

Bertrand’s brows rose.
 
‘You sound unconvinced. Didn’t you give her
the gown?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she like it?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

Adrian stared down into his glass, a small smile
curling his mouth.

‘Quite a lot.’
 
He looked up.
 
‘And that is very
definitely all I have to say on the subject.’

For a long moment, Bertrand said nothing.
 
Then, ‘You once admitted to liking her. But
it’s more than that, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps.
 
But if you think I’m going to make a declaration to you that I haven’t
made to Caroline, I suggest you think again.’

‘Fair enough.’
 
Bertrand grinned.
 
‘In that case –
as the fellow who’ll be standing up for you this afternoon – it’s part of my
duty to give you some good advice.’

‘Oh God.’ Adrian laughed. ‘You think I need it?’

‘Not in the general way, maybe – but you’ve never
been married before.’

‘Neither have you.
 
And we are not – we are absolutely
not
having this conversation.’

‘Nobody said you’d got to join in,’ observed
Bertrand.
 
And launched into a ribald and
cripplingly funny dissertation on what he called
Practical Guidance for the Newly-Wed Gentleman …
or
How to Avoid Having Things Thrown at Your
Head.

Three doors down and engaged in drying her hair,
Caroline listened to gales of masculine laughter and grinned with delight that
Adrian sounded so relaxed and happy. It was going to be a beautiful day.

*
 
*
 
*

From the top of a dune some way along the beach,
Lord Sheringham saw one of the old men bring the carriage into the yard and set
about washing the mud from it.
 
This
might mean something or nothing.
 
With
the roads still drying out, they’d hardly be wasting their time cleaning up the
carriage for a journey.
 
Still, it was
worth keeping an eye on … and there was precious little else to see.
 
There was no other traffic in or out of the
house and so far he hadn’t managed to clap eyes on the girl at all.
 
One would think, after being trapped inside
all the previous day, she’d want to walk outside and get a breath of fresh
air.
 
Or perhaps Sarre wouldn’t let
her.
 
Perhaps he’d got her locked up
somewhere.
 
Marcus hoped not.
 
Even if the Earl went off again on some errand
or other, breaking into a house of no more than five or six bedrooms, getting
passed half-a-dozen servants unnoticed
 
and liberating the girl would be a damned sight more difficult than
winnowing his way through a crowded gaming club.
 
Impossible, in fact.

He pulled his cloak around him and tried to make
himself comfortable on the grassy hummock.
 
If nothing transpired in the next hour or so, he’d take himself into
town for a hot meal and a chance to get warm before he consulted the vicars.

When the need arose, he was capable of endless
patience.

*
 
*
 
*

Betsy freed Sally from her duties below stairs to
help dress the bride.
 
By the time this
happened, Caroline – who had been perfectly calm all morning – could feel her
nerves tying themselves into knots.
 
She
stared at her reflection while Sally put the finishing touches to her hair and
said, ‘Has someone told Mr
Bailes
that I want him to
walk down the aisle with me?’

‘Yes, Miss.
 
His lordship spoke to him about it himself.
 
And we all thought Mr
Bailes
was going to burst, he was that proud.’ The girl stepped back.
 
‘There, now.
 
That looks very nice, even if I do say so myself.
 
Now let’s get you into your gown.’
 
She stroked the figured silk lovingly. ‘It’s
ever so pretty, isn’t it?
 
His lordship’s
got lovely taste.’
 
She lifted the gown,
flung it deftly over Caroline’s head and settled it on her shoulders in order
to begin lacing it up. ‘It’s a pity he saw you in it last night.
 
But I expect he was glad to know it fitted
and everything.’

‘Yes.’
 
Caroline could feel herself blushing. ‘He seemed quite … pleased.’

Downstairs in the hall, Adrian had also started to
feel tense and, seeing it, Bertrand suggested a fortifying slug of brandy.

‘No.
 
I had
a glass of wine with you earlier – and I’m not getting drunk before my
wedding.’

‘You never get drunk at all,’ remarked
Bertrand.
 
‘If you ask me, that’s half
your trouble.’
 
He glanced upwards to the
sound of footsteps.
 
‘Ah.
 
Reckon she’s on her way.’

Adrian stood at the foot of the stairs, his hand
resting on the carved newel.
 
Then, as
Caroline appeared around the turn on the half-landing, the tightness in his
chest simply disappeared.
 
She looked as
she had last night.
 
The gown, her hair,
that soft uncertain smile … all of them exactly the same.
 
And if he’d had even a shred of doubt about
the rightness of what he was about to do, it evaporated like mist at the mere
sight of her.
 
He smiled.

Caroline descended the stairs, drowning in that
smile.
 
As always, he was the epitome of
elegance. From his beautifully-cut black brocade coat and bronze-green
embroidered vest, to the buckles on his polished shoes he was every inch the
Earl of Sarre.
 
But the smile … that was
pure Adrian.
 
And when she reached his
side and he took her hand, her heart simply flipped over.

‘You look … beautiful,’ he said softly for her
ears alone.
 
Then, with a slight, formal
bow, ‘And now, if you’re ready,
 
we
should go.’

Not unnaturally, it was a bit of a squeeze with
four of them in the carriage but Bertrand waited until everyone was settled
before slamming the door and climbing nimbly on to the box.
 
Inside and facing the prospective bride and
groom, Mr
Bailes
and Betsy were dressed in their
Sunday best and seemingly unable to stop smiling.
 
Caroline smiled back at them and, as unobtrusively
as possible, tucked her hand into Adrian’s.
 
Although he neither spoke nor looked at her, he wrapped his fingers
around it and held it firmly.

Arriving at St Peter’s and leaving Bertrand to
escort Betsy into the church, his lordship produced a small posy of pale pink
roses from inside the porch and handed them to Caroline, saying simply, ‘I
think I found the only fellow in town who grows flowers under glass.
 
These were all he would spare.’ And seeing
the sudden brightness in her eyes, added, ‘You are
not
going to cry.
 
The
Reverend Conant already thinks I’m some sort of villain.
 
If he sees a single tear, he’ll stop the
wedding.’ Then, when she managed a shaky smile, he placed her hand on Mr
Bailes’s
arm and said, ‘That’s better.
 
I’ll see you inside.’

With no music, no flowers aside from the ones
Caroline was holding and an openly disapproving vicar, the ceremony was both
simple and no longer than necessary. Mr
Bailes
performed his part with dignity, Betsy sobbed quietly into her handkerchief and
Bertrand grinned as if he’d orchestrated the entire thing himself.

Caroline was aware of nothing except Adrian,
holding her eyes with his own and speaking his vows in clear, level tones.
 
Her own voice was a little less steady but
she managed not to stammer or get his lordship’s string of names wrong.

I take thee,
Francis Adrian Sinclair Devereux, to my wedded husband … to have and to hold
from this day forward … to love, cherish and obey till death us do part … and
thereto I give thee my troth.

The ring slid on to her finger, warm from Adrian’s
hand.
 
She stared at it for a second,
transfixed, before looking into his face to discover that he was doing the same
thing, his expression oddly intent. Then the silver-grey eyes flicked back to
her face and the shadows vanished in a dazzling smile.

At the moment they were pronounced man and wife,
the words
Now she won’t leave!
exploded exultantly through Adrian’s head … immediately followed by the
startling realisation that, up until this moment, he’d feared she still might. He
tried to convince himself that his sudden euphoria was merely perfectly natural
relief that the ceremony was behind them … but the growing bubble of joy inside
him gave the lie to that.
 
And so, giving
way to impulse, he pulled Caroline into his arms, kissed her and murmured, ‘Well
done, my lady.
 
Now you shall go home and
eat as many lemon cakes as you like.’

And that was how it came about that Caroline
walked to the vestry for the conclusion of the formalities, clinging to her new
husband’s arm and laughing up at him.

The appropriate entry was made in the register,
the marriage lines written out and witnessed then solemnly handed to Caroline.

‘You are now,’ whispered Adrian, ‘officially responsible
for keeping all my secrets.
 
And if that
doesn’t scare you to death, nothing will.’

Once out in the church-yard, there was much
kissing, curtsying and well-wishing.
 
Then everyone squeezed back into the carriage and they set off on the
drive home.
 
This time, Adrian drew
Caroline’s hand through his arm and covered her fingers with his own.
 
She allowed herself to lean against his
shoulder and dream.

*
 
*
 
*

Some fifteen minutes before Caroline joined Lord
Sarre at the altar, Lord Sheringham was sitting in a tavern on Knightrider
Street.
 
He’d eaten a bowl of largely
indifferent stew, washed down with a tankard of equally indifferent ale and was
just considering going in search of the rector of nearby St Clement’s when three
fellows at a neighbouring table invited him to join them in a game of
vingt-et-un
.
 
Though rough and ready, they seemed amicable
enough and were playing for low stakes.
 
Furthermore, his lordship hadn’t touched a deck of cards for the best
part of a week.
 
Deciding that another
half-hour couldn’t hurt, he ordered a second pot of ale and settled down to
play.