To Marry an Heiress (24 page)

“Find her, Jake,” he ordered with urgency, as though the dog understood not only the words but the importance. “Find her.”

Jake took off, a sharp tug on the leash nearly
pulling Devon’s arm from its socket. He left his horse where it stood. So many people were in on the search he had little doubt someone would be by shortly to tend to the gelding.

The dog stopped, bayed at the darkness, and took off again. Devon held the lantern high, but the light didn’t fan out a great distance. He could barely see the dog’s wagging tail.

But he heard a change in Jake’s bark. A subtle difference that made him question his sanity, as though he actually thought the animal was communicating with him.

Then he spotted it. The light from the lantern caught something pale, something not shadows. Something that didn’t disappear when the lantern’s glow fell across it.

Gina.

As though sensing all was not well with his mistress, Jake lay beside her, his head across her ankles, his bark giving way to a pitiful whine.

“Benjamin!” Devon yelled just before he dropped to his knees and held the lantern over her. Her eyes were closed, her face incredibly pale. He touched her cheek. Cold. So very cold. She lay at such an odd, twisted angle. He wanted to straighten her, but he was afraid, so frightened of doing more harm than good.

“You found her, m’lord,” Benjamin said as he knelt on the other side of Gina.

“Look at her, Benjamin. She’s all broken. My dear wife is all broken.”

He heard his father’s resounding voice echoing in
his mind, “Chin up!” Only he didn’t want to keep his chin up. He wanted to weep, pull her close, hold her tightly, and beg her to be all right.

“I’ll fetch a wagon, m’lord.”

Devon nodded, unable to think clearly. “And fetch a physician. I’m afraid to move her without his consent. I don’t want to cause more harm.”

“Aye, m’lord, I’ll send someone.”

“And pad it—the wagon. Mattresses, blankets—get blankets out here.” He set the lantern aside and tore off his coat, gently spreading it over her inert body. Hoping some of the warmth it held from his body would seep into her.

“Here, m’lord, use this as well.”

He glanced up to see that Benjamin was offering his coat as well. Worn and patched. Strange how in a moment of crisis the lowliest piece of clothing served as well as the most finely made garment.

Devon placed it gingerly over his wife as Benjamin headed off at a run.

Word spread that he’d found her. One by one the men he’d worked beside in the fields came over and handed him their coats before leaving him alone with his wife.

Eventually she lay beneath a mountain of rags, and Devon had never in his life been so grateful for so little.

Once the physician had arrived in the field and examined Gina in the pale light of a dozen lanterns, he’d deemed her unbroken—at least her body. He wasn’t aware of her spirit, of the manner in which
Devon had unwittingly battered and bruised it with his constant references to Margaret.

For all his education and learning, the doctor didn’t seem to know that a person could look whole on the outside and be nothing but shards of broken dreams on the inside.

Devon knew. God, how he knew. He wasn’t certain if he’d ever been whole on the inside. He’d just always given such a good imitation.

With the utmost care and tenderness, he’d placed Gina on a mattress in the wagon. Dampness surrounded them as he’d lain beside her, wrapping himself around her, trying to buffer her from the lumbering swaying of the wagon as it rolled over the fields. Occasionally the wheels sank into the freshly turned earth until the farmers shoved the wagon on its way, each one saying, as if on cue, “She’ll be all right, m’lord. Not to worry.”

But he was worried. Standing at the foot of his bed, gripping the bedpost with icy fingers, his clothes drenched, he watched as the doctor examined his dear Gina more closely. He’d noticed a bruise forming on her side along her ribs before the servant slipped a fresh nightgown onto her.

The doctor had proclaimed nothing broken there. Now he was gingerly running his fingers along her scalp, over her face, beneath her chin. Lifting her eyelids, he squinted his eyes as he stared into hers.

“She’s got a rather nasty knot on the back of her head,” he murmured. “But her eyes react to light. That’s good.”

Devon swallowed hard. “But she hasn’t stirred since I found her. Why doesn’t she wake up?”

The physician straightened, scratched his head, and heaved a melancholy sigh. “I fear all we can do at this point is stand vigil.” He glanced at Devon. “You should get yourself into some dry clothes before you catch your death.”

How could he explain that without her life mattered not? As much as he’d grieved over Margaret’s passing, not once through her illness or after her death had he felt that he could not go on.

“What am I to do for her?” he asked.

“Keep her warm, keep things quiet. Send for me should you notice any change.”

“How long before she’ll wake up?”

“That, my lord, I can’t say. A few hours, a few days. I shouldn’t think it would be long.”

“And if it is?”

“Let’s walk across that bridge when we get to it, shall we, my lord?”

It was long past midnight by the time the physician took his leave.

As he’d known—he wouldn’t have known before Gina had come into his life, but he knew now—the children were still wide-eyed and awake, lying in their beds, afraid to sleep because the storm continued. He gave them the important task of sitting with Gina while he changed out of his damp clothes.

With Gina in his bed, he’d taken his clothes into his former wife’s bedchamber. He wanted Gina in his own bed, not closeted away at the farthest
reaches of the house, not in the bedchamber that had once belonged to Margaret.

His body was numb from the cold, his spirit numb from worry. She would not have ridden carelessly. Something must have startled the horse, and perhaps Gina had been too distracted to notice until it was too late.

Quite right. He could well envision that scenario.

Once he was properly dressed, he stood in the doorway that separated his room from Margaret’s. A stupid tradition that dictated a man and wife should have their own chambers, their separate beds. When a man dared to enter, he was letting it be known in no uncertain terms that he intended to bed his wife.

Where was the spontaneity of it? The wooing, the uncertainty, the moment when all became clear because two bodies shuddered with need?

And what of the nights when a man was weary beyond belief and simply wanted to fold himself around the woman he loved.

He did love Gina, more than life itself. But would she believe him when she seemed to have so little faith in her own worth?

How did a man show a woman that he loved her, heart, body, and soul? Oh, he well knew the art of courtship. He knew the right things to say, the right manners to project. He was possessed of courtly grace.

He could write the book on how to give the appearance of love.

But what did he know about actually showing it?

He heard the whispers of his children as they sat
on the bed, one on each side of Gina. One touching her face, while the other held her hand. Noel speaking and then Millicent.

Precious children. Healing. His greatest assets. His most magnificent joy.

He would sell himself, settle for unhappiness, accept shame, he would humble himself before his peers if need be. For them he would sacrifice anything.

Just as he would for the woman who now lay between them.

The knowledge hit him in the center of his chest, caused an ache in his heart, a chasm in his soul. He wasn’t certain when he’d fallen madly in love with her.

She would fault him for not knowing the exact moment, but the feeling was such a part of him he knew it had taken root
long
before it had fully blossomed and he’d become aware of it.

Did she love him? At all?

Did a woman work in the fields and thresh grain without complaint for a man she didn’t love? Margaret had claimed to love him, but she’d withdrawn from him, had never considered working beside him, lessening his burden.

Gina lessened his burden simply by standing beside him. She needn’t have worked in the fields. But she had. Because her nature was to give—everything within her.

She gave to him, the children, the servants, Huntingdon. She asked nothing in return, expected nothing. “She can’t hear you,” he said quietly.

The children snapped their heads around.

“But what if she can, Father?” Millicent asked.

“Her last memory is falling from her horse. It might give her nightmares,” Noel explained. “We wanted to give her something better to dream about.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Come, you two need to go to bed now.”

As if on cue, thunder rattled the panes.

“You can sleep together in the bed in the next room,” he offered.

They scrambled to the floor, approaching him warily. He didn’t think they were frightened of him but afraid of losing the woman whose unconventional manners were such a delight.

Millicent stumbled to a stop, her eyes growing wide as she stared at the large painting above his hearth.

“Is that our mother?” she whispered.

“No, silly goose,” Noel said before Devon could respond. “Our mother is lying on the bed in here.”

Angling his chin in challenge, Noel met his father’s gaze and held it. “Isn’t that right, Father?”

By God, Devon had never known such pride. His son was going to make an exceptional earl. He would know society’s rules but not be master to them. “You’re quite correct, son.”

“Does that mean we can call her Mother when she wakes up?” Millicent asked.

Not if but when. When she woke up.

It seemed both children were holding their breath. He had a feeling they weren’t asking his permission but simply informing him of what they intended to do—in a most diplomatic way.

“I think that’s a splendid idea. Now, into bed with you.”

He followed them into the next room, tucked the blankets in close to them, and lowered the flame in the lamp until the shadows danced around them. Straightening, he studied the cherubs in the bed. The children had never been in his room. His youngest didn’t know what her mother looked like.

Ah, yes, she did, he corrected himself. She knew her mother had mahogany hair and rich, dark brown eyes.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

“And Mother, too?” Millicent asked.

He nodded once. “And Mother, too.”

Now if only she would awaken and he could convince her to stay.

Devon pulled a chair close to the bed. He considered lying on it, drawing Gina into his embrace, but he’d messed up royally. He’d been afraid of showing her what he felt.

And here he was, greedy for her love. Wanting it so desperately, he’d do anything to have it. Anything. Anything except make her unhappy.

How was it that a person could want something so badly he’d be willing to give it up? It made no sense, but then so little did when it came to Gina.

So he sat in the chair, facing her. He took her callused hand in his. They were such a pair. Not at all as the aristocracy should be. But he realized with sudden clarity that they were exactly as they should be.

He pressed his mouth to her fingers, long, slen
der, graceful, but strong. Capable of soothing his frustrations, gentling his children, working his land, arousing his passion.

“The children seem to think you can hear us.” He was surprised by his voice. It sounded like a plow grinding its way against rock embedded in the soil. Rough and grating. Rasping.

He molded his lips around her knuckles, just shy of where the ring he’d given her rested. The garnet seemed to wink in the lamplight. Truth and constancy.

How was he to have known the truth revealed his love to be constant?

“I would rather live as a pauper and have your love than live as a king and know your disdain. Your father told me you would make me a wealthy man. I thought he spoke in terms of material things”—he shook his head—“but he spoke in terms of love.

“Wake up, Gina, wake up and tell me what you require for happiness, and I will give it you. Anything that you wish, all that you wish.

“Do you truly want to return to Texas? I shall let you go without ever revealing the cost. And if you choose to stay, I shall forever be grateful. I love you as I’ve never loved anyone. Your strength, your courage, your determination, your wisdom.

“Don’t die, sweeting. You turned my world upside down and taught me that love has no boundaries. Don’t die.”

D
on’t die.

The litany swirled like a gray fog into the black void where she’d sought refuge from the throbbing pain in her head.

At first it had come to her in the voice of a child, sweet, innocent, beseeching. Then it had drifted away. And when it had returned, it arrived with a deeper timbre, anguished.

Don’t die.

As though she had a choice. As though the decision was hers to make.

She became aware of the firm grip on her hand, the damp and warm breath wafting over her fingers, the soft mouth pressed against her skin.

Slowly she opened her eyes to the dimly lit room. A bedchamber. But not hers. One she’d visited only once.
His
.

Even the low light caused her head to ache. She
didn’t dare move her head for fear of increasing the pain.

She slid her eyes slightly to the side, and there he was, sitting beside her, holding her hand. The bearded stubble of his face shadowy and thick. His hair stood out at odd angles as though it had been wet and left to dry on its own with no one bothering to take a brush or comb to it. He’d never looked so unkempt.

His eyes were red and swollen…and…what was that?

Gingerly, she reached out and touched his eyelashes. “You overlooked a tear.”

He bestowed upon her the sweetest smile she’d ever seen.

“You’re awake,” he rasped, his voice thick with an emotion she didn’t dare try to name. He pressed his mouth to the back of her hand. “Thank God, you’re awake.”

“What…happened?”

“You took a spill. Three days ago. Wait here.”

As though she had a choice. She watched him stride across the room. She’d never seen clothes so wrinkled. Were the servants not doing their job?

He opened the door and said in a hushed voice, “Winston, her ladyship has awoken. Fetch the physician.”

He closed the door quietly, returned to the chair, reached for her hand, and then as though thinking better of it, gripped the chair. “Are you thirsty?”

She nodded, regretting the movement as soon as she’d completed it. He poured water into a glass.
Gingerly he lifted her head and carried the glass to her lips. She sipped slowly. Nothing had ever felt so welcome as the cool water slid past her parched throat.

“Not too much, now,” he chided gently before easing her back down to the pillow.

He set the glass aside and then looked at her as though he had a thousand things he wanted to say but couldn’t think of a single comment at the moment.

“In your room I saw your trunk. You were packing to leave?”

Everything came rushing back then. Her trunk. The whole of her life packed inside. Disappointment. Needing to leave. Wanting to stay. How could she leave the children? What would they think?

She’d always thought better on horseback, so she’d gone for a ride to argue with herself. To leave—to stay. To welcome him into her bed, knowing he loved another.

She shook her head slightly. “I decided I couldn’t leave the children.”

He looked wounded somehow, disappointed.

“Did you want me to leave?” she asked.

“No,” he answered hastily.

“I mean not unless you want to,” he amended. “I’d rather you didn’t, but I understand if you feel you must. I’ve hurt you with my careless disregard for your feelings.” He plowed his hands through his hair. “You needn’t make any decisions at this precise moment. We can work out the specifics once you’ve recovered.”

She rubbed the spot on her finger his tear had dampened and wondered why he had wept.

“Jake rescued you!” Noel said, his face beaming, as though he’d somehow been responsible for Jake’s feat.

“Did he?” Georgina asked, feeling well rested after three days.

“With a little help from Father,” Millicent rushed to assure her.

She shifted her gaze from the children sitting beside her on the bed to the man standing solemnly at its foot. This evening he was once again the lord of the manor. Shaved. Every hair combed into place. His clothes pressed.

“Jake’s a hero!” Millicent said.

“We made him a medal,” Noel told her as he held up a silver disk with a ribbon threaded through a hole someone had punched in it. “Father allowed us to use the lid to a trinket box.”

The lid looked to be real silver. “How generous of him,” she said.

“It’s time for you children to be off to bed. Say good night.”

Millicent leaned toward her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m ever so glad you’re all right, Mother.”

Gina’s heart constricted and tears welled in her eyes.

“Father said we could call you Mother,” Noel explained. “If you’d rather we didn’t, we won’t.”

She slipped her arms around both children, holding them close. “No, no. I’m so glad you want to. I love you so much.”

“As we love you,” Noel said.

“Father loves you, too,” Millicent said.

She jerked her gaze to Devon. His cheeks were burning-red.

“That’s enough, now. Your mother needs to rest,” Devon said sternly from his position of guardian.

“But you said—” Millicent.

“I know what I said. Off with you now.”

The children scrambled off the bed and scurried out of the room. Devon remained at his post, hands behind his back, reminding her of their days in London when he’d been so formal with her that she’d thought she might shriek.

“You gave them permission to call me Mother?” she asked.

“I thought it high time. You are more of a mother to them than Margaret ever was.”

She glanced toward the hearth. She’d noticed the bare spot on the wall shortly after she’d awakened.

“Where’s the portrait of Margaret?” she asked.

“I had it placed in another room. I don’t want the children to feel as though I have no regard for her, but I determined that her portrait no longer belonged in here.”

“I see.”

“Do you? When I offered to give you a child and you preferred not, I was quite stunned and chose to
believe that you rebuffed me because you loathed the thought of intimacy with someone who worked in the fields.

“I failed to take into account your generous heart, your affectionate nature, the manner in which you give so much of yourself and ask for nothing in return. For all that you seemed to accept that I worked in the fields, for all the respect you claimed to have for me, I had none for myself.”

“I more than respect you, Devon. I’ve fallen in love with you. I thought I could accept that Margaret would always be the love of your life—”

He moved quickly to the head of bed, sat on the edge, and placed his thumb over her lips, silencing her. “She
was
the love of my life…until you.”

Her heart tightened. “You promised never to lie to me.”

“Then hear the truth, Gina. I did love Margaret. She and I were well suited, cut of the same cloth, so to speak. But our happiness was fleeting. She came to despise me and all I stood for.

“She found my touch abhorrent. She made me feel less of a man. I came to dread our moments together, because I always saw disappointment in her eyes.

“Her beauty went no farther than the surface.”

Gina closed her eyes as he leaned closer and placed a kiss at her temple.

“Do you remember the condition upon which you agreed to marry me?” he asked.

Opening her eyes, she held his gaze. “No lies.”

“Exactly.” He bestowed upon her a warm, sensual
smile as he framed her face between his work-roughened hands. “So, my dear countess, heed my words. You instructed me to never tell you that you were beautiful when you were not. I swear to you I have never known a woman who possessed more beauty than you.”

Tears stung the back of her eyes. “Devon—”

“I am not yet finished. You commanded me never to tell you that I love you when I cannot. That condition is also voided because I do love you, Gina, more than I thought possible to love anyone. You quite simply…take my breath.

“Let me make love to you,” he rasped. “Allow me the privilege of showing you how truly beautiful you are.”

She shook her head. “Not in this bed.”

“This is my bed, Gina,” he said quietly before he touched his lips to hers. “I swear to you no other woman has ever been in it.”

He settled his mouth persistently against hers, his tongue waltzing with hers. He didn’t carry the scent of the fields with him this evening but she inhaled his raw masculine scent, such a part of him that the most expensive of colognes could only add to its allure but not hide it.

She scraped her fingernails along his nape, up into his scalp, his curling hair clinging to her fingers as he pressed her more deeply against the bed. She was vaguely aware of him loosening the buttons on her nightgown as he increased the urgency of his kiss, deepening it. He slid his hand inside her gown until he could close his hand around her breast.

A throaty rumble escaped him as he tore his mouth from hers, lowered his head, and latched his lips around her nipple, his tongue circling even as he suckled. Whimpering, she arched her back to give him easier access.

“You are so enticingly sweet,” he murmured.

And so incredibly hot. She was burning with the passions he elicited with his touch. As though he was equally ablaze, he shot up and made quick work of removing his clothes while she, trapped beneath the blankets, wiggled as she tugged her gown off her shoulders, past her hips, over her feet.

“I would have gladly done that for you,” he said as he threw back the covers, exposing her nakedness to his appreciative gaze. “But I see there are advantages to its already being done.”

He stretched out beside her, the length of his body pressing against her, his smile warmer than she’d ever seen it, incredible to behold. “I take this image into my sleep every night.”

“You do?” she asked breathlessly.

“Ah, yes, countess. Our night in London haunts me. I was a fool, punishing us both for what could not be changed. This evening I intend for us both to receive our just rewards.”

He blanketed her mouth with his as he rolled over her, wedging himself between her thighs. Although he supported himself on his elbows, taking care not to crush her, she loved the weight of his body over hers, adored the feel of her legs wrapped around him.

He trailed his lips along her throat, his tongue
swirling over her flesh, sending delicious sensations rippling through her.

She admired to a much greater degree the firmness of his muscles as she skimmed her fingers over his arms, his shoulders, his back. Now she understood how he’d gained those muscles. She knew how they looked as he swung a scythe and tossed sheaves onto a wagon. She knew the difference between flesh wet with sweat and that damp with desire.

He took his mouth on a journey around one of her breasts and then the other. Slowly, enticingly, with no hurry attached to it. Only a sense of appreciation.

She felt the desire building between her thighs. She lifted her hips, pressing against his stomach, seeking some sort of surcease and finding none. “Devon?”

“Easy, countess, all in good time. A harvest does not come to pass a day after planting.”

“It might if you were the sun,” she reflected breathlessly.

He chuckled low. “You think?”

He eased lower and she twisted against him. “Devon—”

“You’re not yet ripe enough, sweeting.”

She was on the verge of declaring she was nearly bursting when he kissed the inside of her thigh, his breath hot against her sensitive skin, stealing her voice, her breath, her thoughts.

And then he placed a kiss at the heart of her womanhood, and she felt as though molten fire was sluicing through her. His velvety tongue swirled with
abandon that turned to purpose. Her shoulders curled off the bed as the pleasure increased.

She tightened her fingers around strands of his hair, needing something to keep her anchored as she burst into full bloom, her body shuddering almost violently and yet with such incredible rippling sensations she could only think of her reaction as joyous.

He stilled at the same moment she did, turned his head to the side, and pressed his cheek against her curls. Her harsh, erratic breathing grew shallow as a contented smile spread over her face.

Through lowered lashes, she watched her beloved lift his head, grin at her with pure male satisfaction, and ease himself up and over her.

She flattened her palm against his slick chest, effectively stopping him. “Turn about is fair play.”

“Gina—”

“I really want to, Devon,” she whispered as she rose up and gently pushed him off her.

He landed on his back and threaded his fingers through her hair, bringing her mouth to his. He tasted of her, had sipped of her nectar, and now she wished to do the same for him.

She began her journey slowly, hesitantly, but willingly. She loved this proud man who fought to remain equal to his peers, never realizing that he stood far above them. This father who adored his children. This husband who had sought to spare her shame and in the end had allowed her to work beside him, had made her a partner in the marriage, not simply an observer.

She wrapped her hand over him and lowered her
mouth. With the first contact he twitched, his breathing labored, his fingers tightening their hold on her hair.

“Gina…ah…sweeting…”

He sounded as though he was strangling, and for reasons she couldn’t explain, her own pleasure increased. She slid her mouth over him.

“Come here, vixen,” he rasped. “Now.”

With a triumphant smile she allowed him to guide her hips as she mounted him. The feel of his fullness never failed to amaze her. The rightness of two bodies joined as one. The joy of moving in tandem.

She lowered her mouth to his, their tongues darting and thrusting in rhythm with their hips, the tempo increasing, the pleasure mounting…

Until they cried out in unison, their bodies jerking forcefully before quivering. Satiated, she relaxed completely and sprawled over him.

He lifted himself up slightly, grabbed a sheet, and spread it over them before kissing the top of her head. He folded his arms over her as though he intended to hold her for the remainder of the night, the remainder of his life.