Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

“Didn’t know, didn’t know how to give, or couldn’t or wouldn’t give.” She nodded. “Precisely.”

Exasperation flared in his eyes as he considered her; she could see him assessing his options. Then he nodded—once, determinedly—and caught her hand. “Agreed.”

She blinked.

Charles raised her hand to his lips, kissed, and searched her eyes again; she hadn’t yet seen the truth, hadn’t yet identified his motive. “Until I discover what this thing you want is, and give it to you, we continue as we are—as lovers.”

His tone made it clear there was no question, not one he would countenance; after a moment, she nodded. “I never was one to slice off my nose to spite my face.”

His lips twitched; he hurriedly straightened them, but the fraught tension that had enveloped them nevertheless eased.

She studied him, puzzled, suspicion dawning in her silver-gray eyes.

“Come.” He closed his hand about hers, whistled for the dogs. “We can leave the dogs in the stables. We’d better head back.”

Frowning, she let him turn her; hand in hand, at his direction, they walked briskly back along the ramparts—too briskly to talk.

He’d got what he wanted; his impulse was to crow and dance, but he reined in all expressions of triumph—time enough for that when this was all over and the murderer caught.

She’d been right about that; it would have been wiser to wait and ask her then, but as usual between her and him, wisdom hadn’t featured—it had flown the instant she’d told him she’d indulged in erotic fantasies about them all those years ago. Even now, with victory assured, although he accepted the impulse, and on one level—a purely male, highly possessive level—understood it, he wasn’t thrilled that it had been strong enough to compel him to seize the moment and ask her to marry him, outright, without any preparation.

He was also not thrilled over the way she’d replied— yes would have been much neater—but at least she hadn’t said “No.” “No” hadn’t been an option; he was mildly relieved not to have been forced to point that out.

But he’d achieved what his conqueror’s soul, that part of him she’d so efficiently stirred to action, had demanded—her agreement to marry him. To be his countess, to be always by his side, his anchor in this world, the mother of his children; his list of the facets of her role was extensive. He’d already decided he’d give whatever it took to make her his—she already had his soul, even if she didn’t know it—and he had a very good notion of what the “thing” she wanted was.

If he’d wished, he could have given her the words there and then, and convinced her of their truth, but they did still have a murderer to catch, and until they did, he’d keep the news of his surrender secret.

Too much knowledge could be a bad thing. He didn’t know how the game would play out, what the next days would bring, but if she knew he loved her with all his heart and would give her anything, he could foresee scenarios where doing what he knew to be right and necessary to protect her would only be more difficult. Even more nightmarish were those imagined scenarios where the murderer realized just how much she meant to him and thought to use her as a hostage.

A mental shudder racked him. For one instant, the vulnerability of loving her shone bright as crystal and pierced him to the heart. Yet he couldn’t stop; all he could do was grit his teeth and bear the consequences.

He’d involuntarily tightened his grip; he felt her hand, delicate bones, feminine warmth and softness, enclosed in his, let his senses reach farther and registered her supple, svelte form beside him, her long legs keeping pace, and felt the momentary apprehension fade.

He smiled, nearly laughed, then remembered and abruptly sobered. He glanced at her, and caught her now openly suspicious scowl. He met it with blank innocence and looked ahead.

They reached the stable. Their horses were waiting; he lifted her up and held her stirrup, then crossed to where Domino stood and threw himself into the saddle. The triumph buoying him was almost too great to hide. Across the stable yard, he met her eyes, and waved to the entrance. “Let’s ride.”

Side by side, they thundered up to the escarpment. Then they flew.

Nicholas, exceedingly pale, wan yet transparently determined, joined them in the dining room for dinner. By unspoken accord no mention was made during the meal of the revelations he’d promised to make, but when they were finished, they all rose and repaired to the library.

Penny led the way to the armchairs grouped before the fireplace. She sank into one; Nicholas went to the other. Charles picked up a straight-backed chair, set it beside her armchair, and subsided in his usual graceful sprawl.

He looked at Nicholas, and raised one black brow. “So—where do you propose to start?”

Nicholas met his gaze, hesitated, then said, “At the beginning. But before I say anything, you need to know that no real secrets were ever sold, traded or in any other way given to the French, at least not by any Selbornes.”

Charles studied him for an instant, then quietly said, “You aren’t going to tell me that this whole business—my involvement, my ex-commander’s, even the murderer’s—is, for want of a better phrase, wide of the mark?”

“Oh, no.” Nicholas’s lips twisted. “The murderer certainly knows the right score. Even you and your ex-commander—everything you’ve been investigating is perfectly real, not any conjuror’s trick. But you and he have throughout been ignorant of one vital element.”

Charles grunted. “That much I’d guessed.”

Nicholas nodded. “So…” He leaned back in the chair, rested his head against the padded back and fixed his gaze on them both. “It started in the 1770s. My father was a junior aide at our embassy in Paris. Paris in those days was the city of civilization; everyone who was anyone lived there much of the time. Howard, your father”—he looked at Penny—“like mine, was as yet unmarried. He came to visit my father and stayed for some years. During that time, my father was approached, oh, at a very friendly level, to, I believe they termed it advise the French on a minor matter of English-French diplomacy.

“At first our fathers were shocked, but that was soon overtaken by excitement.” Nicholas looked at Charles, wearily said, “To understand what happened next, you have to understand the Selborne wild streak.”

Charles raised his brows, fought not to glance at Penny. “Wild streak?”

Nicholas nodded. “I don’t have it, thank God. My father does. You haven’t met him, but he’s…I think the most apt adjective is ‘incorrigible.’ You knew Granville—suffice to say he and my father were kindred spirits. If anything, my sire was—still is—the more outrageous. Howard, Penny’s father, had the streak, too, but a milder version. He wasn’t so likely to instigate outrageous schemes, but he responded to the lure nonetheless.”

Nicholas sighed. “So there my father was, a young, titled, wealthy nobleman with connections to everyone, in Paris, then the shining capital of the world, with his closest friend and stalwart supporter by his side—with an opportunity to play a grand game with the French being laid before him.”

“A game?” Charles said.

“That’s how they saw it, the three of them—my father, Howard, then Granville. It was always a game, a great, glorious, outrageous game, with them always the victors.”

Charles exchanged a quick glance with Penny, then asked, “What were the elements of this game?”

“My father more or less drew up the rules. He agreed to advise the French, but because of his position within the embassy, they needed an intermediary they could trust, namely Howard and later Granville. Payment was to be a pillbox for Howard for successfully passing on the advice, and a snuffbox for my father for the advice itself. They’d both been toying with starting collections; this seemed to them god-sent. At that time in France, all things aristocratic were already being devalued, so those dealing with our benighted parents were ready enough to promise them items of a certain value, drawn from various private, often royal, estates, in exchange for said advice.