Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

She’d proved she was the only lady for him—then blithely extrapolated his need for her to encompass his entire life, and made his agreement to her constant presence by his side a condition of their future union.

He’d got precisely what he’d wanted, but not as he’d expected. Looking back, looking forward, he strongly suspected that would be the story of their lives.

It was midafternoon when the carriage swept into the graveled drive of Amberly Grange. Dalziel and Amberly had been half an hour ahead of them in Amberly’s carriage.

They were welcomed as expected guests. Shown into the drawing room, they found Amberly awaiting them. He looked tired, but his gaze was shrewd. He greeted Penny, shook hands with Charles, then waved them to chairs. “Let’s have tea, then we can commence.”

The first step proved easy enough; his butler and housekeeper hadn’t hired anyone in recent weeks. All the staff in the large house had been there for years.

Charles went out to the stables to convey the news to Dalziel, who’d spent the hour since they’d arrived dozing in the carriage. Charles returned to the house alone; when darkness fell, Dalziel joined them.

Over dinner, they put the final touches to their plan.

The next morning, after breakfast, Penny and Charles went for a short ride. On returning, they joined Amberly on the terrace for morning tea. Afterward, all three went for a stroll in the gardens, keeping to the wide lawns circling the house. When the luncheon gong rang, they repaired to the dining parlor; later, Penny and Amberly strolled about the conservatory while Charles read the news sheets on the terrace outside. In the late afternoon, the marquess retreated to the pianoforte in the music room. Penny and Charles saw him launched on a sonata, then, arm in arm, they left the room, strolled along the terrace, then descended to the lawns.

After a lengthy stroll, never out of sight or hearing of the music room and the delicate airs wafting forth on the breeze, they returned and, shortly after, all three withdrew to their rooms to dress for dinner.

Dinner, and the evening spent in the drawing room, followed the predictable pattern, then they retired to their bed-chambers, to their beds, and slept.

The next day, they repeated the performance. Exactly. The program was precisely what one might expect of a nobleman of Amberly’s age being attended by a female relative and watched over by someone like Charles.

All believable, and all very regular. They adhered to their schedule like clockwork. Dalziel was never visible to any outside the house. They’d agreed their best route was to exploit Fothergill’s arrogance and overconfidence, so they set the stage for him, and waited for him to make his entrance.

They’d accepted it might take a week and had resigned themselves to playing their roles for at least that long.

On the afternoon of the first day, while sorting through music sheets with the marquess, Penny overheard a muted discussion between Charles and Dalziel. It was clearly a continuing argument between them. In typical fashion, neither said what they meant outright, but the crux revolved about who would deliver the coup de grâce once they had Fothergill trapped between them.

Charles had a strong case; ruthlessly, with a few quiet phrases, Dalziel demolished it. Penny gave no indication she heard his words, nor felt their glances as they rested on her. Charles wavered; Dalziel subtly pushed, and he gave in. The final act in the drama would fall to Dalziel.

Days passed, and they religiously played their parts, their assigned roles. Amberly, accepting that he could do no more than that, cocooned himself in the regimen; through the hours they spent together strolling the conservatory and lawns, Penny learned more of him, leaving her with a degree of respect and burgeoning affection for the, as Nicholas had correctly termed him, incorrigible old man.

For herself, she was conscious of a heightened awareness, of her senses being alert, alive, and always awake in a way they never had been before. Waiting, watching, ready. Confident that she, Amberly, and his staff were safe under Charles and Dalziel’s protection, she found the tension more exciting than frightening.

That alertness, however, made the changes in Charles and Dalziel very apparent. The tension that invested them was of a different caliber, possessed a far more steely, battle-ready quality. And day by day, hour by hour, that tension escalated, subtle notch by notch.

By the third day, Amberly’s staff were walking very carefully around them. Neither had raised their voices, neither had done anything to frighten anyone; the staff were reacting to the portent of barely leashed danger that emanated from them.

Every night, when Charles joined her in her room and her bed, she opened her arms to him and met that dangerous tension. Welcomed it, not for one instant turned aside from it, but challenged it with her own confidence, channeled it into the wildness of passion.

On the third night, when he collapsed in the bed beside her, he reached out and drew her into his arms, cradled her against him, gently smoothing back her tangled hair. “Do you still want to be with me, even now—even through this?”

She shifted to look into his face, into his darkly shadowed eyes. “Yes—even now. Especially now.” Freeing a hand, she brushed back a black lock from his forehead, drinking in the hard planes of his face. “I need to be here, with you. I need to know all of you—even this. There’s no reason to hide any part of what you are, not from me. There’s nothing, no part of you, I won’t love.”

He studied her face as their hearts slowed, then he tightened his arms about her, murmured against her hair, “I’m not sure I deserve you.”

He was too tense, too brittle at present for this; she drew back to smile at him. “I’ll remember you said that when next you complain about my wild Selborne streak.”

He smiled back, accepting her easing of the moment; he settled his arm over her waist, she snuggled her head on his shoulder, and they slept.

The following day they were returning from their afternoon stroll about the lawns while the marquess spent his customary hour at the pianoforte, when Penny noticed a gardener kneeling before the flower beds a few yards from the steps leading up to the terrace.

Why her senses focused on him she had no idea; she was used to seeing staff constantly about—there was nothing about him to alarm her. He was weeding the beds, an understandable enough enterprise.

As she and Charles approached, idly discussing the Abbey and the missive that had arrived from London that morning, matters about the estate Charles needed to decide, she watched the gardener pull three weeds and toss them into the trug beside him. He had streaky, fairish brown hair and wore the usual drab clothes the gardeners favored; he also wore a battered hat jammed down to shade his face and a tattered woolen scarf loose about his neck.

She and Charles reached the steps, passing the man; as they climbed to the terrace, she suddenly knew—was absolutely certain—but didn’t know why. She didn’t dare look back; forcing her mind to retread the last minutes, she reviewed all she’d seen.

Charles noticed her absorption. He looked at her, caught her eyes, a question in his.

They reached the music room and stepped over the threshold; she exhaled and sank her fingers into his arm. “He’s here.” Across the room, she met Dalziel’s eyes as he rose from a chair against the wall. “He’s the gardener weeding the beds by the steps.”

“You’re sure?” Charles kept his voice low.

She nodded. “He doesn’t look the same—he’s dyed his hair—but his hands—no gardener has hands like that.”