It had been well over two years since Arthur had awakened to an ache in his bones only sleeping on a wooden deck might provoke. He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. It appeared he’d fallen asleep in a lady’s dressing room. He raised his head and promptly banged it into a heavy wooden door. The door into his wife’s bedchamber.

His wife.

Now he remembered. He’d left her bed a few hours before dawn. She’d been snoring softly, curled into his side where she’d given in to slumber a few moments after they’d engaged in a prolonged second coupling. A coupling that had shaken him to his core. And disturbed the hell out of him. What disturbed him more was his inability to return to his own bed. He’d slid down behind the closed door and convinced himself he’d only done so to listen for her to awaken. She was in a strange place. He didn’t want her to be afraid.

Who was he fooling? This woman feared nothing and no one. He’d faced French privateers less fierce. And elegant French courtesans less passionate.

He got to his feet. This was not part of his plan. Emmaline Peachum had been nothing like she’d been described by Thaddeus Warren. “A bookish, dowdy spinster with little conversation and even less personality.” He’d have a word with the man about his report to be sure. Arthur had not hired a former Bow Street Runner as his man of business for nothing. Speaking of which—

The dressing room door slammed into his back. “Good morning, my lord,” his wife’s maid stuck her head around the door and greeted him. “She tossed you out of bed the first night? Not as good as I thought you were then.”

He fixed the saucy woman with a glare fit to send even midshipmen scrambling for the ropes. She ignored him and set to shaking out the green dress hanging on one of the hooks.

“Not that one.” He took the dress from her and plucked the lovely if old-fashioned blue silk Emmaline had worn to marry him from its hook. “This one. I am taking your mistress on an outing this morning.”

The maid draped it over her arm and smoothed it with her hand. “She won’t like it, my lord. Her mother wore it to marry her father, God rest her soul and torment his. It is the only nice dress we managed to save.” She returned it to its hook. “I hid it under the floorboards beneath the pallet where we slept.”

Arthur took the blue dress and handed it to her again. “She will have all the dresses she needs from now on. We will leave after breakfast.”

“As you say, my lord.” She tossed her head and opened the door into Emmaline’s bedchamber.

“Birdie?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Thank you for saving the dress.”

She dipped him a credible curtsey. “You’re welcome, Captain.”

Arthur stared at the closed door a moment longer. He scrubbed his hands over his face. He needed a shave and a bit of breakfast before he spent the day distracting his bride. But first he needed to find out if the former Bow Street Runner had found anything in his search of Emmaline’s library.

 

***

 

She might have saved a mere four dresses, but his new wife had saved “too bloody damned many” books, or so Thaddeus Warren had informed Arthur when he stepped into his own library to check the man’s progress. As neither he nor his man of business trusted anyone else to do so, Warren was forced to look through the pages of every last volume on his own. He was none too happy about it, but Arthur paid him well. And someone had to keep Emmaline occupied and away from her books, at least for now.

“Why don’t you ask her if she knows where the money is?” Warren groused as he shoved a cover-worn copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets onto an empty shelf.

“If she knew where the money was, she wouldn’t have resorted to Sir Stirling’s marriage scheme, would she?” Arthur ran his finger along the rows of books the man had already checked.

“So you say, Captain. Some women would do anything to marry a lord, especially one with your kind of money and good name.”

Arthur heard feminine voices coming down the stairs. “Keep looking. With luck you’ll find what we’re looking for and we can turn this entire collection over to Lady Arthur and be done with it.”

“And where will she be keeping it?” Warren was well aware of Arthur’s plan to settle his wife on one of his country estates as far from London as possible. As soon as his quest to find his men’s pilfered money was done.

One of the library doors popped open. “My lord, why are we going on an outing when I have so much to do here?” Emmaline stopped just inside the library and favored Warren with a quizzical smile. “What is this gentleman doing with my books?”

“My dear, this is Mr. Warren. He is my man of business, but he also has a great interest in books. Warren, this is Lady Arthur. My wife.” His wife whom he needed to hurry out of the house and into the carriage before she asked too many questions.

“Lady Arthur,” Warren bowed and threw Arthur a reproving glare. “His lordship is correct. I supervised the packing of your library for the trip here and I am merely ensuring none of your books have come to harm.”

“How much harm could they come to from Sloane Street here?” She went to one of the open crates and began to sort through the contents. “I need to see to these, meet with the housekeeper, plan the—”

“All of that will keep.” Arthur caught Warren’s eye and nodded at the stack of sketchbooks on his desk. “Mr. Warren discovered your interest in art whilst packing up your library. I thought you might enjoy a trip to Somerset House.”

Her face twisted into the oddest expression—half joy and half panic. She hurried to the desk and gathered up the half-dozen or so sketchbooks, clutching them tightly to her chest. “You wish to take me to the Royal Academy?”

“If it would please you.” His intent had been to remove her from the house for the day. Now he found he truly meant it. He wanted to bring some happiness into her life. Across the room Warren smirked at him.

“I-I would be delighted. Give me a moment to fetch my pelisse and bonnet.” She fairly ran from the room, sketchbooks and all.

Arthur’s eyes lingered on the open door. A dark chuckle drew his attention to Warren, who sat, one hip resting on a crate of books, whilst he flipped through the pages of a green board-bound tome in his hand.

“She’s a comely wench, Captain. I thought you a bit addled for marrying her, but—”

“Get back to work, Warren. I can’t keep her away from the house forever.”

“If it pleases you,” he replied with a grin and a bow.

“Go to hell,” Arthur muttered as he quitted the room and went in search of his wife.

 

***

 

The noise of chattering aficionados milling about the Great Room of the Royal Academy made conversation pointless. The tromp of boots and slippers on the wooden floors put him in mind of a garden party invaded by a herd of horses. Arthur had little need to speak to his bride. She wore her every thought in her eyes and expression. As beautiful as she was in the throes of passion, in the presence of art, she shone like sunlight on water.

He’d raced to keep up with her as they ascended the curling staircase higher and higher to the domed chamber where those paintings deemed worthy by the Academy covered the walls to the ceiling. And now he followed her a few paces behind in order to study which paintings drew her eye. She’d opened and closed both the guidebook he’d purchased and her sketchbook a number of times before she finally settled into place on the tufted circular bench before a Turner seascape. Arthur took up a position just over her left shoulder in an attempt to sneak a peek at her work.

Warren had shown him the first two of the board-bound pads of paper he’d found when packing up her library. Arthur had a fair eye for art. He at least knew the difference between creative talent and the sort of talent it took to recognize another’s genius and copy it. Warren, whilst no philistine, had little use for art of any kind, yet he’d remarked on Emmaline’s sketches.

“She draws people and things the way they are. She doesn’t smooth the edges.”

Arthur had to agree with him. There was an honesty in her work. It bordered on the brutal without ever crossing over, as if she found some small redeeming quality in even the most hopeless of things. He started to look over her shoulder once more when he heard his name in a conversation to the left of Emmaline’s seat. Two women, friends of his mother’s whose names fortunately escaped him, did a poor job of disguising their observation of Emmaline whilst she worked. Thank God, her attention was riveted on the painting she’d chosen to sketch. He only heard bits and pieces of the women’s conversation, but enough to know they disapproved of everything about her, from the style of her pinned up hair to the crushed rim of the bonnet at her feet.

He scowled in their direction, willing them to see him. When they did, he gave them his least polite bow, never changing his expression. They scurried toward the staircase.

“That was poorly done of you, Captain. You frightened them even more than my best dress and ugly half-boots. Those ladies are probably someone’s mothers,” his new wife said, even as she continued to sketch.

“Then let us hope their children are raised by nannies and governesses who are capable of teaching them manners.”

“Is that who raised you?” She rose, closed her book, and shook out her skirts.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” He plucked the sketchbook from her hand and turned toward the back pages. “Mrs. Christian was my nursemaid. She raised me.”

“Your housekeeper, Mrs. Christian? I like her even more now.” Emmaline tried to retrieve her book. He held it away.

“Why is that?” He found what she’d drawn. “Emmaline this is…” He had no words. She’d not drawn the Turner seascape at all. He’d barely noticed the older gentleman who stood before the painting whilst she’d sketched. The man’s shoulders stooped a bit, but it was apparent as day, more so in her drawing, the man had a military bearing only years at sea produced. She’d captured his stance, the tightly clenched hands behind his back, and the lines and nuances of a face taken away by the scene Turner had created. She had captured memory with nothing more than paper and pencil. “You have a gift, Lady Arthur.”

Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink. “Mrs. Christian is an artist. She raised a good man with a propensity to praise average work in order to flatter his wife.”

He squeezed her hand and placed it on his arm. “Don’t do that. Never think so little of your talent. It is considerable. I am in awe of it.” They stood in the middle of the Great Room, surrounded by overdressed matrons and silly girls in white dresses. And she was the most beautiful woman there. Only he knew it. And he was glad. She tilted her head, a question in her eyes. He could only stare and wonder what madness had seized him.

“What? My heroic younger brother here and with a lady, no less,” a familiar voice trumpeted above the din. “Well met, Art, who is this beauteous creature?”

His oldest brother clapped him on the shoulder. Damn. The last person he wished to encounter today. “Isn’t it a bit early in the day for you to be out and about, Win?” Arthur sighed. Nothing for it. “Emmaline, may I make known to you my eldest brother—Lord Lancelot Farnsworth, Marquess of Winwood. Win, Lady Arthur Farnsworth, my wife.”

Emmaline curtsied and offered her hand. “I am very pleased to meet you, my—”

“Your wife?” Win announced to the entire room as only he could do. “Cut line, Art. You can’t be serious. My mistress dresses better than this.” He eyed Emmaline’s blue gown with unabashed disgust.

Rage, red hot and ice cold all at once, rolled over him. He grabbed his brother’s arm and tightened his grasp, inch by inch, as he’d done when they were young boys in the schoolroom at Mitford Place. “You will lower your voice and apologize to Lady Arthur at once, you horse’s arse.”

Win tried to wrench his arm free. “Damn, Art. No need to break a man’s arm.” He offered Emmaline a bow. “Beg pardon, Lady Arthur. I meant nothing by it. Took me by surprise is all.” Emmaline reached between them and pried Arthur’s fingers loose. “You might send out a note or a card and let someone know you’ve gone off and married Miss…”

“I was Miss Emmaline Peachum until yesterday morning when I happily became Lady Arthur.” She suddenly appeared nervous. People had stopped staring, but that didn’t stop them moving closer to pick up whatever bits of conversation they could. Emmaline stared at the top of the staircase as if mapping out a plan of escape. He’d wanted to give her a lovely day at the Academy and his damned brother had ruined it.

“Peachum?” Win inquired in a half decent tone of voice. “Isn’t that the name of—no wonder you are happy to be married to the heroic Captain Farnsworth.” His eyes narrowed, like the merciless ferret he was. “What are you up to marrying her, Art?”

Arthur reached for his brother.

Emmaline stayed his hand. She shook her head. Something in her face made his chest hurt.

“Win,” he managed through gritted teeth. “If you don’t stubble it this very minute I will toss you down those stairs and tell Mother you fell.”

“She didn’t believe it the last time,” Win reminded him. “Wait until I tell her this latest. The obedient, quiet, war hero son has gone off and married a scandal. Percival and Mordred will dine out on this until Michelmas.” He took Emmaline by the shoulders and kissed her on either cheek before Arthur could stop him. “Welcome to the family, my dear. It’s about time my baby brother did something ridiculous.”

He dodged Arthur’s attempt to stop him and disappeared into the avid crowd of onlookers. Their outing could not have gone worse. He’d expected a few stares and mutterings, but this? Poor Emmaline. He turned around and found his wife… shaking with silent laughter. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand, but little hiccups still managed to escape.

He pulled her arm through his and walked toward the stairs. Fortunately, people were far more interested in discussing the events of the past few minutes with each other than they were in following Arthur and Emmaline. “Why did you stop me?” he muttered as she practically dragged him down the curving steps. “I could have made it look like an accident. He falls down the stairs all the time. He drinks.”

She let loose a great whoop of laughter.

“Emmaline, what the devil—”

“You have a brother named Mordred?” She snickered and put on her bonnet, still fighting not to laugh. “How on earth did you get Arthur when your poor brother got Mordred?”

“I am happier I wasn’t a girl. Had I been a girl, I’d have been Morgana Igraine.” They were outside Somerset House now and his coachman spotted them.

She fairly howled. Her laughter, completely unladylike and wholly enchanting. “Thank God you weren’t a girl then.” She gazed up into his face, hers still alight with merriment.

“I am rather glad of that myself at the moment, Lady Arthur.” He didn’t know why he’d said it, but it was the right thing to say. She smiled the sort of smile a man might wait a lifetime to see. The carriage drew up beside them and the young tiger jumped down to open the door. “Emmaline, I must apologize.”

“Don’t.” She touched her fingers to his mouth. “Thank you for taking me to see the paintings. I loved every minute of it.” She allowed the tiger to hand her into the carriage. Once Arthur climbed in and settled across from her she added, “It’s to be expected, my lord. Although I think Mrs. Christian might be horrified to hear you threatened to throw your brother down the stairs of Somerset House in front of half the ton.”

“She knows Win. She’d probably help.” He knocked lightly on the roof of the carriage and John Coachman set it in motion. “Emmaline, about what Win said—”

“You didn’t tell me you were a war hero, Captain.” She placed her reticule, the guidebook, and sketchbook beside her on the padded leather carriage bench and folded her hands in her lap. Her stern governess-like expression and slight smile did not disabuse him of the truth. The stares, the whispers, his brother’s rudeness—she’d not remained unscathed. She had no desire to discuss it. He’d honor her wishes. For now. Even if it meant conversing on his least favorite subject.

“I wasn’t. There is nothing heroic about keeping your head down and not allowing a French ship to sink the one under your command.” He’d attempted to sound bored beyond words. The minute widening of her eyes told him he’d failed. Married but a day and she already attended his moods more astutely than any of his family or his few friends.

“Come now, Captain. You know far more about me than I do of you and your exploits. Your father must have been proud to have you return from war covered in glory.” The carriage hit a bump and she gripped the seat to steady herself.

“There is no glory in killing or dying, even for king and country. Coming home, with the breath of life, no matter how painful, still in your body. That is the only glory in war.” The final word came out on a rasp of air. He dropped his head. Weariness settled over him. It always did when he turned his thoughts to what he’d seen, and heard, and done for his naval career. He looked down to find she’d reached across the carriage and covered his clasped hands with one of hers.

“How old were you?” she asked. Her voice put him in mind of a lullaby heard from an open window on a summer’s eve.

Arthur concentrated on her eyes, so green and filled with genuine commiseration. “When I joined the navy? Twelve.”

“Twelve? You were a child.” Her indignation made him smile.

“I was another male child. The last thing either of my parents wanted. Win was the heir. Percival was the spare. Mordred went for the church, after a fashion. I was… cannon fodder. I did what was expected of me.”

“And you hated it. That is why you retired once Napoleon was defeated.” She moved her thumb across his knuckles.

“I decided thirty-one years was long enough.”

“Long enough?”

“To attempt the impossible. Even captaining a crew against the entire French navy can be an act of cowardice when you do it for the wrong reasons.”

Emmaline nodded. “My father expected me to marry well. Any man who offered, so long as he was plump in the pockets. And I’d have done it too, had anyone asked.” She swallowed and turned her gaze to the window as if the sight of the streets of London passing by enthralled her. “We all do things we never meant to do to please our parents. There are many levels of cowardice, Arthur. You have no idea what Ned and I did in the hope our father might one day love us.” She turned back to him, a watery smile on her lips. “More fools we, Reginald Peachum never loved anyone save himself.”

“I have no use for my family’s love. At this point, however, I deserve their respect and so do you. I’ll settle for that.” The carriage turned onto Bond Street. Street criers shouted their wares in the distance. Wheels turned on the cobblestones, horses’ hooves struck in rhythmic cacophony, harnesses jingled. And a profound communion passed between Arthur and his unique and mysterious bride. The carriage had stopped. The door opened. His tiger stood at the foot of the lowered steps. Still Emmaline simply gazed at him—serene and resolutely amused. Arthur forced himself to alight from the carriage and hand her down.

“I shall have to improve my mode of dress to garner even a modicum of respect from your family, especially the fashionable Lord Winwood.” She smoothed her hands over the blue silk of her skirts.

“I happen to like this dress, Lady Arthur.” He untied her bonnet, removed it, and tossed it back into the carriage.

“I do too. It is the same color as my lord husband’s eyes.” She took his arm and allowed him to escort her to the shop he’d sent a note around to earlier that morning. She balked, however, at the door. “This is Madame Fousco’s. Why are we here?”

“For my wife to acquire a new wardrobe.” He pushed the door open and cozened her into the establishment of the most elegant modiste in London. From table to table he strolled and pointed at various bolts of fabrics, whilst Emmaline stood just inside the door, staring at him, aghast. The modiste’s assistants scurried to gather his selections. “More blues, to be sure, but also emerald green, some gold. Definitely this burgundy.” The petite dark-haired modiste glided toward him. “Madame Fousco. My wife will need a ball gown from the burgundy immediately.”

“My lord.” Emmaline hurried after him. “I have no need of a ball gown. And these colors are—”

“Not what is expected of you?” He touched her hair and slid his fingers down her arm to take her hand. “We’re done with that, Emmaline. Let’s do the unexpected. Shall we?”

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. He schooled his features to betray nothing of what he was feeling. No mean trick, as he had no idea what his feelings were. He wanted her to have the dresses, and her art, and her beloved books, and anything else that pleased her. As Madame Fousco and her assistants shepherded her into the fitting room, Arthur suspected from his wife’s expression that his going to the devil might please her.

“Just a moment.” She stuck her head out of the curtains of the fitting room. “Why do I need a ball gown immediately? Captain? My lord? Lord Arthur Farnsworth, come back here and answer my question!”