Chapter Thirty-four
Winter’s end.
Breath ceased, glass tumbled and heart pitched.
Why? How?
It mattered not.
Miss Tamsyn Penrose stood tall at the top of the marble staircase, a beauty swathed in glorious red, tanned skin rendering the crowds translucent. A crimson rose nestled in her hair, plump coils of walnut cascading over her shoulders in defiance of current fashion.
Jack’s eyes devoured, then starved for more.
The perfect dress shone, an ivory silk with overlay of coquelicot chiffon, crystals shimmering with her every movement and a shaped bodice highlighting her décolletage.
Jack had worried she might not fit within the regimented dictates of a London ball. And he’d been right. But then she didn’t need to.
Because Tamsyn Penrose commanded it.
“She’s stunning,” whispered Aideen.
Yes. And she commanded him too. With heart thumping an uneven pattern, his feet hurried headlong across the ballroom, dodging the seated matrons.
Someone laid fingers upon his arm; he shook them off. A hand clasped his shoulder; he took no notice. Finest French champagne was proffered on a tray; he’d purely one thirst, one thought as she drifted down the steps, a flawless vision in coquelicot.
Jack waited at the foot of the staircase. Patient, yearning, until her gaze dived.
Those cornflower eyes widened and bloomed as they rested upon him, and he could do nothing but gawp, the former rogue rendered speechless.
He ached to ignore the whole damn ballroom and tug her near but then noticed the two men with raised brows behind her: Rainham and Sir Jago sharing a suspicious nod and…a wink.
Had the matchmaker been matchmade?
“Miss Penrose, Sir Jago.” He made the slightest bow – refused to look away for fear she might vanish, a hallucination of his deepest desire.
“Lord Winterbourne,” she purred demurely.
Lingering over her hand, he breathed in almond and honey, rubbed his thumb upon her glove, leaned forw–
“I was admiring,” bloody Rainham interrupted, “Miss Penrose’s exquisite pendant.”
He dared move his gaze and let out an unwitting laugh.
Against her throat, a silver moth hung upon a red ribbon choker, its eyes jet black. He longed to hook his finger beneath, pull her close, kiss those pure lips. “The Foppiso magnifico, if I’m not mistaken, Miss Penrose.”
“Just so, my lord. Splendid legs.” And her smile pierced his befogged brain and uneven heart.
“Might I request this dance, Miss Penrose…please?” Surely this time she would agree?
“I would be honoured, Lord Winterbourne.”
She laid her arm upon his, eyes glittering like sun-tipped Cornish waves – welcoming, entrancing, luring a man for eternity.
Strains of a waltz filled the air, at Rainham’s behest, Jack suspected, and he put hand to waist, not lightly as propriety decreed but grasping. Their fingers entwined, a white-gloved palm came to his shoulder and the scent of her skin roused his senses.
Too close, but cares for the guests and ballroom around them had ceased. All he needed was held in his arms. He saw only Tamsyn.
The waltz began, gliding, dipping, their movements as one.
A thousand questions danced through his mind and yet he felt too fearful to break the beautiful silence between them. Their legs brushed. Too close still. They turned and light from the chandelier cast her hair in radiant autumn shades.
“Tam, I never should have lef–”
“Yes. Yes, you had to, Jack,” she countered softly as they spun, feet not needing guidance, all of the ballroom theirs. “I thought to give my rogue his freedom, to let my moth fly free. Righteous and noble perhaps.” She lifted her head. “But not honest. Honesty would have dictated that I declare my feelings. That I bare my heart whatever the consequences.”
“Tam–”
“I will no longer hide my affections.” Her chest rose in a deep breath. “I love you, Jack Winterbourne. I love all of you.”
Her declaration stole his breath.
Every word a balm to his soul, and a deep fulfilment that he never could have imagined, settled and soothed throughout.
Tightening his hold, he whirled her, realised he’d been silent, saw her eyes wrinkle, throat swallow.
His words came without forethought. “I never believed myself capable of love, my heart a wintry affair.” They waltzed alone, no dancers, no crowds, no chatter. “But I now know it was merely waiting till it met Tamsyn Penrose.”
“Oh, Jack. Only say this if you mean–”
“My heart bleeds for you, Tamsyn. And since we parted, it has bled every day, wretched and emptied, but the moment I saw you tonight, it filled, overflowed.”
He ceased dancing.
Tamsyn gulped as a hundred eyes drifted in their direction.
Other couples slowed as they noticed Lord Winterbourne draw away, face so very stern.
Music faltered, violins scratching to a discordant end.
The London ton stared, cold and unfeeling.
Even having lived in Cornwall all her life, she knew that to halt a dance was not the done thing.
A murmur to the left, a titter. “Is the marquess to give the bold miss a set down?”
“Ja…” Her words rasped, faded. What was happening? To attend this ball and reveal her heart had taken all her courage, but now it wavered.
Her dress felt gaudy, her hair unlike the others and her scars itched. She peered to one side and saw no friendly faces, to the other, only sniggers and raised brows.
Dread filled her, to have these nobles look upon her with dislike and pity.
The ballroom hushed, stilled.
Oh heavens, and her feet stumbled back, couldn’t sta–
Jack sank to both knees before her, head lowering.
The ballroom gasped as one.
In front of her, strong broad shoulders clad in delicate silk and a head of glossy black curls rested silent.
He peeled off his gloves, tossed them aside as though rags, and then with such care, he grasped her wrist and proceeded to denude her own hands…leisurely. Each finger a caress, one by one, until he tugged the silks from her with a sigh and threw them to the marble floor. Then…
Silence.
’Twas as though Lord Winterbourne held the ballroom, the ton, the whole of London in the palm of his hand. They awaited his next move, their most feted rogue.
He brought her fingers to his lips and she shuddered. He kissed the palm, her wrist. She quivered. He gazed up, black eyes so very ferocious.
“I love you, Miss Tamsyn Penrose,” he proclaimed, voice so strident they must have heard it in Piccadilly. “I cherish your wild passion. I need your quiet strength. I adore your indominable spirit.”
No one spoke, sighed, whispered or laughed.
“Tamsyn. Your rogue kneels, defeated by your grace and beauty.” And he kissed her bare palm with a delicate brush of tongue – a rogue indeed. “You once asked me to help you live, and I humbly ask the same. Fill my shadows with your light, my days with your joy, my nights with your passion. For eternity.”
Her heart fluttered, spread its paper wings and soared.
And then she realised, realised what he was doing. For her.
He was bidding adieu to his past, announcing his future to all these friends and peers. Her breath became lost, not to fear or dread as once it had, but to this man on his knees.
For her.
“You have taught this rogue to love.” Jack bowed his head once more. “And that rogue now kneels at your feet and begs for your hand in marriage.” He guided her palm to his chest, his heart. It thudded, so fervent and strong. “To be your closest confidant, defender and devoted loving husband for ever more.”
With a hand on his shoulder, Tamsyn dropped to her knees also, cupped his cheek, tears blurring her eyes. “I love you, Jack Winterbourne. My angel and devil. My shadow and light. My joy to overcome sorrow. I will be your wife. For eternity.”
He leaned close, lips at her ear. Words for no one else. “I love you, Tamsyn, so deeply,” he simply whispered.
And then he reared, tugged her to standing and spun her around, skirts flying. He kissed her, fierce and wanting.
No doubt causing the scandal of the century.
When finally he ceased, he refused to let go, hold possessive.
The ballroom roared into life and gaiety replaced silence, delight at witnessing an event which would be the talk of London for many a year.
Whirling, she saw Father with tears on his cheeks whilst at his side Lord Rainham smiled and handed him a glass of champagne, toasting their happiness.
Beaming faces crowded close, welcoming and warm, and a handsome fellow winked, his appearance not unlike a drawing from the Helston Gazette of the poet Lord Byron.
A pretty raven-haired girl hugged her arm as a tall gentleman dressed in deepest black loomed at her side, tapping a black cane upon the marble. “Well, the rogue has met his match,” he drawled. “And, I can tell you, my dear, we’ve all waited long enough for that.”
“Tamsyn, my beloved.” Jack grinned. “May I introduce the Duke and Duchess of Rakecombe.”
Gosh.
A duke. A duchess.
But before she could recall the correct mode of address, Jack twisted her close, held her gaze and cupped her cheek.
“I have waited for you, Tamsyn Penrose, all my life.” A brush of lips so tender. “My winter’s heart has unearthed spring.”