It was a beautiful day. Sebastian couldn’t remember a day when the sun had been so warm. The breeze toyed with the leaves in the trees. The sky had never been a brighter blue. It was as though all of nature celebrated the demise of Lord David Easton.
Tristan and Rafe had arrived the evening before. They agreed with his decision not to lay their uncle to rest in the family crypt. Instead he was to be buried in a churchyard in a nearby village. It was a peaceful, quiet place, too good for him. But Sebastian was weary of dealing with guilt. He could show mercy in this one regard.
He had informed Lady Lucretia of his uncle’s passing. She sent a lock of hair to be buried with him, but indicated no other desire to mourn him.
His brothers stood with him at the graveside. Although ladies generally didn’t attend funerals, Mary was there to hold his hand and lend him strength.
The vicar’s words were short and concise. “May God have mercy on his soul.”
The plain wooden coffin was lowered into the ground. As two custodians began to shovel dirt into the grave, Sebastian and the others turned and began walking toward the waiting carriage.
“What of his wife?” Tristan asked.
“I’ve made arrangements for her,” Sebastian said. “A monthly stipend. She shouldn’t be punished for youthful bad judgment.”
As they neared the open carriage, Sebastian said, “I need a moment with Rafe alone.”
He knew he could possibly find a time alone with him back at Pembrook. But he wanted neutral ground. And calm filled his soul here.
Mary gave him a soft smile and a peck on the cheek before walking off with Tristan.
“Trust her with a man that none of the mothers in London would trust their daughters with?” Rafe asked. Other than a slight limp when he walked with the aid of a cane, he showed no outward evidence that he’d had an encounter with his uncle’s villainy. Sebastian’s arm was in a sling as it recovered from the bullet that had passed through his muscle.
“I’d trust him with my life. Just as I do you.”
Rafe seemed taken aback. He glanced down at his polished boots.
“Rafe, I know I should have taken you with me. I would ask you to forgive me for leaving you behind,” Sebastian said quietly.
Rafe lifted his head, studying him for a moment as though judging his sincerity, then nodded. “Consider it done.”
“That easily?” Sebastian asked, unconvinced.
“I blamed you when I should have been blaming Uncle. He’s dead. Let the past be buried with him.”
“I do hope someday you’ll tell me what happened with you during all those years we were away.”
“Someday, perhaps. Although I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for it.”
Sebastian nodded. He’d have to be content with that.
As he and Rafe began walking toward the carriage to join the others, Rafe said, “Something seems different about Pembrook.”
“It’s once again a place of love.”
“Love Mary do you then?”
“I always have.”
“This evening, dress in your finest evening gown,” her husband had told her an hour earlier. “I am of a mind to have a very formal dinner.”
No company he assured her. Only the two of them. His plans coincided well with hers, because she was of a mind to tell him that she was with child. It chilled her to the bone when she realized that if Lord David had killed her, he’d have killed her child as well.
It had been two weeks since that awful night when Lord David had dragged her up to the tower. She awoke often with nightmares, the sound of the gun’s report echoing between the stone, the look of desperation on Sebastian’s face when he reached for her, his cry, “Noooo!”
He remembered screaming her name, but little beyond that. She recalled it all, every horrifying second, when she thought she would plummet to her death, when his arm snared her from the opening, when he threw them back, twisting his body so he was beneath her, cushioning her landing.
His blood, her tears, his heartfelt words. How they held each other in bed that night and every night since. The one thing they’d not done was make love. It was enough to hold each other near, to listen to each other breathing. To awaken in the throes of a nightmare and to feel his lips brush across her brow as he whispered soothing words.
“It’s all right. Everything’s all right now.”
His arm was healing. Today was the first that he’d been able to manage without the sling. She’d caught him a couple of times testing it, extending it, nodding as though satisfied with his efforts. She’d been so afraid he’d lose the arm, when he’d lost so much.
She gazed at her reflection in the cheval glass. She wore her pale pink gown with the dark green velvet trim. At her throat was the emerald the lords of Pembrook had given her.
A light knock sounded on the door and Colleen opened it.
“Is she ready?” an impatient voice asked in a low whisper.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Mary walked across the room, stepped into the hallway, and smiled. “You must be hungry.”
“For the sight of you.”
Poetry from her nonpoetic husband. Oh, and he did look handsome, although she knew he wouldn’t believe her if she said the words. He was freshly shaven, his hair styled to perfection. He faced her squarely, his eyepatch giving him a rakishness that set her heart to fluttering. He wore an unbuttoned black swallow-tailed jacket with black trousers and a pristine white shirt. His vest and cravat were gray. Where a pocket watch would be housed was a small lump that she knew was the soil he’d carried with him, wrapped in her ribbon.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said with appreciation.
“You must not believe these are merely words, because they carry the weight of my heart,” she said. “To me, you are truly handsome.”
He smiled, a true smile that touched his gaze, and although only one side of his face curved up, the other too burdened by scars, it was enough. “As I have said before, you are mad.”
His tone was light and teasing and it lifted her spirits.
He extended his arm. “Shall we?”
She wound her arm through his. “Your arm has healed?”
“Almost completely,” he said as they descended the stairs. “A few twinges here and there.”
“I thought we might have your brothers here for Christmas.”
“I would like that. Perhaps while they are here we shall have a portrait done.”
“I am not having a portrait done with Tristan.”
“I want one of you and me,” he said quietly. “And one of my brothers. They will not be us as boys. Those portraits are gone forever I fear, but Tristan has heard of a rather good artist who goes by the name of Leo. Word is that he has a talent for capturing on canvas a person’s heart. Perhaps he can portray me with kindness.”
“If he is half as good as claimed, and he sees what I see, I believe you will be most pleased.”
They reached the foyer and he escorted her down a hallway.
“This is not the way to the dining room,” she pointed out.
“I’m quite familiar with the layout of the residence.”
“Then why would you take a wrong turn?”
“Not a wrong turn. I have something in mind before dinner.”
He approached a set of double doors guarded by two liveried footmen. It led into the largest salon in the residence, where grand balls had once been held.
“Sebastian—”
“Shh.”
The footman opened the doors. When Mary and Sebastian stepped through, music began to play. Her eyes widened at the sight. A small orchestra sat in the balcony. A half dozen chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Every candle in every one was flickering. There had to have been over a hundred. The room was alight as no other in the residence had ever been. A mirrored wall reflected the polished floor and the flowers arranged around the outer edges. Nothing else was in the room. No furniture.
“Will you honor me with a dance, Mary Easton, Duchess of Keswick?”
Tears stung her eyes, but before she could answer he was sweeping her over the dance floor.
“However did you manage this?”
“With a good deal of help from my brothers and your father. The orchestra traveled from London and stayed with him until I was ready for them.”
“I love waltzing with you,” she told him. He was a marvelous dancer when he had the room in which to move.
“I thought if we practiced, by next Season I might not make such a mess of it.”
“We don’t have to go to London. We can stay here if you prefer.”
“I will have a seat in the House of Lords. I cannot shirk my responsibilities. Besides, my wife once told me that she loves the glitz and glitter that is London.”
He swirled her from one side of the room to the other. She caught their reflection and thought she’d never seen a happier couple.
“And the timing will work out well,” he continued. “I’m having this residence razed come spring.”
He had mentioned doing so before but she’d thought it was only the emotion of the moment. “I told you it’s not necessary.”
The final strains of the melody faded and another began before they could even take a breath.
“I think it is. This house is . . . cold. You were right about that.”
“But it’s your legacy. You were correct about that.”
He smiled, and she thought she’d never tire of seeing his mouth curve up. When they were aged and glancing at each other across a room, still he would have the ability to cause her heart to soar. “I want something here that is not tarnished by hatred or jealousy or murder. We’ll hire an architect and he’ll design whatever you wish: small or large. I care not. The land holds the history of Pembrook, not the brick and stone. We’ll build a new legacy for my heir.”
She released a quiet breath. “He may be here sooner than you think.”
He stopped as though he’d rammed into a wall. His gaze dropped to her stomach. “Are you?”
With tears in her eyes she nodded. “Yes.”
He knelt before her and pressed a kiss to her waist. “It will be a boy.”
“I feel that way as well, but if it’s not—”
“No matter. She will ride across the dales as though she was born to them. And a brother will someday follow in her wake.”
He brought himself to his feet and lifted her into his arms. The orchestra continued to play as he strode from the room.
“Are you carrying me to dinner?” she asked.
“To bed. Tonight, Mary, I’m going to make love to you.”
“You always did. I don’t need the words.”
“But I want you to have them. Every day, for as long as we breathe.”