Duchess Quartet - A Wild Pursuit Part 31

And there, at the very base of his spine, was a small spangled mark. A mark that hadn't been there at his birth, but was indubitably present now.

"Sebastian," she said quietly. There was something in her voice that made him turn to her immediately. "Look."

Sebastian stared at the bottom of his son's spine and didn't say a word.

"What do you think?"

"I think it looks very much like the mark I have at the base of my spine," he said slowly. He looked puzzled rather than joyous. Then, after a moment, he laughed. "I was right! He may have suddenly become my blood relation, but I already loved him with every bit of my heart."

Esme looked up at him, eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g. "Oh, Sebastian, what would I ever do without you?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then a little crooked smile curled his mouth. "I won't answer that, because it will never happen."

William rolled over, his naked little arms waving in the air. His mama and papa weren't watching him wave at the dust fairies playing in a ray of suns.h.i.+ne. They were locked in each other's arms, and his papa was kissing his mama in that way he had: as if she were the most delectable, desirable, wonderful person in the world. And she was kissing him back, as if she would throw away the world and all its glories merely to be in his arms.

William giggled again and kicked the air, scattering dust fairies like golden stars in all directions.

The Second Epilogue.

In Which a Puritan Loses His Reputation.

It was high summer. The air was heavy with dust and smoke, and the streets smelled of ripe manure. The odor crept into the houses of the very rich, even into an occasion as grand as Lady Trundlebridge's yearly ball, where bunches of lavender could do nothing for the stench. "Paugh!" exclaimed the Honorable Gerard Bunge as he held a heavily scented handkerchief to his nose. "I cannot abide the end of the season. Even I must needs think of the country, and you know I loathe the very sight of sheep."

"I feel precisely the same way," his cousin, Lady Felicia Saville, sighed, fluttering her fan so quickly that it would have ruffled hair less severely tamed by a curling iron. "London is simply abominable at the end of the season." She straightened and snapped shut her fan, making up her mind on the moment. "I shall leave for the country tomorrow, Gerard. The season is over. This ball, for example, is unutterably tedious."

Gerard nodded. "Nothing left but the dregs of gossip, m'dear. Did you catch a glimpse of Fairfax-Lacy and his bride?"

"A doomed marriage," she said, with some satisfaction. Alas, Lady Felicia Saville was something of a personal expert on the subject. "A man of such reputation marrying the notorious Lady Beatrix!" Her high-pitched laughter said it all. "Do you know, I believe I saw Sandhurst earlier. Perhaps she will recommence her alliance now she is safely married. Given Lady Ditcher's interruption, I would say their encounter left, shall we say, something to be desired?"

Gerard t.i.ttered appreciatively. "You do have a way with words, Cousin. Look: Lady Beatrix is dancing with Lord Pilverton. She is rather exquisite; you can't fault Sandhurst for taste."

But Felicia had never been fond of musing over other women's attractions, particularly those of women like Lady Beatrix, who appeared to have a flair for fas.h.i.+on rivaling her own. "I should like to walk in the garden, Gerard," she commanded.

"My red heels!" he protested. "They're far too delicate for gravel paths."

"And far too out of fas.h.i.+on to protect. This year no one wears red heels other than yourself, although I haven't wanted to mention it." And she swept through the great double doors into the garden, her cousin reluctantly trailing behind her.

They weren't the only people to escape the stuffy ballroom. The narrow little paths of Lady Trundlebridge's garden were fairly heaving with sweaty members of the aristocracy, their starched neckcloths hanging limply around their necks. Stephen Fairfax-Lacy, for example, was striding down a path as if he could create a breath of fresh air just by moving quickly. Bea had talked him into giving up his pipe, and while he thought that it was a good idea on the whole, there were moments when he longed for nothing more than the smell of Virginia tobacco. Thinking of Bea, and pipes, he turned the corner and found himself face-to-face with- Sandhurst.

Bea's Sandhurst. The man disreputable enough to seduce a young girl in a drawing room. The man who'd ruined Bea's reputation.

Sandhurst was a sleek-looking man, with his hair swept into ordered curls and a quizzing gla.s.s strung on his chest by a silver chain. He took one look at Fairfax-Lacy and didn't bother with prevarication. "I offered to marry her," he said, his voice squeaking upward.

Stephen didn't even hear him. He was stripping off his coat. There was a reason why he'd trained in Gentleman Jackson's boxing salon, day after day for the past ten years. True, he hadn't known what it was, but now he realized.

"Mr. Fairfax-Lacy!" Sandhurst squealed, backing up. "Couldn't we simply discuss this like gentlemen?"

"Like what?" Stephen asked, advancing on him with the slow, lethal tread of a wolf. "Like gentlemen?"

"Yes!" Sandhurst gulped.

"You forfeited that t.i.tle a few years ago," Stephen said, coming in with a swift uppercut. There was a satisfying thunk of fist on bone. Sandhurst reeled back, hand to his jaw.

"Fight!" yelled an enthusiastic voice at Stephen's shoulder. He paid no mind. His arm shot out. A sledge-hammer, in Jackson's best manner. Sandhurst fell back, tripped, and landed on his a.s.s. Stephen was conscious of a thrum of disappointment. Was the man simply going to stand there and play the part of a punching bag? He watched dispa.s.sionately as Sandhurst picked himself off the gravel.

There was a growing circle around them in the shadowy garden, calling to each other to discover who was in the fight, hus.h.i.+ng to a whisper as the relation between the two men was explained. A voice bellowed from behind Sandhurst: "For G.o.d's sake, man, pull yourself together!" Others joined in, rather like a crowd at a c.o.c.kfight. "Show yourself a man, Sandhurst! By G.o.d, you're nothing more than a nursling! A molly! A..." Stephen blanked the voices from his mind and watched his opponent, who was being goaded into a decent effort. He was pulling off his jacket with the air of a maddened bull.

I think, a n.o.bber, Stephen thought. Yes, and then a left hook. And after that, he dodged a hit, feigned right, launched a chop at Sandhurst's jaw. Took one himself in the right eye-d.a.m.n, now Bea would demand an explanation. The irritation he felt at that translated to his right arm: a leveller, and Sandhurst dropped to the ground like a fallen tree. Stephen nudged him with his foot to make sure he was completely out, looked up, and caught the eye of his hostess. She deliberately threw up her fan and said something Stephen couldn't hear to the lady beside her, who laughed shrilly and said, "It's what comes naturally after a.s.sociating with the House of Commons!"

He was picking up his coat when he felt a hand on his arm. "Mr. Fairfax-Lacy," said Lady Felicia Saville, her voice sweet as honey. "Would you be so kind as to escort me to the house?"

Stephen bowed. Apparently barbarous-nay, common-behavior was the way to this gentlewoman's heart. "If you will allow me to replace my jacket," he said.

"Hardly the behavior of the prudent man of Parliament," Felicia laughed up at him as they strolled back toward the house, quite as if nothing had taken place at all. "You will be quite the man of the hour."

"I highly doubt that. I'm afraid Lady Trundlebridge did not appreciate my behavior." He didn't feel like a Member of Parliament. He felt d.a.m.n near-exuberant.

Felicia shrugged. "You were defending your wife's honor. Any woman of sense must applaud you, sir!" There was a flutter of warmth in Felicia's stomach when he smiled at her compliment. Perhaps once Lady Beatrix returned to her wandering ways, she could comfort Beatrix's neglected husband.

Just inside the ballroom doors, Stephen bowed. "If you will excuse me, Lady Felicia, I shall locate my wife."

He walked away without a backward glance, leaving Felicia with her mouth all but hanging open. Why had she never noticed how muscled and attractive the man was? She turned to meet the curious eyes of one of her bosom friends.

"Did you see the fight itself?" Penelope squealed. "Is it true that he called Sandhurst a blathering blackguard?"

Felicia's eyes were still a little dreamy. "Now there's a man worth having," she whispered to Penelope. "He was like a medieval knight protecting his wife's honor. He flattened Sandhurst!"

"Do you think he means to keep it up?" Penelope giggled. "Unless marriage changes Lady Beatrix's nature, he's going to be a busy man."

Felicia was watching his dark head as he made his way to the other side of the room. "She'd be a fool to stray," she sighed.

Bea was growing a little tired. Her shoes pinched loathsomely, and thanks to an overly energetic waltz, Pilverton had left a damp patch from his hand on the back of her gown. She turned gratefully at the sound of her husband's voice, and then gasped. "Stephen! What on earth happened to you?"

But he was grinning. "Nothing important. Are you ready to leave, m'dear? It's d.a.m.nably hot in here."

"Stephen!" Bea said, her voice rising. "You tell me this moment what you've been up to."

"Making a spectacle of myself," he told her obligingly. "Fistfight in public. Shouldn't wonder if my reputation for tolerant debate isn't ruined." He said it with distinct relish, towing her out of the ballroom as he spoke. "I think it's time to retire to the country."

"We can't go to the country yet," Bea said, stopping and looking up at him suspiciously. "The House isn't closing session for at least a week." His eye was growing darker by the moment. "Just who have you been tussling with? Don't tell me you actually resorted to blows over that Enclosure Act?"

He reached around behind her and opened the door to the library. When she was inside, he leaned against it and grinned at her. "Something of the kind," he drawled.

"Really!" Bea said, rather amused. "It's hard to believe that solid, respectable members of Parliament can bring themselves to violence." And then, "What on earth are you doing, Stephen?"

He had turned the key in the lock. "I'm not a solid, respectable member, Bea. I'm resigning tomorrow morning, and I won't stand for reelection either." There was a sound at his back.

"Someone wishes to enter," Bea observed. "Stephen!" For he was walking toward her with an unmistakably l.u.s.tful glint in his eye. There was something tantalizing about the air of wild exuberance that hung around him. "Did you take a blow to the head?" Bea asked, her voice rising to a squeak.

"No," he said, and his voice was rich with laughter. There was a bang at the door. "It's Fairfax-Lacy," he bellowed. "I'm in here kissing my wife. Go make yourself useful by telling Lady Trundlebridge."

There was a sound of rapidly retreating footsteps, and then the room was quiet but for the faint hum of the ball continuing on the other side of the house.

"Stephen Fairfax-Lacy!" his wife gasped.

"I'm a madman in love with my wife." He had her now, cupping her face in his hands. "I do believe I shall make love to you at Lady Trundlebridge's ball, and ruin my reputation for once and for all." One hand slid to her breast, and that rush of melting pleasure that came at his slightest touch rushed down Bea's legs. He kissed her until she was limp, until he had backed her onto a couch, until she was gasping, pink in the cheeks, almost-almost lost.

"Stephen," she said huskily, removing his hand, which had somehow managed to get under her gown and was touching her in a flagrantly ungentlemanly fas.h.i.+on.

"Darling." But he was busy. The necklines of Bea's gowns were so useful that he didn't know why he'd ever thought they were too low. They were perfect.

She pushed at his shoulders. Something was p.r.i.c.kling the back of her mind. "Stephen, with whom precisely did you fight?"

He raised his head and looked at her. His right eye was almost swollen shut, but the gleam of desire was there. He feathered his lips over hers.

"Stephen!"

"Sandhurst," he said obligingly.

Bea gasped.

"We were fighting over an Enclosure Act, just as you guessed. I'm like all those nasty sheep farmers, Bea. You're mine. I've enclosed you."

"But-but-"

"Hush," he said and kissed her again.

Bea looked up at him, and there were tears in her eyes. "Oh Stephen," she whispered. "I love you."

"Can we go home now, Bea? We've been in London for a month and have been received everywhere. I've tramped off to the House and listened to a.s.sinine debates. Our marriage didn't ruin my career. In fact, with the way Lord Liverpool looks at you, I stand to be named to the cabinet if I'm not smart enough to resign quickly."

She smiled at him mistily. "Are you saying I told you so?"

"With any luck, I just ruined my career," he said, kissing her. "Now may we leave London, please? Shall we go home and chase each other around the billiards table, and start a goat farm, and perhaps a baby, and make love in the pasture?"

Bea wanted to weep for the joy of it, for her luck in finding him, for the bliss of realizing he was right. He was right. She hadn't rained his career. "Oh, Stephen," she said huskily, "I do love you."

"I made you woo me," he said, looking into her eyes. "I think it's time that I courted you, don't you think?" His arms closed around her, arms that would never abandon her, and never let go. "Rowers at dawn," he whispered into her ear, "daisy chains for lunch, champagne in your bath."

Bea swallowed hard so she wouldn't cry. "I love you," she said again.

"I think Romeo said it best," her husband said, brus.h.i.+ng his lips over hers. "You are, indeed, my love, my wife."

A Note on Shakespeare and his Wilder Brethren The last words of A Wild Pursuit were written by Shakespeare, and spoken by Romeo. I decided to close the novel with Romeo's farewell to his bride because Renaissance poetry is so important to this book as a whole. Bea uses Romeo and Juliet to propose to Stephen Fairfax-Lacy; Esme uses the King James version of The Song of Solomon to propose to Sebastian Bonnington.

But the book is also punctuated by works far less known than these two famed pieces of love poetry. Richard Barn-field published only two books of verse, which appeared in 1594 and 1595, precisely when Romeo and Juliet was likely first performed. For their time, both Shakespeare's play and Barnfield's poetry were shockingly original. Juliet's proposal to Romeo, not to mention the speech in which she longs for their wedding night to begin, both startled and delighted London audiences. Romeo and Juliet was a howling success; ten years later, young courtiers were still quoting the play to each other on the street. Its popularity is attested to by the fact that in 1607 a company of boys put on the stage a play called The Puritan, which contains a riotous parody of Juliet's balcony scene. Some lines from that play are used by Esme to poke fun at Romeo and Juliet, precisely as the original boy actors did back in 1607.

Richard Barnfield's poetry was, in a different fas.h.i.+on, as shocking as Shakespeare's portrayal of Juliet. The book that Bea brings with her to Esme's house party was an odd amalgam of love poetry and narrative verse. Amongst the various odes and lyrics Barnfield wrote are some of the most beautiful, sensual, and explicit poems written before the twentieth century. As you can perhaps tell from the reaction Helene has to reading aloud a Barnfield poem, neither Renaissance nor Regency readers were accustomed to expressing in public a wish that My lips were honey, and thy mouth a bee. I sometimes receive letters from readers contending that aristocrats living in the Regency period would have acted with propriety at all times, even in the privacy of their own bedchambers. I thought it well to present some poetry written over two hundred years before the Regent took the throne. Barnfield may have been one of the first Englishmen to put this desire in print; he was neither the first, nor the last, to express it.

Welcome to Avon Romance Superleader

CONFIDENTIAL!.

He has secrets... deep, dark and mysterious... but he can't keep pa.s.sions hidden for too long...

Each month, learn every intimate detail in the lives of these men...

the heroes of the Avon Romance Superleaders.

What makes them tick? What are the things they don't want anyone to know?

Following is a preview of four upcoming Avon Romance Superleaders written by three of Avon's brightest stars: Elizabeth Bevarly in January, Rachel Gibson in February, and, in March and April, a super special event-back-to-back books by Eloisa James.

So read ahead... and discover the innermost secrets of four outstanding heroes!

Ramsey Sage CONFIDENTIAL!

in The Thing About Men by Elizabeth Bevarly Coming January 2004 Name: Ramsey Sage Nickname: Too nasty to mention here Hometown: Prefers to forget Car: No car; rides a Harley First kiss: Can't remember...

Super secret: Undercover cop And they were going to have a lot more to chat about than Claire had initially thought, too. Like how his arrival had made this temporary arrangement with Anabel suddenly seem much less temporary.

"Is Anabel here?" Mr. Sage asked before making a move to enter.

"Not yet," Claire told him. "It's taken nearly a week to get everything worked out with the authorities in North Carolina. But I spoke with the social worker a.s.signed to the case yesterday, and he said he'd be here with her this afternoon. I'm actually expecting them anytime now. It was rather fortuitous that you were located as quickly as you were."

And also rather amazing, especially since no one seemed to know why Ramsey Sage had been drunk in a seedy bar in an obscure village in Central America when they found him. Nor did anyone seem to know how he had gotten there. Even Chandler's private detective still had a lot of pieces missing from the puzzle that was Ramsey Sage, because Ramsey Sage himself had evidently been no help at all providing any answers. It was something Claire decided not to think about, mostly because it didn't bode well for his being named Anabel's permanent guardian.

"Please come in," she invited Ramsey Sage again, stepping aside to offer a physical punctuation mark to the invitation.

But he hesitated for a moment, as if he were reluctant to enter. He surveyed what he could see of the big house from his place on the front porch, and when his gaze returned to hers, Claire could see from his expression that he didn't approve. Why he wouldn't approve, she couldn't imagine. It was certainly a vast improvement over the crowded, spartan inst.i.tution where she'd grown up, and the tiny, spartan apartment she and Olive had shared in college. She'd made the place as warm and inviting as she could, especially on the inside, and she couldn't imagine why anyone-especially a harsh, raggedy, beat-up man like Ramsey Sage-would disapprove.

Although he smiled at her again as he took a step forward, the naturally breezy grin he had displayed a moment ago was gone, and the one he wore now was decidedly more manufactured. Claire tried not to notice how the air around her seemed to come alive as he pa.s.sed. She couldn't help noticing, though, how he smelled of heavy machinery and raucous man and endless summer nights, a combination she found strangely appealing since she'd never been drawn to any of those things before. Oh, certainly she enjoyed a summer evening as much as the next person, but she couldn't imagine anything that might make one seem endless.

Then Ramsey Sage looked at her again with his smoldering green gaze, and she suddenly had a very good idea indeed what might make a summer night seem to go on forever, an especially graphic, surprisingly explicit idea, in fact, one that had her squirming on her flowered chintz sofa beneath Ramsey Sage, her blouse gaping open, her skirt hiked up over her hips, her bra.s.siere pushed high, her pearl necklace clenched in his teeth as he tore it from her neck and sent the perfect little beads scattering across the Oriental rug and hardwood floors before dragging his hot mouth across her collarbone and down between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, moving over to close his lips over one nipple, tugging her inside, laving her, licking her, tasting her deeply, and then... and then... and then...

And, good heavens, where had such a thought come from? Claire wondered as she shook the image out of her brain. Heat flooded her cheeks, and her lips parted in shock, and she hoped like h.e.l.l that Ramsey Sage couldn't tell what she was thinking about. Because not only did Claire normally not think about such things in such detail, she didn't think about them in mixed company. And she certainly didn't think about them with men like Ramsey Sage cast in the role of seducer.