Wish List Part 16

Chapter Nine.

The Feast of the Epiphany "It's almost morning."

"It was the nightingale you heard, and not the lark," Vivian said, and giggled at her paraphrase of Juliet's famous words. She stretched as she lay naked against him, loving the feel of her skin touching his, then threw a leg over his thigh.

"Perhaps you're right." He lay his hand on her leg, his palm gliding up to her b.u.t.tock.

"Don't move," she said, and slipped from beneath his hand. She found the satchel and brought it back to the bed. "I'm hungry."

"After what we just did, I am not surprised."

She dug a tart out of the satchel and handed it to him. He took it, and she found a half-crushed pastry for herself and downed it. "Heavens, that tastes good." She found another and devoured it while he laughed.

"I have a confession to make," he said, as she handed him a small cake.

She stopped chewing, her heart skipping a beat, a sudden fear taking hold of her. "What is it?" She almost didn't want to hear the answer.

"I seduced you for my own selfish reasons."

"Oh?"

"I was afraid I might not manage to get you out of this house, so I made you mine to be certain Captain Twitchen could not separate us again."

She released her breath and smiled, then started to laugh.

"What?"

"You!" she said, her relief making her giddy.

"Why are you laughing?"

His frown made her laugh all the harder. Then she said, "You didn't seduce me, I seduced you!"

"Nonsense."

She leaned close, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s brus.h.i.+ng against his chest, and kissed him. Five minutes later they emerged from a tangle of limbs, sheet, and satchel, hearts thumping with newly aroused pa.s.sion.

"I seduced you," she said again.

He shrugged, and she could see he was trying to subdue a smile. "All right. But why would you try?"

"For the same reason you gave, anda"" she started, and then cut herself off, not knowing if she should continue.

"And what? Speak your heart, Vivian. You know you can always do that with me."

"And I wanted to be sure you could not be rid of me."

He pushed himself upright and grasped her by the shoulders. "Rid of you? I would never want to be rid of you. What could have possibly given you such an idea?"

"Mrs. Twitchen told me about your broken engagement to that other girl," she said weakly.

"Oh, Vivian." He pulled her to him and held her cradled against his chest. "I caught my fiancee pinching Sara, and calling her a little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. She had pretended to me that she adored the children, and I had not been wise enough to see the lie."

"She hurt Sara?" Vivian asked in horror, trying to look up at him and seeing only the hard line of his jaw. "How could she? How could anyone?"

"She thought she had the right."

"Why then did you take the blame for breaking the engagement?"

"Because I did break it. She would have gone through with the marriage."

"But the public apologya" she asked, confused.

"I thought it easier to give them what they asked. I did not need vengeance: I just wanted to be free of her."

"I am so sorry."

"It was not one of the happier times of my life, and I'm afraid it has attached itself to my name. People think I have no honor."

She reached up and lay her hand against his cheek, coaxing him to look at her. "You are the most honorable man I have ever known."

He met her gaze, his dark eyes sheened with tears. "I love you," he said, his voice hoa.r.s.e with emotion. "You do not know how long I have waited to find you, Vivian Ambrose."

"And I you, my love."

And that was when the door opened, and with a gasp and a cry Mrs. Twitchen fainted to the floor.

"I think it was only that special license in Mr. Brent's jacket that kept Papa from shooting him," Penelope said, putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches to Vivian's hair. "I have never seen him so angry! And the words he used! So vulgar! I'll have a hard time of it in London, with the way he'll be watching me after all this, afraid I'll come to the same bad end. I suppose I deserve it."

"Do you think he'll allow you to visit me?"

"He'll soften in time. Mr. Brent is, after all, a good catch once you overlook a few small details." She paused to examine her work. "There. All done. You look like a princess, as every bride should."

Vivian grasped Penelope's hand, and held it. "Thank you. For everything."

"It's only a gown."

Vivian squeezed her hand and released it, both of them knowing that it was more than the gown that she meant.

And yet, the gown was the gift that, from Penelope, was worth more than all the treasures of the Indies. It was her court presentation gown she had given to Vivian, in which to be wed.

Vivian rose, and together they left the room and walked down the hall to the head of the stairs. Penelope stood to the side and nodded for Vivian to go first, sole focus of the eyes of those who waited below.

She felt like an angel, the heavy white silk of the gown flowing round her in crystal-s.h.i.+mmering waves. She knew she had been blessed, for never in her life had there been a Christmas season as this, where the dearest wishes of her heart had come true.

She descended to the earth, and to the arms of the man she loved. And her family was there to see.

To Tom, who is not only an ideal husband, but an ideal editor.

Chapter One.

London, December 1808 Clarissa Walingford came down the stairs with a step that was so firm and so determined that it came perilously close to being a childish stomp. Her brothers understood both the distinctiveness of her step and the restraint that hobbled it from becoming an all-out tantrum. This evening marked her coming-out.

Clarissa had arrived at that precise moment in a woman's life when a husband must be obtained for her. Clarissa did not want a husband at present, but Clarissa had been well brought up and understood her duty to her family and her name. Clarissa would marry.

But she did not want to marry an Englishman.

"It's not so bad, once you wade in and find your footing," Lindley said.

"Prettily put, Lindley. I can hardly wait," she said, adjusting her shawl.

"Lindley, keep your encouragement to yourself if that's the best you can do," Dalton said, smiling at her.

Dalton's smiles were wasted. She did not want to go.

"It won't be so bad," Perry said, coming close. "You look wonderful. I'm certain that your season will be a smash."

"Kindly keep your vulgar euphemisms to yourself, Perry," Albert said, glowering. "Clarissa will have a successful season because she is a Walingford, has a fine, healthy figure, and lovely, clear eyes. All the Walingfords have done well in their seasons."

Albert, the eldest, had used similar language to describe the new hunter he had just purchased, but Clarissa refrained from making that comparison aloud. She felt that the comparison, though unintentional, was too apt for her tranquillity; she was on the block, so to speak, and would be bid upon by gentlemen who would look her over as carefully as a man purchasing a horse. What else was an offer of marriage but a bid to be rejected or accepted or even negotiated until both seller and buyer each felt himself to have made a good bargain? A woman in such an exchange was neither the seller nor the buyer; she was the horse.

"And your gown is lovely," Jane added with a gentle smile and a brief hug. Jane, sister to Albert's wife, was the soul of compa.s.sion, a rare commodity in a houseful of older brothers. Clarissa much appreciated her companions.h.i.+p.

"Yes, what color is that?" Russell asked. "Looks like weak tea with too much milk."

"Lovely," Dalton murmured sarcastically in an undertone just loud enough to be heard by Russell.

"It's called Ivory Bisque, if you must know," Clarissa said, crossing her arms over her chest. "And the decoration around the hem is a thistle design in russet thread. Any other questions or comments about my attire?"

"Well, now that you mention ita I don't know why you had to chop off all your hair like that. Makes you look like a boy."

"Clarissa looks nothing like a boy!" Jane protested.

"It's the fas.h.i.+on, you dolt," Dalton said. "Leave the club more than once a month and you'll find out what women are wearing."

"Shut up, Russell," Lindley said, scowling. "You look beautiful, Clarissa. You are beautiful."

"Very fas.h.i.+onable," Perry added.

"Very feminine," Jane said, sounding almost warlike for her.

"I'm quite confident that you'll have an offer of marriage before Christmas," Albert said comfortably.

It was not the sort of compliment she wanted.

She did not want to marry an Englishman.

She was solitary in that opinion and desire. Quite solitary. Even Jane did not understand her distaste for the prospect.

Though even if all understood her reasons, she supposed there was no escape. It was her time and her duty to marry. Certainly Lindley had no desire to marry, and yet he was engaged to Miss Emeline Brookdale, who had agreed to his proposal with the appropriate degree of both eagerness and submission.

She was no Miss Brookdale. She was neither eager nor submissive; in point of fact, she was the exact opposite, a situation that Albert found beyond tolerable. Her other brothers were more tolerant, but then they were not the eldest and had not his duties and responsibilities; oh, yes, she understood all dispa.s.sionately. Yet the fact remained: she did not want to marry an Englishman. Small chance of finding anything else in London.

"You'll find someonea acceptable," Perry offered.

Acceptable? Perhaps some Scotsman down looking for a wife? That would be more acceptable than having to settle into the rest of her life with an English lord as a husband. As helpful as Perry was trying to be, he was off to a fine military career while she had to tramp about London searching for a husband.