Royal Weddings(25)

“No.” He rested his forehead against hers. “It’s merely the way it should have been all along, and how I’ve resolved it will be in the future. So, how shall we amuse ourselves, hm? You have my undivided attention.”

Her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “I don’t know,” she murmured almost shyly. “Should we go and see the boys?”

“Tomorrow, certainly,” he purred. “Today is just for you and me.”

“Well, in that case . . .” She cast a mischievous glance toward his bedroom door, then eyed him slyly.

He let out a short, hearty laugh. “What an excellent idea!” Then he scooped her off her feet and carried her over the threshold of his chamber like a man with his new bride.

Indeed, their love was new again somehow, miraculously, like the spring flowers in lavish bloom out in the garden. Beyond the bedroom windows, the May sky was cerulean blue, while inside, the end she’d feared had melted like the winter snows.

Seasons in love would come and go in the years they’d share ahead, but as she kissed him tenderly, Elle was not afraid of that anymore. A few tears, a little rain, fond forgiveness like the sun’s warmth, the courage to trust, and love would prove itself as deathless as the lilacs, the daffodils, the cherry blossom tree. They had forever, and if winter should return, spring would always come again. As long as they both refused to let go.

Till death do us part.

And with that, Elle let him lay her down, and said yes to her darling husband all over again.





The Jilting of Lord Rothwick



Loretta Chase





8 February 1840

Two o’clock in the afternoon



The rain, two degrees from sleet, beat down with unrelenting fury. It reduced the rolling landscape to a grey blur, and turned the graveled driveway into a river.

Hugh Fitzwalter, the third Marquess of Rothwick, slammed the door knocker again. Findley’s staff had picked a fine time to go deaf.

After a fifty-mile ride from London, the frigid wet had penetrated his lordship’s overcoat and was working its way through the coat underneath. It seeped into his boots and dripped icily from his hat, down his neck, and into his neckcloth.

The door opened at last, and the wind and rain rushed in, spraying the butler, Freets. In a better frame of mind, Rothwick would have found the man’s expression comical. His lordship was not in a better frame of mind.

After one wild look at the broad-shouldered figure on the doorstep, Freets collected his wits and backed out of the way. “I do beg your pardon, my lord,” he said. “I’ll have someone see to your lordship’s horse. I hope your lordship has not waited long.”

“No more than a quarter hour,” Rothwick growled.

The butler’s face went white then red, and his eyes widened in terror.

Rothwick, who often had this effect on servants and, sometimes, his relatives, took no notice of the butler’s panic but stomped in, leaving a trail of muddy puddles behind him on the marble floor. A footman hovering nearby hurried to him. The marquess took off his dripping hat, peeled off his saturated gloves, allowed the servant to relieve him of the sopping overcoat, and turned the entire sodden mess over to him.

Rothwick wondered where they’d been, not to hear his knock. True, no one would expect visitors on this miserable day. Given the rain’s ferocity, he doubted anyone would have seen him coming even if they’d happened to look out of the window. Had the rain drowned out his knocking as well?

Or perhaps, he thought grimly, a family emergency had the staff all running frantically about the place. He could picture Mrs. Findley in hysterics, and Findley waving his fist in impotent wrath—a state to which his family often reduced him.

“I wish to see Miss Findley,” Rothwick said, advancing into the entrance hall to the chimneypiece, where a fire blazed. The Findleys heated every room of the house, whether it was in use or not. That was one luxury he could not afford. One of many.

The butler hurried after him. “Miss Findley, my lord?”

Rothwick caught the panicked look the butler shot at one of the doors. Down that corridor lay the library. Given the thick walls and the pounding rain, it was hard to be sure, but the marquess thought he detected the sound of voices raised in argument.

“Is that not what I said?”

“Y-yes, my lord.”

“You will not tell me Miss Findley isn’t at home. She can’t have gone out in this filthy weather.”

“No, indeed, my lord, but—but . . . I do apologize, my lord, but the family is not receiving—” He broke off as a young man hurried in through the door Freets was so uneasy about.

Fourteen-year-old Philip stopped abruptly when he caught sight of the visitor, and his green eyes—so like Barbara’s—widened. “Lord Rothwick!”