Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

Closing her eyes, she rose above him, and he filled her, savored her, went with her.

The world closed in, and there was just her and him and the dance that held them, empowered them, enthralled them. And the emotion that rose, higher and more powerful than ever before, and at the last engulfed them, fused them and left them, two halves of a sundered coin at last together and whole.

Dawn broke over a world that had altered, at least for them. Charles lay on his back idly playing with strands of her hair, in some dislocated part of his mind aware that that was something he’d done years ago.

He knew she was awake, like him savoring the changes, the subtle shifts in their landscape.

Eventually, he drew a deep breath, and softly said, “I didn’t know what love was all those years ago-I knew what I felt, that you were special in ways no other was, but at twenty, I knew very little of love.” He hesitated, then went on; he’d always imagined the words would be hard to find, yet they came readily enough to his tongue. “What I feel for you now is immeasurably more than what I was even capable of feeling then. Back then, I wasn’t even sure what it was I felt for you, so when it seemed you’d had enough-that you didn’t want me and whatever it was anymore-I let it go. I told myself that if that’s what you wanted, then it was probably for the best.”

Penny heard the distant note in his voice, knew he was remembering what was essentially a past hurt she, unwittingly, had inflicted on him.

“I didn’t know,” she murmured, then sighed. “I suppose I didn’t understand well enough either, certainly wasn’t sure enough, although I told myself I was.” She listened to his heart beating steadily beneath her cheek. “Perhaps, in truth, it was for the best. If we’d attempted to cling to what we had then…”

Lifting her head, she looked into his face, into the dark gaze that, as always, seemed to embrace her. “If we’d done something about it then, got engaged before you left or some such thing, then you wouldn’t have become a spy, wouldn’t now be who you are.” She paused, then added, “You wouldn’t have become the man I love now.”

“And you wouldn’t have been who you are now, either. You’re stronger, more independent, more certain of what you want.” His lips twisted wryly. “More challenging than you would have been if we’d married years ago.”

She arched her brows haughtily, but replied, “Very likely. Perhaps those years were the price for what we have now.”

“And for what we’ll have in the future.” He held her gaze. “We’ve paid fate’s price.”

“Indeed. And now we have the prize.” Her smile dawned, glorious and sure; she settled back down in his arms. “From now on, we get to enjoy the fruit borne on the tree of our past.”

He chuckled, closed his arms about her, and sank deeper into the pillows. The fruit of the tree of their past. Love evolved and grown and acknowledged between them, the pleasure of having the other in their arms, the anticipation of an unclouded future-it might have taken thirteen years, but few were as lucky as they.

Penny would have been perfectly happy with a small ceremony with a select group of guests. Instead, Charles insisted on a huge wedding with a cast of hundreds and a guest list that in reality had no end.

Everyone in the district was invited, and everyone came. She’d known she commanded a certain level of acquaintance, of loyalty thoughout the surrounding area, and that, of course, Charles did, too; what neither had appreciated until they came out of the church and saw the gathered multitude, was that combined, their acquaintance covered most of those within riding distance and droves from farther afield, too.

It was bedlam, but wonderful. Once she’d realized and dragged enough from him to confirm just why he’d wanted such a public affair, she’d acquiesced with good grace, indeed, had thrown herself into making his vision come true. What lady wouldn’t have, given he’d wanted their wedding to be a very public declaration of not just their union, but of what he felt for her-his version of shouting his love from the steeple?

She could only love him all the more, until her heart felt literally like it was overflowing, for making such a grand, dramatic, so-very-Charles-like gesture, yet it wasn’t the organization, the numbers, the sheer scope of the performance that carried the banner of his feelings, but the light that shone in his midnight blue eyes, the way his awareness so rarely strayed from her, the quality implied in the way he touched her, held her hand, kept her close. By his decree, they were now closer than they’d ever been.

Happier than she sometimes felt they’d any right to be.

She’d learned simply to accept it, that this, between them, was meant to be.

From the early-morning rush, through the ceremony at the church, through the wedding breakfast and on through the extended celebrations, the day was perfect.

“Can you imagine anything daring to be otherwise with my mother and Elaine, your sisters and mine, my sisters-in-law and Amberly and Nicholas all supervising?” Charles arched a brow at her. “Even I’m cowed.”

As he chose that moment to whirl her into a waltz-a very fast waltz-she could only laugh, and let him entertain her, and at the end of their moment, lead him back to their guests.

One group she was especially keen to meet were the other members of the Bastion Club. Having met Jack and Gervase, both of whom were present, she wasn’t surprised to find that the others were of similar ilk. She shook hands and had to laugh at the numerous comments they made about Charles, the warnings, the sotto voce confidences, all of which he deflected with his usual glib charm.

She was especially pleased to meet Leonora, Countess of Trentham, and Alicia, Viscountess Torrington, the wives of the other two club members thus far married. The instant the introductions were complete and they’d touched fingers, their gazes met, switched one to the other, then the three of them laughed. Their husbands, naturally, inquired over what had struck them. They met each other’s eyes again, then each said they’d explain later.

None of the club members were impressed by that, but had to, in this company, accept it.

“Have you met Dalziel?” Leonora asked.

The inquiry seemed innocent, but it immediately diverted the men’s attention.

“We invited him, of course,” Charles told the others, “but as usual he hasn’t appeared.”

“He never appears anywhere in public,” Alicia told Penny. “At least, not that any of us have discovered.”

“While we were staying with Amberly, along with Dalziel, I got the impression as we were leaving that Amberly knew who Dalziel really was. I asked him this afternoon.”

“And?” Jack prompted.

“Amberly lapsed into vagueness as if he had absolutely no idea who I was referring to.” Charles sighed. “Amberly’s memory’s like a vise-he was clearly told to conveniently forget.”

“Dalziel’s true identity can’t be scandalous,” Gervase pointed out.

“No.” Christian Allardyce raised his brows. “But it could be highly sensitive in certain quarters.”

“One day,” Charles vowed, “we are going to learn the truth.”

The others all echoed the sentiment.

Later, while ambling through the guests, they stopped to talk with Amberly and Nicholas. As her nearest male relative, Amberly had given her away; he’d been thrilled and so patently pleased she’d asked, Penny had felt touched.

“We’ll be at Wallingham for a few days-ride over if you get the chance.” Nicholas shook hands with Charles. “I’ve decided to spend more time down here-now you’ve taken Penny away, someone will need to keep watch on the place.”

“Good for you to get away from those damn dispatch boxes,” Charles returned.

Nicholas grinned. “You’re probably right.”

They parted, Nicholas helping his father toward the forecourt, where their carriage was waiting. Other guests sought them out to make their farewells; gradually, the day wound to a close.

Night was falling when they finally slipped away from the family parlor where the females of their combined families, slumped in exhaustion, were indulging in the customary postmortem.

The earl’s suite was separated from all others, distant and very private. Passing through the door Charles held open, Penny glanced around. Until then, she’d only seen the room from the doorway, yet with her brushes on the dressing table, her robe on a chair, it already seemed familiar. As if she belonged.

Crossing to the dressing table, she lifted the tiara from her hair, then removed the jeweled pins and let the long tresses hang free. She shook her head to untangle them, in the mirror met Charles’s midnight eyes.

She turned, faced him, saw in his eyes the same awareness she felt. They’d been lovers for weeks, yet this, now, was different-a declarative step acknowledging a deeper commitment.

The end of one road, the first step on another.

A moment passed in which they searched each other’s eyes, then he stepped toward her and held out his hands.

She met him, put her hands in his, felt him clasp them and gripped in return.

His lips lifted, his eyes held hers. “I love you.”

She returned his smile and walked into his arms. “I love you, too.”

New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science. Her hobby quickly became a career, and her series about the masterful Cynster cousins has captivated readers, making her one of the romance world’s most beloved and popular authors. She currently lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two teenage daughters. Visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com for more information on the Cynster novels.