Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Page 22

  Florence stared up at the ceiling, dazed and giddy with wonder, stroking her hands up and down his sweat-damp back, a ridiculous smile curving over her mouth which she suspected she’d wear for days, perhaps weeks to come. Henry gave a weak laugh and rolled to lie at her side, pulling her into his arms.

  “Well,” he said, still breathless. “That was worth waiting for, though I’m not certain I could have lasted another day.”

  Florence gave a helpless snort of amusement and covered her mouth with her hand. It was hardly very ladylike. But Henry only gazed at her, looking as besotted as she felt, and she knew it didn’t matter. She could always be herself with this man. She would never need to mind her tongue or worry about being ladylike, because he loved her.

  “It certainly was worth waiting for, Henry.”

  He reached out and stroked her cheek with a finger. “You were worth waiting for too, love. I’m so glad I did, so glad I didn’t just marry the next girl who came along but waited for you to come and unearth my poor discarded heart.”

  “You are a very patient man, Mr Stanhope,” she agreed, her chest too full of everything she felt to express it with such pretty words. So instead she kissed him, speaking softly between each tender press of her lips. “I love you. I have loved you. I will always love you.”

  Florence laid her head on his chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart and thinking about the rather eventful few weeks they’d lived through. An awful lot had happened in a short time.

  “No regrets?” he asked, stroking her hair.

  “Only one,” she said with a sigh.

  She looked up to see his quizzical expression.

  “I failed my dare,” she explained.

  “Ah, yes. A pity that, but you set out to accomplish it, and you did get me to the altar, which I believe was your intention.”

  She brightened at that. “Yes. Yes, it was, so… so perhaps it worked, even if I didn’t keep to the letter of it.”

  “I should say it did,” he remarked gravely.

  “Oh, good.” Florence laid her head back down again with a contented sigh as a rumble of laughter vibrated through his chest. “You saved my life,” she said quietly.

  His arms tightened about her. “You came to save mine. I was rather occupied with fighting that brute off as I fell into the hallway, but I shall never forget the sight of you standing on the landing, the sun slanting across your beautiful face and the pistol glinting in your hand.”

  Florence made a disgruntled sound. “For all the good it did you. Mama shot him, not me.”

  “She was protecting you, as you would protect our daughter if it were necessary, and I know if she had not, you would have. You’ve never needed a dare to get what you wanted, my love. You would dare anything for anyone you cared for. I admire your spirit and your bravery, Florence. I love how bold you are.”

  Florence sat up and stared down at her husband, a strange sensation in her chest of hope and optimism and excitement for everything to come. “We are going to be disgustingly happy, you do know that?”

  He nodded, his expression grave but his eyes alight with pleasure. “I do. Though I insist we intersperse the happiness with the occasional passionate row, for I suspect making up afterwards will be extremely satisfying.”

  “A deal, Mr Stanhope,” she said, sitting up and offering her his hand as if to seal a bargain.

  Henry took her hand and shook it. “A deal, Mrs Stanhope.”

  “Oh,” she said, delighted by the sound of that. “Mrs Stanhope. I like that.”

  Henry’s fingers tightened around hers and he tugged her back down until she sprawled across his chest.

  “So do I, love,” he said with a wicked smile. “So do I.”

  Epilogue

  Dearest Greer,

  Of course I want you to come and stay. I miss you dreadfully, though I admit it surprises me to say so, and don’t make faces – which I know full well you are doing – because we drive each other to distraction, and you cannot deny it. I am afraid I simply cannot let you come at the moment, though. I am so sorry.

  Daire’s friends are here, Baron de Ligne and Mr Lane Fox. I’m afraid the baron is rather out of sorts and, much as it pains me, I do not believe it is a suitable household for an unmarried lady. Yes, darling, I know that makes me sound like great Aunt Maud, but truly, I don’t mean to be a bore. It’s just not a good time. I swear I will send for you the moment they are gone.

  Please forgive me.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Elspeth Kelburn, Viscountess Roxborough to her sister Miss Greer Cadogan (daughters of Mrs Bonnie and Mr Jerome Cadogan).

  30th August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.

  “Did anyone see you?” Grace asked nervously as she saw Mr Oak appear from out of the tree line. He was sure of foot, moving so silently through the woodland that she had not heard him approach. Though he was expected, she still experienced a start at the sight of him, her heart giving an anxious jolt, like jumping at a lightning strike in the middle of a storm.

  He had got a message to her via one of the laundry maids, demanding she meet him by the stile that followed the path from Holbrook to the village. It was a suitable meeting place as, if anyone saw them, she could say she had just been going to the village on some errand and had run into him by accident.

  She felt a little sick and exceedingly nervous at being alone with him. He was just so dreadfully big and fierce and intimidating. Did the man never smile or take a frivolous thought into his head? That she would be bound in wedlock to him soon was so disorientating and bizarre she could hardly take it seriously. It was serious, though. The most serious decision of her life. This gruff, unsmiling man would share her life, her bed, her body.

  He gave her an impatient glance in answer to her demand. That look spoke volumes about bolting horses and stable doors without him ever opening his mouth, but Grace just put up her chin. The wretched fellow might put her in a quake, but she refused to let him cow her. If she was going to go through with this insane notion of marrying a man she didn’t know, she had best learn to stand up to him.

  “No,” he said with his usual brevity.

  Mr Oak would never use a full sentence if one word would do. If possible, he’d just nod or grunt and never open his mouth at all. She’d been in his company for perhaps a few hours and yet she had gathered this much. He would never be a conversationalist. Any fond imaginings she’d had of cosy winter evenings by the fire, talking to her husband, went up in a proverbial puff of smoke. Well, it was her own fault. She’d been an utter fool and fallen for a pretty face and a man who wielded words like confetti, showering pretty nothings upon her with abandon and then leaving them in the dirt like so much refuse. At least Mr Oak’s words seemed sincere, no matter how sparse they were. He had offered her refuge, after all, though she still did not know why.

  She stared up at him expectantly. After all, he had summoned her. He frowned down at her, and she fidgeted under the weight of his scrutiny. Somehow, she kept forgetting how large he was and, each time she saw him, it shocked her all over again.

  “Well?” she demanded, a little exasperated.

  “I gave you one week to speak to your parents. It’s been two. I said we would marry after your birthday.”

  Grace drew in a breath. Well, really, what had she expected?

  “That is true, though things have been a little complicated, what with murder and mayhem, and then of course there was Florence’s wedding. I didn’t want anything to overshadow her happiness.”

  “And her hearing that you were marrying me would be a big black cloud,” he remarked, dry as dust.

  She sent him a sharp glance. For a moment it occurred to her to wonder if she’d hurt his feelings with her offhand remark, but he appeared so remote and unreachable it seemed unlikely such a thing were possible. Still, she did not wish to offend him. “I did not mean that. Besides, she already knows I am to marry you. I told her the day you asked me. I just….”


  Grace let out a breath and closed her eyes. There was no point in delaying. Indeed, every day she prevaricated was another that would make people question the paternity of her child, and she could not have her baby bear her shame. Everyone must believe she had given herself to this stern, intimidating man. That they had been walking out together and had simply anticipated their vows and nothing more shocking. She was struggling to see how anyone could believe it at all, so delaying would only make matters worse.

  “It is my birthday tomorrow. My parents arrive this evening. I will speak to them the day after tomorrow. I will tell them you will call on my father in the afternoon. You have my word.”

  He gave a taut nod and turned away, obviously intending to walk off without uttering another syllable, the beast.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped at once, turning back to her, his dark gaze unreadable.

  “Why are you marrying me?” she asked, hearing the desperate note to her voice. “And don’t say your reasons are your own, for that is not the least bit reassuring.”

  “You want reassurance?” he asked, and she wished there was some way of knowing what the devil he was thinking, for his face was expressionless, neither compassionate nor judgemental.

  “It would be nice, yes,” she said tartly. “I mean, for all I know, your reasons are so you may lock me in an attic or chop me into bite-sized pieces and feed me to your pigs!”

  He reared back at that, and at least this time she could read his thoughts with ease. He looked utterly horrified.

  “Christ, you’ve an imagination. Is this what you think of me?” he demanded.

  Grace threw up her hands, exasperated. “No! Well, maybe… but what am I supposed to think? You tell me I must marry you when we’ve barely spoken two words to each other. I want to feel grateful to you for rescuing me, I wish to know the man I am to be bound to for the rest of my life, but you’ve given me nothing.”

  He frowned at her, which seemed to be his habitual expression, but she got the impression he was thinking very hard. She watched as he thrust his hands into his pockets, looking strangely peeved.

  “Do you have a looking glass?”

  “What? Well, yes, of course—”

  “There you are, then,” he answered, as if that was all the explanation she could possibly desire and turned as though to leave.

  “Wait!”

  He muttered something under his breath and stared up at the heavens.

  “Miss Weston?” he said, or rather growled.

  Grace ignored his tone.

  “You think me pretty, then?” she asked warily, somehow doubtful that a man like him noticed such things. He seemed far too practical, the sort who would judge a wife by the breadth of her hips and her ability to birth fine, healthy sons. Grace’s slight frame would hardly accommodate that kind of thinking.

  “Is there a man alive who doesn’t?” he asked tersely, kicking at a stone on the path and sending it skittering down the lane.

  Grace felt her eyebrows go up, a little taken aback by the irritated demand. “I… I don’t know.”

  He made a sound of such mocking disbelief she did not know what to make of him. She stared at her feet, somehow disheartened to know that was the only thing he found appealing about her. Though what had she expected from him? Some declaration about how the sound of her voice made his heart glad, or her smile lit the room, or that he had heard her laughter and known it was the only sound that had ever made him feel truly happy? She had heard such sweet nonsense before. At least he was honest. He desired her. That was the long and the short of it, and he was prepared to take on another man’s bastard to have her. Well, so be it.

  She nodded her understanding, but perhaps he saw something resembling hurt or disappointment in her gaze as he spoke again.

  “I won’t ever hurt you,” he said, his voice still gruff but sincere. “I won’t berate you with harsh words or lay a hand on you in anger so long as I live. I’ll keep you safe, the baby too. I certainly will never lock you up nor feed you to my pigs,” he added with a curl of his lip.

  “Well, that is reassuring,” she said with a sigh, grateful for his words.

  He shrugged. “There’s barely a scrap of meat on you. Hardly a meal for a hungry sow.”

  Grace bristled. Was he serious, or was that amusement glinting in the depths of his dark eyes? It was impossible to tell.

  “Thank you so much for your candour, Mr Oak. I feel so much happier about marrying a complete stranger. Good day to you.”

  She doubted he missed the sarcasm dripping from the words, but she did not care. The unfeeling beast! It was very hard to be grateful to your knight in shining armour when the fellow was great, lumbering oaf.

  “Wait.”

  Grace was so surprised at being called back she almost stumbled. Mr Oak’s hand shot out, curving around her upper arm and keeping her upright.

  “Steady,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said, relieved when his large hand released her. The heat of his touch had burned through the fine muslin of her gown, and she felt disconcertingly as if she’d been branded by it.

  “Here,” he said, appearing oddly uncomfortable as he handed her a small parcel.

  It was no bigger than her palm and wrapped in tissue paper. Grace stared it, perplexed for a moment, but accepted it from him. He didn’t look at her as she took it, but then glanced sideways at her, jerking his head at the offering.

  “For your birthday.”

  He walked off then, without another word. Grace watched him go, his long strides taking him swiftly out of sight. He was built like his name suggested, strong and of the land, like there was nothing that would bend him. He would stand tall and proud against whatever was thrown at him and never give an inch to anything or anyone, certainly not a wife. Grace sighed wearily and stared down at the parcel. It was carefully wrapped, now she came to look at it, though tied with string not ribbon. She tugged at the neat bow, curious.

  Grace made a little sound of surprise as she pulled the paper free. A tiny wooden fox filled the palm of her hand. It was beautifully carved, giving the impression of a sleeping animal that was perhaps still alert, listening out for danger from the way its ears pricked up. Its nose was hidden beneath the elegant curve of its tail, and it was so very lovely that Grace felt tears prick at her eyes and suddenly she was crying. Oh, she had become so ridiculously emotional of late. The slightest thing had her weeping, but this…. Had he made this? Had he made it for her?

  She stroked a delicate finger over the creature’s back, astonished by the delicacy and beauty of the piece. Grace looked up, staring blindly through her tears at the field through which Mr Oak had disappeared, back into the woods and out of sight.

  “We did not see that.” Florence’s voice was firm as Henry turned to look at her. She dragged him out of sight before Grace turned and saw them.

  “You might not have, but I did!” Henry protested. “Is that… was that… was that a… a secret assignation? Are they…?”

  Florence sighed and shook her head. “I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone, Henry.”

  “I’m not anyone, love. I’m your husband. What’s more, you’ve told me nothing that I’ve not seen with my own eyes. Sterling is my friend, but if he’s messing around with Miss Weston—”

  “Oh! They’re going to be married,” Florence said impatiently. “But if you breathe a word of that to another living soul, I shall never forgive you.”

  Henry gaped at her, so obviously astonished she might have laughed if she didn’t feel so wretched for Grace. She wanted her friend to be as happy as she was, but that was not to be.

  “Sterling Oak and Miss Grace Weston?” Henry repeated doubtfully, as if trying to make the two names fit in the same sentence and failing.

  She could hardly blame him. Grace was as fine, fair, and delicate as a snowdrop, and Sterling Oak… well, he wasn’t.

  “But when? How? I didn’t think they even knew each other past a ‘goo
d day,’ and ‘how do you do?’”

  Florence sighed and took her husband’s hand.

  “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. I want to, but it is not my secret to tell. I can only tell you that Mr Oak’s intentions seem to be honourable. I hope they are at any rate,” she added under her breath. “You said he’s a good fellow beneath that stern exterior, Henry. Tell me it’s true. Will he look after Grace?”

  To her relief, he did not just give her a glib answer but considered the question in earnest.

  “I’ve been away a long time, love. He was a boy when I left and I cannot yet say we are close friends, though I can say I like and respect him. To answer your question, from what I know of him I would say yes. If Sterling takes a wife, she’ll be well cared for. From seeing him at work, I’d say anything he does he does seriously and with attention to detail, with the utmost care.” He shrugged. “Does that help?”

  Florence leaned into him, smiling up into his handsome face. “Yes, it does. Thank you.”

  Henry leaned down and kissed her. Florence wrapped her arms about his neck, opening her mouth to him and inviting him in. He gave a low groan as he pulled her closer.

  “Oh, lord! Don’t, love. We’re supposed to be at Holbrook by noon.”

  Florence shrugged, feeling devilish. As much as she loved seeing her friends and family, she was in no hurry to relinquish her husband’s undivided attention. Perhaps that was why she’d insisted they walk.

  “So, we’ll be a little late,” she murmured. She pulled at his hand, dragging him off the path and into the darkness of the woods.

  “Here,” Henry muttered, guiding her to a secluded place, screened from view by a thicket of blackthorn. He backed her up against a tree and pressed closer.

  “Mr Stanhope, you are a very bad man,” she whispered, sounding far too pleased for that to be a complaint.

  He snorted, cupping her face with his hands. “No, Mrs Stanhope, it’s all you. You’re a very wicked woman and you’ve led me off the path, quite literally.”

  “I know,” she said with a heavy sigh, gazing up at him from under thick lashes. “Can you ever forgive me?”