Royal Regard

Chapter Thirty-Five, Part 2

Her hand and her bonnet flew to her mouth. Before she could choke on a mouthful of grey flannel and mauve lace, she set it firmly atop her messy hair, tied the ribbon, shook the dirt and dust from her pewter-grey day dress.

"Wellbridge." She spoke deliberately without inflection and made no move to curtsey. "Why are you here?"

Shading her eyes with a tanned, ungloved hand, she still couldn't see but the faintest outline of him. He finally entirely blocked out the sun, making her shiver. Through the bright spots in front of her eyes, he looked the same but for a three-day traveling beard, his hair just a bit longer, falling in waves without being tied in the usual queue, and his face darker than she remembered. She leaned into the aroma of oranges, lemons, leather, and witch hazel, dizzy with this ethereal proof he wasn't somehow a dream. She reached up to touch his cheek, but pulled back.

"Why are you here?" she asked again, stepping away with a studied scowl. "I've fulfilled my contractual obligations. I've no more money to give you unless you would have me starve." She waved her hand around to indicate the small size of her farm.

He ran his hand over her hair, down her cheek. "Oh, Bella, how I've missed your tempers." He leaned in and kissed her. Trying to draw away, she found herself held tightly against him. The evidence of how much he'd missed her was incontrovertible, so she twisted and pushed and pulled herself away with all her strength. Very little, as it happened, since he still made her knees weak. If he hadn't acted the gentleman and let her go, she might have kissed him back instead of maintaining the appropriate frozen glare.

This was the man who had reduced her to worrying every day about grapes. He was the reason she had to choose between pigs and a roof. No matter the memories of his hand on her thigh, kisses on the back of her knee, the whispers under the moonlight, she had to keep in mind he had meant not a bit of it.

She was willing to take much of the blame for her circumstance, from breaking Wellbridge's heart down to her impudent discussion with the king. To some degree, she could not help but feel every hardship was nothing but her due. But while she may have ill-treated the duke by insisting so severely on her mourning, his transgression had been far greater, demanding the entire contracted payment, leaving her all but destitute.

No matter how much she had wanted to honor Myron, whose memory had faded to fondness within weeks, then resentment in the months that followed; no matter how many letters she had written to Wellbridge, some posted, some not, before and after the breach of contract was adjudicated; she knew from the day she left London she should have returned immediately to beg Nick's forgiveness and implore him to marry her without delay. Not for the money, or the safety of his title, and certainly not to appease his male vanities, but to circumvent the overwhelming loneliness she now experienced every minute of every day living without him. She wanted, more than anything—even more than she wanted to be irate—to tell him about the problem with the malbecs.

"How rude of me to stand gawping, Your Grace. If you have come to buy wine, I'm afraid I must disappoint. Our yield was short this year—we've only begun to tame the vines, you see—but perhaps you will enjoy a glass with His Majesty back in Town, since he has stolen more than half of my harvest. The two of you can toast to the theft of the last of my funds."

His face fell into the lines of an ocean cliff. He bowed, just the wrong side of polite.

"My apologies, Lady Huntleigh, for the disruption. I had convinced myself, from the plentiful letters I found on my return from the Continent, that you might welcome my presence. I see now my solicitor's fervor has extinguished any chance of that." He turned to walk back to the house where his carriage or horse must be waiting. "At the king's express command, by the by, not mine!"

"No! Wait, Your Gr—" Her voice cracked, "Wellbridge—Nick. Is it true?"

He turned back, hope flaring in his eyes like candles in a mineshaft. "I am not a liar, Lady Huntleigh, and I am not in the market for wine," he said, in his best ducal tenor. "Did you have some other reason to detain me than your counterfeit undying love?"

"No. I mean, yes. I mean... it is not counterfeit. You've only taken me by surprise. I was taken aback by your..." She blushed, glancing at his tight nankeen riding breeches, "... your ardor, and hindered by what is left of my pride. Please stay, please. At least long enough to rest your horses. It is nearly time for tea and Cook has made raspberry tarts." She held out her hand. "Unless I misremember, your favorite indulgence."

He slowly reached his hand toward her, misgivings uppermost. He searched her face, and smiled wryly when he said, "Not my favorite, no."

She swatted his arm. "You are shameless, Sir."

"Nick," he reminded her, pulling her close. "May we begin again?"

She sighed gladly, turning her face up to receive his kiss. "Yes. With all my heart, yes. Oh, Nick, I am so glad you've come. It has been far too long, and too many people at variance on our behalf."

When he rained kisses down her throat, across the lobes of her ears, along the nape of her neck, her body became languid and slack, breath quickened, and pulse throbbed. As she fell more heavily into his arms, he whispered, "It's been a year..."

"Last month," she confirmed with a breathy moan.

"You are still in half-mourning," he observed, while his hand travelled up the front of her bodice.

"I haven't the coin to replace all my clothes, with stock to feed and no certain harvest." The lines between his brows were only seconds from beginning an inquisition about her finances, so she grasped his arm. "I cannot seem to believe you are here." The rancor of months was overcome in a few heartbeats by wonder at his return. "Where have you been all this time?"

He ceased his shower of physical affection to explain himself, doleful smile touching his eyes, which shone with both regret for the separation and joy at the reunion.

"I've been traveling—il conte and le marquis, of course—trying to escape you, trying to replicate whatever it is with you, but there was no escape, my love. There is no replacement. You were in my thoughts every minute."

She reached her hand up to touch his face and he trapped it at his shoulder, leaving a kiss in her palm.

"Upon my return a sennight ago, I was aghast to hear Prinny and my solicitor had beggared you in my absence. I came right away to make my amends. Your funds will be returned to you forthwith." He smiled ruefully, "It may interest you to know he stripped me of both my baronies."

"Leaving you only six titles." She rolled her eyes. "How that must wound."

He laughed, "He should have taken everything and left me to rot in a rookery. But it is providential he did not, for your brother can now become Baron Ostelbrooke, and I can return your stolen inheritance. You may resume the privileged life of a wealthy countess, which was likely the king's intention all along. Once we were both properly chastised for our effrontery."

He pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes, brushing an escaped strand of hair from her forehead. "More important than the money or the king, though, I didn't want to miss my chance."