Unlaced by Candlelight
That is what Sylvie had thought he might say. What she had dreaded hearing. “You were coming back to me?”
“Of course I was coming back to you!” He frowned. “How many times do I have to tell you that before you believe me? I had told you that I loved you and that I would come back to you as soon as I was able!”
Yes, he had. And, despite the rumors of his behavior in London after he had left her, Sylvie had waited and waited for his return, until the babe she carried meant she could wait no longer and she had accepted the offer of marriage made to her by another man.
And all the time she waited, Christian had been ill and fevered, cut down by a French saber. It was the reason he had not returned to England until it was too late; Sylvie had already been another man’s wife, and the babe she carried accepted as a child of that marriage.
What had she done?
* * *
Christian frowned as Sylvie moved abruptly away to sit on the side of the bed, before standing up to cross the room and pull on his black brocade bathrobe he had draped across the chair beside the window.
“Are you leaving already?” He kept his tone deliberately neutral as he sat up, knowing he had agreed, accepted, Sylvie’s decree that she would only stay with him for a few hours, but he had hoped, after the enjoyment of their lovemaking—Whatever he might have hoped, it was obviously not to be. “When will I see you again?”
She finished fastening the belt of the robe before looking up at him with dark and guarded eyes. “I—I will send you a note tomorrow.”
His brows rose. “A note...?”
“Yes.” She turned away. “I will leave your robe downstairs in the library after I have dressed, and then let myself out—”
“Give me a minute and I will come down with you.” Christian swung his legs to the side of the bed.
“No! No,” she repeated more calmly, the dullness of her eyes appearing like dark bruises in the pallor of her face as she refused to so much as look at him. “I—We will talk again tomorrow.”
“Talk?” he repeated sharply.
“Yes,” she sighed. “We will talk. I—There is something—I must
go!” She hurried to the door, wrenching it open before turning back to him briefly, her expression anguished. “Please believe that I—that I am sorry.”
Christian tensed, stomach churning. “You are not ending our association already?”
“No! I—” She gave a shake of her head, tears now glistening in the darkness of her eyes.
Relief flooded him. “Then what are you sorry for?”
“For everything!” she choked. “I am sorry for everything,” she repeated shakily.
“I do not understand, Sylvie...” He gave a pained frown. “You are not ending our association and yet you are sorry. What—”
“Tomorrow, Christian. I will explain all tomorrow,” she assured him dully. “Do not follow me now. I—It is for the best—Tomorrow,” she repeated before stepping out into the hallway, the door to the bedchamber closing quietly behind her.
Christian had no idea what had just happened. One minute he and Sylvie had been lying satiated in each other’s arms after the most satisfying lovemaking Christian had ever known, and the next she had run from him as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.
Tomorrow.
Sylvie had said she would explain all tomorrow.
And he hoped that explanation did not include the ending of their relationship, because having now made love with Sylvie again, that possibility was even less acceptable to Christian than it had been four years ago...
“The Earl of Chambourne to see you, my lady,” Sylvie’s butler announced from the doorway of her private parlor.
Sylvie ceased her restless pacing as she turned to him, the deep-brown gown she wore only emphasizing the pallor of her face. “Please show him in, Bellows.”
After a sleepless and troubled night, Sylvie had written a note and had it delivered to Christian only an hour ago, requesting that he call upon her at his earliest convenience. She should have known, after the manner in which she had fled his home the night before, that Christian’s ‘earliest convenience’ would be almost immediately.
Quite what she was to say to him, how to explain, was still not exactly clear to her. She only knew that she owed Christian an explanation. For her behavior both the previous night and four years ago...
* * *
Christian gave the standing and unsmiling Sylvie a searching glance after the butler left the two of them alone. Her golden curls were fashionably styled, her brown silk gown also the height of fashion, and yet—and yet there was an air of fragility about her, a translucence to the creaminess of her skin, and a haunted look in the dark depths of her eyes. “Tell me,” he demanded without preamble.
She gave a shake of her head, not of denial, but as if she was at a loss to know quite how to proceed. She closed her lids briefly before opening them again, her chin rising as if for a blow. “There is something that I wish—no, something I must tell you.” She moistened her rosy-pink lips. “I have thought about this for most of the night, have considered all the consequences of—of my admission, but I can see no other way. No other honorable way,” she added huskily.
Christian frowned darkly. “You are making me nervous, Sylvie.”
She swallowed. “I assure you, that is not my intention. I—You see—”
“Mama? Mama, Nurse says I may not visit with you just yet, that you are too busy this morning!”
Christian had turned at the first sound of that trilling little voice as it preceded the opening of the door and the entrance of a little green whirlwind that launched itself into Sylvie’s arms before turning to look at him curiously.
His eyes narrowed as he found himself looking down at a beautiful little girl of possibly three years old, dressed in a green gown, with dark curls and—and moss-green eyes...
His own dark curls and moss-green eyes?
Chapter Ten
“Please say something, Christian,” Sylvie choked, having just returned from taking a reluctant Christianna back to the nursery and her flustered and scolding nurse. The tears streamed unchecked down Sylvie’s cheeks as she saw that Christian’s face still bore an expression of shocked disbelief. “Anything!”
His throat moved convulsively as he swallowed. “What do you call her...?”
Sylvie gave a pained frown. “I—Her name is Christianna.”
His breath left him in a hiss. “You named her for me?”
“Yes. Christian—”
“Dear God, Sylvie, she is so beautiful!” The tension leached from his body and he dropped down into one of the armchairs, his face pale, his expression tortured as he stared up at her. “Is she—Can she be the reason you accepted Gerald Moorland’s offer of marriage four years ago?”
“Yes.”
Christian gave a pained wince. “And did he know—”
“Yes, he knew. Oh, not who the father of my babe was, but I never tried to deceive him into believing the child was his,” Sylvie assured huskily. “Please believe—I did not know what to do when I realized I carried your child, and although Gerald’s life had been dedicated to the army, and he had never shown any inclination to marry, he nevertheless offered—Gerald was a friend of my father’s—”
Christian looked at her sharply. “Your parents know—”
“No.” She gave a sad shake of her head. “They have always believed that Christianna was a seven-month babe.” Sylvie twisted her fingers together in her agitation. “Only Gerald knew she was not. And he was too much of a gentleman to ever reveal the truth to anyone.”
“And—and did you grow to love him...?”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “Not in a romantic way. But he became my closest friend.”
“You were not—It was not a physical marriage?” Christian prompted sharply.
Sylvie smiled slightly. “Gerald did not think of me in that way. He did not think of anyone in that way,” she added softly as she saw Christian’s incredulous expression. “He really was married to the army. Although I never had any doubts that he cared for both Christianna and me. For the short time he was alive after Christianna’s birth, he was a wonderful father to her.”
“I am glad of it.” Christian nodded.
“You do not really mean that!” Sylvie groaned.
“Of course I do.”
“How could you? Because of my lack of faith in you, in myself, I have denied you the first three years of your daughter’s life!” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And I am so sorry for that, Christian.”
“Why did you not write to me?”
Sylvie closed her eyes briefly. “After you left me, there were rumors on your estate of the women you had been seen with in London before you rejoined your regiment—”
“They were untrue.” He looked at her bleakly. “I did not so much as look at another woman. Why would I, when it was you I wanted? You I intended to return to? You whom I loved?”
Sylvie looked at him searchingly, seeing the truth in the bleakness of his expression. As she heard the past tense in his last statement. “I am so sorry, Christian. So very sorry that I ever doubted you.” She turned away to stare sightlessly out of the window overlooking the garden. “I cannot bear to think of how much you must now hate and despise me!”
Christian rose abruptly to his feet to cross the room in three long strides before grasping Sylvie’s shoulders and turning her to face him. “I could never hate or despise you, Sylvie,” he assured her gruffly as he cupped either side of her face to brush his thumbs across her cheek and erase the tears. “How could I when I fell in love with you the moment I saw you swimming half-naked in that river four years ago? And it is a love that never died, Sylvie. Never,” he assured her fiercely as her eyes widened incredulously, hopefully. “Yes, I felt angry and betrayed when I returned to England and found you had married another man. And I behaved abominably for the next four years—”
“So I believe.” She smiled sadly.
“I am not proud of those years, Sylvie,” he acknowledged. “How could I be? But I did not know how else to get through the pain of loving you and knowing you were so far out of my reach, that you belonged with another man. And all this time!” He gave a self-disgusted shake of his head. “Was the reason you agreed to become my mistress, but with that proviso that we meet in my home and not yours, because you wished to protect Christianna from me?”
“Partly,” she acknowledged.
Christian looked at her closely. “And the other part?”
Sylvie released her breath in a sigh. “The other part was that I only had to see you again, to be with you again, to know, despite denying it to myself, wishing it to be the contrary, that I still had feelings for you.”
He stilled. “As I only had to see you again the night of my grandmother’s ball to know that I have never stopped loving you.”
She gasped. “You believed I had married Gerald for his money and title—”
“And it made no difference to the love I still feel for you!” he admitted fiercely. “I knew that night that I wanted you back in my life—that I had to have you back in my life, in any way that you would allow!” He drew in a ragged breath. “How you must now hate and despise me because I tried to force you into my bed!”
Sylvie huskily gave a self-derisive laugh. “Did it seem last night as if I felt forced into responding to your lovemaking?”
“No...” Christian looked down at her searchingly. “And it was lovemaking, Sylvie. No matter how I might have behaved the night of my grandmother’s ball, how much I tried to continue to despise you for believing you had married an old man for his title and fortune, once I held you in my arms again, kissed you, I could never do less than make love with you.”
Yes, for all of those things, Sylvie knew that Christian’s lovemaking the previous night had been every bit as tender and caring for her own needs as it had ever been in the past. “You did not know of Christianna’s existence then...”
His hands moved to tightly grip her shoulders. “If anything, that only makes me love you more,” he assured her fiercely. “You did what you believed you had to do to in order to protect our daughter when you accepted Ampthill’s offer, what was necessary to protect both Christianna and yourself!”
“And by my doing so, you have missed the first three years of your daughter’s life,” she repeated sadly.
“But God willing I will not miss any more. Or that of any other children we might be blessed with?” He looked down at her uncertainly.
Sylvie gazed up at him searchingly, seeing only love burning in Christian’s beautiful moss-green eyes. “What are you saying?”
“Asking,” he corrected huskily. “I am asking what I should have asked you before I left four years ago. What, in my arrogance, I believed could wait until the next time I returned to England.” He gave a self-disgusted shake of his head.
Sylvie swallowed. “And what is that?”
“That you do me the honor of marrying me,” Christian pressed softly. “I had never loved until I met you that summer, Sylvie. Nor have I loved again since. I loved you then, and I love you still, and if you will consent to become my wife, I swear to you that I will tell you, show you, every day for the rest of our lives together how very much I love and cherish you!”
Tears welled in her eyes once more, but this time they were tears of happiness. “I realized last night that I have never stopped loving you either, Christian. I loved you then, I love you now. I will always love and cherish you.”
He looked down at her searchingly for several long, disbelieving seconds, his expression turning to one of wonder as he saw that love shining in the darkness of her eyes. He fell to his knees in front of her. “Sylviana Moorland, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Allow me to love and cherish you for the rest of your life?”
“Oh, yes, Christian!” She threw herself into his arms. “Oh, yes, yes, and a thousand times yes!”
“You have made me the happiest of men,” Christian choked as he stood up to take her gently in his arms and kiss her with all of the tenderness of a man deeply in and forever in love.
And ensuring that Sylvie became the happiest of women.
At last...
Chapter Eleven
The London home of Lady Jocelyn Ambrose, Dowager Countess of Chambourne.
* * *
“—and the wedding is to be next month,” Lady Jocelyn concluded gleefully to her two closest friends.
“But Chambourne is not marrying the woman you had chosen to become his future wife?” Lady Cicely Hawthorne said doubtfully.
“Well. No.” Some of Lady Jocelyn’s glee abated. “He did not care for Lady Vanessa at all. But he is to marry. Which, after all, is what we had all decided upon, is it not?” Both ladies turned to the silent Dowager Duchess of Royston for confirmation.
“Yes. Yes,” Edith St. Just acknowledged briskly. “Although I agree with Cicely, in that it would be more of a triumph if Chambourne had decided upon the lady you had chosen for him.”
Lady Jocelyn looked suitably deflated. “Perhaps one of you will be more success in that regard than I.”
“I am not at all sure of any degree of success in regard to Thorne,” Lady Cicely admitted heavily. “Since his first wife died four years ago, he has shown a decided aversion to the very idea of remarrying.”
“And yet he must, for he is in need of an heir, the same as our own two grandsons,” the dowager duchess dismissed briskly.
Lady Jocelyn looked at her curiously. “How go your own efforts in regard to Royston?”
“Nicely, thank you.” Edith St. Just nodded regally.
“You believe he will marry the woman of your choice?” Lady Cicely looked suitably impressed.
“I am sure of it, yes.”
“How confident are you of that?” Lady Jocelyn challenged daringly, still feeling slightly stung in regard to her friends’ reaction to her news of Chambourne’s forthcoming marriage to Lady Sylviana Moorland, the Countess of Ampthill.
“So confident,” the dowager duchess assured haughtily, “that I am willing to write that lady’s name on a piece of paper this very minute and leave it in the safekeeping of your butler, only to be returned and read by all of us when Royston announces his intention of marrying.”
“Is that not rather presumptuous of you, Edith?” Lady Cicely raised skeptical brows.
“Not in the least,” the dowager duchess dismissed briskly. “In fact, call for Edwards and we shall do it now. This very minute.”
Ellie, sitting in her usual place in the window beside Miss Thompson and Mrs. Spencer, could only watch with a sinking heart as Edith St. Just did exactly as she had said she would.
Could only wonder as to the name of the lady—and secretly envy her—written on that innocuous piece of paper, which was taken away by Lady Jocelyn’s butler some minutes later...
As she knew beyond a doubt that it would not be her own name.
Despite the fact she had fallen in love with the arrogantly disdainful Justin St. Just several months ago...
* * * * *
An Officer But No Gentleman
Bronwyn Scott
London, 1839
Former cavalry officer Captain Grahame Westmore is restless for change, but escorting a diplomat’s spoiled daughter to Vienna isn’t what he had in mind—though for once he hasn’t been hired for his skills in pleasuring women! Independent, fiery and strong willed, Elowyn Bagshaw is not the simpering lady he expected. Used to getting her own way and giving the orders, Elowyn will not be controlled so easily. Grahame soon realizes that he’s got a fight on his hands—and it’s one they’re both going to enjoy!
Rakes Who Make Husbands Jealous
Only London’s best lovers need apply!
Author’s Note
Meet our next gentleman escort, Captain Grahame Westmore—or perhaps you remember him from before? Grahame made an appearance in Nick’s story, Secrets of A Gentleman Escort, at the house party. Now he’s back in a story of his own.
He’s off to Vienna to take up a position at the Spanish Riding School, but on the way he has to escort a diplomat’s daughter to her father’s latest posting. He thinks he knows all there is to know about diplomats’ daughters, but nothing has prepared him for Elowyn. She’s strong, determined and passionate. She’s a woman who takes what she wants, and she wants him! Grahame has met his match when he least expected it.
The story is a sexy road-trip romp but, underneath it all, a reminder that love can find you when you least expect it, and sometimes making the choice to love is the toughest decision of all.
Enjoy!
I’ll see you on my blog at bronwynswriting.blogspot.com.
Dedication
For my friends Leslie and Jim. Just because.
Chapter One
London, Fall 1839
Some men thrived in peacetime. Captain Grahame Westmore definitely wasn’t one of them. His army, the Queen’s army, didn’t need him anymore and four years of London life had left him restless for a change. That restlessness caused him to eye the file on Channing Deveril’s desk with a mixture of suspicion and anticipation as he paced the league’s office. Would the next assignment be the adventure he was looking for? He doubted it. His work for the league was starting to pale, not that he’d ever tell Channing. He probably didn’t have to. Channing likely already knew.
“Go ahead, open it.” Channing grinned and sat back in his chair, hands steepled in supreme confidence. Someone who didn’t know Channing well would take that grin as a sign of complete unawareness to the restlessness plaguing him. But Grahame knew better. Channing was not given to obliviousness. It would be a mistake to assume otherwise. As the founder of the League of Discreet Gentlemen, an underground organization dedicated to the pursuit of women’s pleasure, Channing prided himself on perfectly matching his men to their missions. As a result, Grahame’s senses were on high alert. What was he about to be matched with? Or more appropriate, to whom?
Grahame picked up the folder with healthy skepticism. Something was definitely afoot. Channing was far too smug this morning. He opened the folder and scanned the brief for pertinent information. Details could come later. He saw all he needed to make his decision. He slid the folder back across the desk and gave Channing his one-word answer. “No.”
“No?” Channing arched a blond eyebrow. “Care to have a seat and tell me why? You’ll wear me out with all that pacing.”
Grahame took the chair. He could humor Channing in that respect, at least. He was not taking this assignment. “I’m a cavalry officer not a nursemaid.”
“Ex-cavalry officer,” Channing corrected. “And I think your skills in that regard make you the ideal candidate. I admit it’s not our usual. We’re escorts, not bodyguards, but when this opportunity came up in conversation I immediately thought of you.”
Grahame sat up a little straighter, instantly wary. Now they were getting somewhere. “You didn’t already commit me without my approval?” It was one of the rules of the league that no one be forced into an assignment. In their line of work, where assignments ranged anywhere from providing an innocuous escort to an opera or ball to more physically intimate engagements, consent was essential.
Channing gave an easy shrug. “I simply told the people in question I might have a man for them.”
“Then you can tell them you were mistaken. I am qualified to lead men in battle, not play governess to a diplomat’s spoiled daughter,” Grahame replied firmly. Squiring a diplomat’s daughter to her father’s new post was not his idea of anything remotely positive. He knew the sort. He’d seen how diplomats traveled during his time in the military. He wouldn’t just be moving a daughter. He’d be shepherding a household. She’d come with wagons of luggage, carriages of servants and an attitude to match. These daughters were the children of second and third sons, often raised with an eye toward privilege as granddaughters of earls and viscounts. As such, Grahame found them to be usually unsuited for the difficulties of travel.
“I must respectfully disagree with your assessment.” Channing remained unfazed by his firm response. “You are not giving yourself enough credit. If you can organize a troop of men on horseback in the melee of battle, I would think moving one woman and her luggage would be easily done. Additionally, you’re competent with a variety of arms and could defend her little cavalcade if necessary.”
Now that pricked. “Competent? I am more than competent with pistols and saber.” It was a point of pride that he was known in high military circles for his skill with weapons on horseback. He’d worked hard for that reputation, learning early on that without a title, perfection was his only route to respect.
Channing just smiled. “Exactly. As I said, you’re perfect. Don’t you even want to know where she’s going?”
“It won’t make a difference.” There was only one place Grahame wanted to go, only one place that had any need for his unique skills, but it was a continent away and it would mean leaving Channing, something he was reluctant to do. It would leave Channing shorthanded at the agency. Channing had always been loyal to him. Now he had a chance to return the favor by staying.
“I think it will,” Channing said quietly. Grahame tried not to shift in his seat. Channing’s incessant smiling was making him nervous. He liked Channing Deveril immensely but Channing had an unnerving talent to literally read people like books, which was a good thing, Grahame reasoned, because Channing didn’t read. It wasn’t that he couldn’t read, the man was certainly literate, he simply didn’t. But that talent was deuced awkward when it was turned on him. It meant Channing knew something he did not and that made Grahame uneasy, indeed.
“All right then, tell me.” The room had suddenly become fraught with an invisible air of anticipation. Grahame far preferred the foe he could see.