Candice Hern (51 page)

"It is true," Mary said, feeling suddenly shy and embarrassed. "I do not believe Jack ever knew of my fortune when he asked to marry me. I never speak of it, you see. Such wealth tends to alter people's perceptions of one. So I never mentioned it to Jack, although he surely knows now, having met with Mr. Fleming."

"Well, there you have it then," the marchioness said brightly. "You attracted a very fine, handsome man despite your father's belief that such a thing could not happen. You have proved him wrong, Mary. And if he was wrong on that count, you must necessarily suspect everything else he drilled into your head. Continue to turn your back on that unhappy part of your life, my dear, and look to all the wonders that lie ahead: your wedding, a new home, children, grandchildren ..."

They both turned at that moment to look across the courtyard to the returning party of Charlotte, Lizzy, spaniel, and nanny. Charlotte was laughing as Lizzy skipped along energetically at her side.

"You see, Mary, there is always some small happiness ahead, regardless of what has gone before. Look at Charlotte," she said, nodding toward the happy domestic scene beyond the gallery windows. "She has lost Frederick, and Lizzy has lost her papa. And yet they still find happiness with one another. You must look ahead as well, my dear, and put all that unhappiness behind you."

Mary blinked back tears as she turned to look at the marchioness, realizing how much more devastating it was to lose loved ones than never to have had any to begin with. Lady Pemerton was right. She
had
survived. And although she had always thought she had put her past behind her, she had never really let go of it. It colored her perception of the world, of herself, of other people, and their actions and reactions. But now she had a new frame of reference in which to view herself—as a woman soon to have a wonderful husband, a new and loving family, and a beautiful new home. Tears—of joy this time—stung her eyes as she felt the burden of the past slip from her shoulders like a tattered cloak, to be tossed aside and never worn again.

Suddenly, she threw her arms around her future mother-in-law and gave her a fierce hug. "Thank you, my lady ... Mama. You are very good to listen to my poor history. I shall take your advice. I look forward—with gratitude ... I cannot express how much gratitude—to a new life with my new family."

Chapter 16

"Pull up, Jack!" Edward Maitland shouted from his position bent low over the neck of his horse. He and Jack, having raced neck-or-nothing through the parklands of Pemworth, reined in their mounts as they neared the creek edge of the northern end of the estate. Panting slightly, Edward patted the horse's neck as he eased him in to a slow trot and waited for Jack. "This old bay ain't up to your stallion," he said when Jack had joined him.

"I wonder," Jack said in a breathless voice, "is it the old bay or the old uncle who has tired?" He laughed at Edward's outraged glare.

"I can outride you any day, boy, and don't you forget it," Edward said, equally breathless. "It is this second-rate horseflesh you have provided." He removed his hat and ran an arm across his damp brow. "Damnation, but it will be good to see a decent stable again at Pemworth. Your father kept only the best, you know."

"I do know," Jack said. "It is one of the things that nearly bankrupted the estate."

The men steered their horses to the bank of the narrow creek, which gradually widened and opened fanlike as it flowed into the cove and the sea beyond. When they reached the creek edge, they dismounted and let the horses cool themselves and drink from the fresh, clear stream. Jack removed his hat and jacket, hung both over the pommel of his saddle, and leaned against the trunk of an elm, grateful for its shade. He would not admit to his uncle, now shedding his own jacket, that he was indeed thoroughly exhausted. It was a pleasant sort of fatigue, though. Almost exhilarating.

Edward perched himself on a large boulder and stretched his legs out in front of him. "So, are the Pemworth stables among your list of improvements, I hope?"

"They are," Jack said, "but not at the top of the list. There is much to be done. After the wedding."

"The joyous occasion is only three days hence." Edward slanted a wary glance at his nephew. "Are you suffering any last- minute nerves?"

"None in the least." Jack flashed his uncle a broad smile.

Edward gave Jack an assessing look. "I must admit, you appear decidedly self-assured and calm about the whole thing. If it were me, I would surely be trembling with trepidation and doubt. But then, I suppose you are pleased to have all this business settled at last."

"That I am." Jack leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes, enjoying the mingled scents unique to Pemworth: summer wild flowers and the sea, horse and leather, grass and mud.

"Still," Edward went on, "I sense ... oh, I don't know ... something else. It is just that I have never seen you so relaxed and contented. Certainly not in the last year."

Jack chuckled. "You are correct, sir. I have never felt more—how shall I put it?—satisfied."

"Ah. You have bedded her already, then?"

Jack's eyes snapped open and his head whirled around to face Edward. "Uncle!"

Edward tilted his head and raised his brows, as if to question such apparent outrage. Jack had to laugh, for who would have expected such sensitivity from Black Jack Raeburn? He would have to hang up that old soubriquet and coin a new one. Something more suitable to his new attitude.

"No, Uncle," he said, still chuckling, "I regret to say that I have not yet bedded Mary, though I cannot see that it is any of your business."

Edward grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, my boy. I suppose, then, I must assign this new lazy contentment to some other cause."

"No," Jack said, "you may still lay the blame on Mary, but not in the way your sordid mind has imagined." He paused, considering precisely how it was that Mary had fostered such peace and contentment. "She has brought a new joy to this unhappy place, Uncle. It is quite remarkable really. Have you ever noticed how everyone smiles when Mary enters a room? Well, it has been the same at Pemworth. She has Mama smiling again."

"I had noticed the difference, actually," Edward said, "but I suspected it was no more than pre-wedding excitement."

"No, it is Mary herself, not just the wedding, that has made the difference. She and Mama spend hours chatting and laughing together. She and Charlotte have become great friends, and she plays with the girls and makes them laugh. After all the grief this family has suffered, it does my heart glad to hear laughter once again."

The horses seemed to have drunk their fill and turned away from the water and were ambling lazily among the bushes and grasses along the creekside. Both men's eyes were drawn to the movements of the horses.

"I, too, am pleased to hear your mother's laughter again," Edward said, returning his gaze to Jack after his mount began to nibble at a clump of low grass. "I confess I had almost begun to despair for her health. Poor Lydia. She has lost so much. My heart breaks for her, but I had begun to believe she would never get over it. Thank God she still has you, Jack."

"Thank God for Mary, you should say. I tell you, she is responsible for Mama's good spirits. I am a lucky man, Uncle."

Edward cocked an eyebrow. "So, it appears you chose wisely after all."

"More wisely than you, or I, could possibly have dreamed," Jack said. "I could not have found a more perfect partner if I had spent decades searching the globe. I do not know what twist of fate brought her to my side that night at Lady Pigeon's ball, but I shall be forever grateful."

Edward rose from his boulder, stretched, and moved to stand next to his horse. He grabbed his jacket and shook it out. "I take it, then," he said over his shoulder, "that it is more than the lady's fortune for which you are grateful."

Jack smiled and pushed himself away from the tree. "You are correct, Uncle." He directed a sheepish grin toward Edward. "Ironic, is it not, that I should have come to care so much for Mary after all? But I assure you, I have undergone a most dramatic change of heart."

"Well." Edward tugged on his jacket, never taking his eyes from Jack. His mouth twitched momentarily and finally formed itself into a roguish grin. "Well. I am speechless, my boy." His grin became a chuckle and he shook his head in disbelief. "You have taken me completely by surprise. I never thought to hear such words from the likes of you. After that business with that other girl. What was her name?"

"Suzanne. Miss Suzanne Willoughby."

"Yes, Miss Willoughby. After all that, it seemed you would never... I mean, I never expected ... well, you know what I am trying to say. Something changed in you back then. That girl crushed your spirit. Oh, you survived well enough—"

"With your help."

"With my interference, your mother would say. In any case, I never expected to see you fall for another woman again. I always thought you invulnerable to such things. It is strangely reassuring to find that, after all, you are as vulnerable as any man. Ha! Listen to me!"

Jack shrugged into his own jacket and dusted off his hat with his sleeve. "I have surprised myself as well," he said. "I never expected to lose my heart again. And I certainly never expected to lose it to Mary. But you are right. Suzanne did crush me, though I got over it years ago. I have often thanked God, in fact, for the good fortune of not being married to Suzanne. But I never got over the wariness, the mistrust, the fear. Mary has changed all that. She has taught me to trust again. And I cannot imagine life without her, now. I tell you, if I were to discover she had not a tuppence to her name, I would still marry her."

"Good heavens, my boy, you are well and truly lost!"

"I am," Jack said, smiling broadly. "I admit it."

Both men remounted their horses and pointed them back toward the Hall at a slow trot. After a few moments Edward gave Jack a slightly puzzled look and then returned his gaze to the parklands ahead. Jack watched as the corners of his uncle's mouth curled up slowly into a strange enigmatic smile.

"You may not credit it," Edward said at last, "but I find this unexpectedly romantic turn of events quite ... well, quite pleasant, actually. It warms the cockles of my old heart to see you so happy."

"Go on!"

"It is true, I tell you." Edward heaved a gusty sigh. "I must be getting old, but do you know what? I find myself of late longing for the same sort of peaceful contentment you seem to have found."

"Really?" Jack bit back a grin. "With Olivia Bannister, perhaps?"

"Hmph!" was all the response he received as Edward urged his horse into a gallop and sped ahead.

* * *

The next afternoon Mary found herself in need of a few moments of privacy and decided on a stroll through the grounds. Her thoughts full of the excitement and anticipation of the wedding, she wandered alone in one of the side gardens. Well, not quite alone. One of the marchioness's spaniels toddled along beside her. Max, as he had been introduced to her by young Lizzy, had scampered up to her as she left the Hall, his liquid brown eyes and mournful whine begging her to take him outside.

"Come along, then," she had said, no match for such eyes.

The wedding guests had begun to arrive, and the Hall was bustling with activity. No doubt Max had craved a little peace and quiet as she did. Lord and Lady Bradleigh had arrived, much to Mary's delight. The countess's condition might have prevented their traveling, but she had insisted on coming, and Mary was glad for it. Emily and Robert were her only close friends, besides Olivia, among the wedding guests—the rest being Jack's friends or relations—and it gave Mary a sense of comfort to have familiar faces at hand. Robert had even agreed to escort her down the chapel aisle and give her away. He had seemed extremely touched by her request that he do so.

As she strolled aimlessly through the garden, under the shade of a jaunty parasol of blue shot silk with a deep Chinese fringe, Mary considered how her life would change in two days' time. Indeed, it had already changed a great deal. She felt happier than she had felt in all her life, happier than she had ever imagined she could be. Since her talk with the marchioness in the Long Gallery, when she had banished at last all her old demons, Mary had felt decidedly lighthearted, rejuvenated, invigorated.

"Is it not wonderful, Max?" The dog gave her a puzzled look, then proceeded ahead on his own. Mary laughed. "Don't worry. Max. I am not completely addled. Only a little mad with happiness, perhaps."

In the three years since her father's death, she had known a great deal of contentment born of her new independence. But she had never considered how much the affection of a man—a man she loved—could add to her happiness. Whenever she thought of Jack, which was most of the time, she wanted to fling her arms wide and shout for joy.

At this particular moment, as she ambled contentedly through the gardens, she thought of her approaching wedding night, only two nights hence. Jack's kisses had become increasingly passionate since that day they had wandered along the smuggler's cove, and Mary found herself looking forward to the consummation of that passion with uninhibited desire. She could not wait to lie beside him, to feel his arms around her, to have him make love to her.

Although Jack had not made any declarations of love, he had more than once spoken very tenderly about his affection for her, about the happiness she brought him. It was enough. For now. If matters continued as they had, Mary was confident that in time he would love her. Perhaps when they had shared the intimacy of the marriage bed, it would be easier for him to speak his heart. She was perfectly prepared to speak hers.

Mary glanced about the garden and considered how thoroughly content she was with the prospect of making Pemworth her home. She loved every inch of it: the grand Elizabethan exterior, the Tudor gates, the woodlands, the walkways, the headlands, the sheltered coves, the Great Hall, the Long Gallery, the music room—yes, definitely the music room—and the gardens. She stepped around a bit of hawthorn that had been allowed to grow unclipped, right onto the path. It reminded her of other signs of neglect she had noted at Pemworth. She had not wanted to mention anything, not wanting to insult the marchioness. It was likely that, during this last painful year, she had been less than conscientious about such things, allowing a certain laxity in the servants and staff.