Nina Coombs Pykare (20 page)

“But I was afraid,” Penelope said simply.

“So,” continued Ravenworth, “after I heard the whole story I was convinced of Mr. Bates’s good character.”

Aunt Hortense grimaced. “A painter. It’s inconceiv—”

“It’s love,” said his grace, and his mama nodded gravely. “Now,” he went on, “as I see it, you have two options. You can forbid the marriage. In which case you will lose your daughter and my friendship.”

“And mine,” added the dowager duchess.

Penelope gave Ravenworth a look of complete gratitude. “Thank you,” she said.

He nodded and continued to address her mama. “Or you can accept the inevitable. Take Mr. Bates as son-in-law. Keep your loving daughter and eventually you will have grandchildren to dangle on your knee.”

“I am sorry to have deceived you, Mama,” Penelope said bravely. “But I am not sorry to love Harry. I shall always love him.”

“The ton,” said Aunt Hortense. “Think of the scandal.”

“What is most important,” inquired the duke, “what people say of you or your daughter’s happiness?”

“But a painter!”

“Hortense,” said Mama. “Do not refine so on what the man
does.
Look at
him.
You can see that he loves her.”

And indeed, the two standing there, their hands entwined, seemed to be lit with a quiet glow.

Aunt Hortense heaved a great sigh. “Very well, you have my blessing. But nothing more.”

“I should accept nothing more,” said Harry firmly.

“Excellent,” said Mama as she resumed her stitching. “Now all three of you shall be wed.”

And that was when the enormity of it hit Licia. Tears welled up in her eyes, and while the others were busy with congratulations, she slipped out through the French doors. Their charade was over. The others would wed, and she would go back to York. Probably without even a chance to—

 “You will not escape me that easily.”

She turned to find Ravenworth close behind her. “Your grace, I .
.
.
” She wiped hastily at her eyes.

“Crying tears of joy?” he inquired.

“I .
.
. I am happy for Penelope.”

“Of course you are.”

“And you must be pleased that now there is no more need for subterfuge.”

“Oh, yes, very happy.”

“Then we are agreed. We can safely tell the others the truth.”

“If we can ascertain it.”

She stared at him. Her heart was breaking and he was talking in riddles. “I do not understand.”

“Nor did I,” he said gravely, “not for some time. But we shall puzzle it out. Come, let us sit here on the bench.”

She let him lead her there, and she settled herself. “There is nothing to puzzle,” she said, fighting the tears. “It is all very clear.”

He settled beside her. “Perhaps to you. But humor me in this. Answer for me a few questions.” He raised a hand. “I know .
.
. I have no right to ask them. But perhaps you will tell me, anyway. The first day I discovered you giving the note to Mr. Bates it was not about the paintings but about a personal matter. For Penelope. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And earlier today when you passed Mr. Bates the note—”

“You saw?”

He smiled. “I fear you are not the sort to conduct clandestine affairs. Your face gives you away. As soon as you departed, I confronted Mr. Bates.” He smiled ruefully. “Rather forcefully, I’m afraid.”

“Poor Mr. Bates.”

“You still do not understand.” He sighed. “Well, let us go on. When you told me the story about the sculptor—it was Pen and Mr. Bates you were talking about?”

“Of course.”

“You did not consider that I might think it was about you?”

“Of course not.” This was all very painful to her. “Please, your grace, could we not get to the point? I’m sure the lady who’s been waiting for you will be glad to hear that her waiting is over.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I am not sure she will have me.”

“Not sure? But that is impossible. Any woman—” She stopped, uncomfortably aware of what she’d been saying.

“Any woman would what?” he inquired, leaning closer.

She could not meet his eyes. “Would be pleased to be your wife.”

“Would
you?”

The shock of it made her tremble. It was too cruel. “Really, your grace, I am not a suitable—”

“But if you were,” he went on, his voice relentless. He would not even leave her her pride.

“If I were,” she cried, “then I should say yes, I would marry you.”

“Thank God!” he cried, sweeping her into his arms and covering her lips with his. Her senses all seemed to go crazy, and when he released her mouth, she could only lie against his waistcoat and whisper, “I do not understand. The agreement is over. There is no need .
.
.
”

“There is every need,” his grace said softly. “I love you, Licia. I love you and want to marry you.”

Her head was swimming. “But the woman, the one you bought
Frosty Morning
for .
.
.
”

“You,” he said tenderly. “It has always been you. Since the first day I saw you and your mama started in on the story of the celebrated bed.”

“But you did not say .
.
.
”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “I did not know your feelings. I hoped through our agreement that you would come to love me.” He frowned. “I did not expect to be consumed with jealousy, however. Seeing you pass notes to a man put me into a jealous rage. And finding you in Kean’s dressing room .
.
.
”

He sighed and drew her closer. “I am sorry about that, my love. But I was so afraid of losing you.”

She burrowed closer against him. “That will never happen,” she said. “My, it was good of you to help Penelope. I wanted her to come to you, but she was afraid.”

“She was right to be,” he admitted. “At any other time I would not have helped her. I know, my love.” He put a detaining finger on her lips. “She deserved help. But it was loving you that made me give it.”

He kissed her forehead. “When I thought about losing you, I knew how Pen must feel. And I had to help her.” He grinned. “I confess, too, that I thought it might help establish me in your good graces.”

She breathed a small sigh of contentment. “Oh, David, I cannot quite believe it. We are really going to get married.”

“Yes, indeed,” he said, drawing her closer still. “But I must insist on one thing: your mama must not mention that horrible bed again.”

Licia laughed. “Oh, my dear, you know we cannot prevent it. Why, she will want to tell it to our child!”

“There is no need to blush,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “I hope we shall have many children.” And he took her in his arms.

For David II

Copyright © 1991 by Nina Coombs Pykare

Originally published by Jove (ISBN 0515105244)

Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

     http://www.RegencyReads.com

     Electronic sales: [email protected]

This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.