“No,
you
said that I wasn’t serious,” he said. “All I did was let you believe what you wanted.”
Her fingers clenched the fine fabric of his dark blue coat and she gasped, “You want to marry me?”
He smiled and said softly, “No, I
mean
to marry you.” Speechless, she stared at him, trying to grab a coherent thought out of the chaos that whirled in her brain.
His lips found hers again, this time lingering, pressing warmly against hers, and delight shivered in her veins. Unconsciously, she strained nearer and Barnaby lost his head, his mouth hardening with passion, his tongue probing between her lips.
Emily had no thought to deny him and she shuddered in wonder at that first hungry invasion, his tongue sliding intimately along hers. With each hot thrust of his tongue, each slow, sensual exploration, he taught her the difference between kisses and kisses. . . .
Heat and hunger coiling low in her belly, when Barnaby finally lifted his head she was warm and pliant in his arms, conscious of a clamoring in her body that was as foreign as it was unexpected. Had she ever felt the desire to lose herself in a man’s embrace? Ever felt the yearning to cast caution to the winds and let herself be swept away by the sensations he aroused? With his mouth only inches from hers, his arms holding her close, Emily could not think, she could only feel—and she felt wonderful!
Breathing heavily, his eyes roamed over her dazed features. What he saw there must have satisfied him, because his head dipped and his mouth took hers again, this time hungrier and more explicit in its demand. He’d always kept his desire for her rigidly controlled, but he’d known from almost the first moment he’d seen her that he wanted her. He was unprepared, however, for the fierce exultation that thundered through him when she returned his kiss, her tongue slipping shyly into his mouth, her soft body pressing against him.
Crushing her next to him, his hands dropped to her hips and he pulled her closer to the swollen, aching length of him. In the grip of mindless desire, his hands closed around the sweet globes of her buttocks and he rocked slowly, intimately, against the notch between her thighs, letting her feel just how much he wanted her.
The world blurred and he lost himself in the heady sweetness of her. Having her finally in his arms, her mouth eager beneath his was addicting, and with his body begging for more, he nearly tipped her onto the floor and completed the union he so desperately wanted. But some sliver of sanity remained and to his regret, slowly but with increasing persistence, common sense won over the reckless urge.
Reluctantly he brought them back to earth, moving her tempting body away from his too-eager one. Allowing himself one last searing kiss, Barnaby lifted his head and stepped back from her.
“Unless you want me to ravish you here and now,” he said huskily, “this must stop.”
Emily blinked at him. With his mouth no longer seducing hers and his warm arms no longer keeping her in his embrace, lucidity rushed through her. Joslyn had asked her to marry him! Did she dare?
A thousand thoughts chased through her brain. Never mind the state of her silly heart, there were too many other things to consider. The smuggling. Anne. Cornelia. The smuggling. The investors who depended upon her. The smuggling. Walker and Mrs. Spalding.
The smuggling!
A hysterical bubble rose up in her chest. The Viscountess Joslyn, Smuggler Extraordinaire. Good God! It was bad enough she risked her own family’s honor, she wasn’t about to drag Joslyn into the same quagmire.
Barnaby knew the moment she had made her decision, and from the way her eyes slid from his, he knew her answer. The stubborn little chit was going to turn him down—and not because she wasn’t attracted to him. Her response told him that she wasn’t indifferent to him—quite the opposite. While not a vain man, he concluded that there could only be one reason for Emily’s rejection of his suit: the bloody smuggling.
Not certain if he was offended, hurt or just annoyed, Barnaby jerked her into his arms. His dark eyes boring into hers, he growled, “If you dare try to refuse me because of some stupid idea that I’m going to be horrified to discover that you’re involved with your own little band of smugglers, perish the thought.” Ignoring her gasp, his hands tightened on her arms and he said, “I already know about it—Cornelia told me.” He took a deep breath, admitting, “I can’t say that having my wife running contraband under the noses of the revenuers is precisely the pastime I would have chosen, but once we are married, we shall find something less, er, illegal to occupy your time.”
Emily stiffened and the gray eyes glittering dangerously, she asked sweetly, “Pastimes, such as filling your nursery?”
A slow smile crossed his face. “It’s not out of the question. . . .” When she began to struggle, he pulled her resisting body next to his and, despite her efforts to escape him, his lips found hers and he kissed her.
With his mouth on hers, she fought against the overpowering tide of emotion that blotted out every emotion but the insidious demand of her heart and the drugging power of his kiss. Dizzy, unable to think, her arms crept around his neck and she lost the struggle to resist him. More than anything in the world, she realized giddily, this was where she wanted to be.
Feeling her mouth soften beneath his, he murmured against her lips, “Please? Please put me out of my misery and say you’ll marry me?”
It was madness! Folly. But she could not help herself and, as if from a great distance, Emily heard herself say, “Yes, I will marry you.”
Barnaby shouted and swung her up in his arms. Bussing her soundly, his eyes full of wicked amusement, he said, “Now let’s go make the announcement to my family and watch Mathew turn purple.”
Chapter 15
D
espite her protests, dragging her willy-nilly behind him, Barnaby charged into the library where his cousins were gathered and announced cheerfully, “It’s official. Emily has agreed to marry me.”
Leaving his cousins to stare openmouthed, Barnaby whisked Emily away and went in search of Cornelia. Contrary to what she had said, Cornelia had not retired to take a nap. She was seated in a cozy room that overlooked a small garden, sipping tea and pretending to read from the novel she had brought with her from The Birches. The instant the door opened and Barnaby, with Emily in tow, strode into the room, she dropped the book and looked up expectantly.
Grinning, Barnaby brought Emily to his side and said, “It was a near thing, but she said yes.”
Joy blazed across her great-aunt’s face and stilled some of the turmoil in Emily’s breast. Her hazel eyes bright with tears, Cornelia cried, “Oh, my dears! I cannot tell you how delighted I am.”
Emily left Barnaby’s side and sat down beside her. She searched Cornelia’s face. “You are truly happy about this? And we have your blessing?”
Cornelia patted her on the cheek. “Indeed, I am and, of course, you have my blessing.” She smiled. “From the moment I laid eyes on young Joslyn, I hoped that this would happen. I will admit, however, that I wasn’t certain of the outcome. I feared you’d place all of us—me, Anne, Mrs. Gilbert, Jeb and the others, ahead of your own chance for happiness.”
“I almost did,” Emily admitted, looking troubled.
“Then it’s a very good thing, isn’t it,” Barnaby said, “that your wise aunt told me all about your, er, hobby?”
Emily flashed him a hostile glance. “It is hardly a hobby,” she shot back.
Barnaby threw up his hands. “Wrong choice of words, but it is hardly a pastime suitable for my viscountess.” Her eyes narrowed and he added hastily, “I don’t intend for you to abandon Mrs. Gilbert and the others, only that we will find another way to help them—something less likely to land us all in the gaol.”
“Jeb sailed for Calais last night,” Emily confessed. “I can hardly call him back.”
Barnaby nodded. “I know that your entanglement cannot be ended overnight.” A sparkle lit his eyes. “I may have to try my hand at smuggling a time or two before we are all safely away and everyone is secure. Running contraband goods ashore should prove quite an adventure.”
Emily was aghast. Rising to her feet, she crossed to stand in front of him. Her hand resting on his arm, her eyes on his, she said urgently, “No! You dare not. What if you were caught? Think of the scandal. The Viscount Joslyn a common criminal.”
Barnaby looked offended. “Now I resent that. I’m sure I’d make an
exceptional
criminal.”
Cornelia snorted with laughter. “Indeed you would, my lord. Quite, quite exceptional.”
“Don’t tease,” Emily begged, looking from one to the other. “My involvement is bad enough, and if I could have found . . .” She stopped, made a face. “I’ll just have to think of a way to disburse the group in a manner that doesn’t cause them hardship.”
Barnaby’s hand closed warmly over hers where it lay on his arm. Smiling at her, he said, “
We’ll
find a way. You’re not in this alone anymore, sweetheart.”
Emily looked doubtful and Barnaby’s brow rose. “I think,” he said in lofty tones at variance with the amusement glittering in his eyes, “that you forget that you now have call on the purse of a rich man. A very rich man according to my cousins.”
“But Jeb and the others—they won’t want charity,” Emily objected.
“Do you know,” Barnaby said, bored with the topic, “right now I don’t give a damn what they want. We’ll find a resolution, but may we please forget about them and simply enjoy our engagement?”
Guilt smote Emily. He could have offered for eligible young ladies with more beauty and fortune than she possessed, and yet for reasons that escaped her, he wanted to marry her. And what did she do? She fussed about a ragtag band of smugglers.
A rueful smile on her lips, she said, “You’re right, of course—and I apologize.”
“Apology accepted.” He glanced from Emily to Cornelia. “So how soon can we arrange the wedding?”
A spirited discussion followed. Barnaby was all for riding to London and obtaining a special license and marrying Emily by the beginning of the next week. Emily was adamantly opposed and even Cornelia was hesitant.
Frowning, Cornelia glanced at Barnaby and said, “Your engagement to Emily is going to be a nine days’ wonder.” Barnaby shrugged and she went on. “You are an exceedingly eligible gentleman and there is going to be a bevy of disappointed, envious young ladies and equally disappointed parents when your engagement to the daughter of a mere country squire is announced. There is no cause to add fuel to the gossip by a too-hasty marriage.” She grimaced. “Marrying as soon as the banns are called will still cause speculation, but much less than a marriage obtained by special license and performed before anyone is aware that your interest is fixed on Emily.”
Feeling events were moving too fast for her, Emily asked, “Wouldn’t it be better if we waited until spring or early summer to marry? Perhaps June?”
“No,” Barnaby said flatly. “I want you out of that house and away from your contemptible cousin just as soon as it can be arranged.”
“I am out of that house and away from him,” Emily snapped.
Barnaby sighed. “And we both know that your visit here is going to create a great deal of talk—especially if it goes on for too long. We can brush by for a few nights, explaining that”—he looked at Cornelia and grinned—“out of deference to your great-aunt’s age, it was decided that it would be less taxing on her, if during this exciting time, you both stayed here for a night or two.”
“Now that’s an excellent explanation,” Cornelia said, nodding. “And one likely to be believed without question.”
When Emily continued to argue for a summer wedding, Barnaby said, “If there is a long delay before we wed you cannot remain here. Even with Cornelia as chaperone, for you to live here for weeks, months on end would raise all sorts of eyebrows. People would wonder about Jeffery and be curious about why you aren’t remaining in the home you have lived in all your life—a home that is only a few miles away from here.”
“He’s right,” Cornelia admitted reluctantly. “And don’t forget, no matter how this plays out or what story Jeffery concocts to explain it, there is going to be a devilish uproar over Ainsworth’s death. I can’t abide my great-nephew, but for your sake, for the sake of the family name, I don’t want him exposed for the despicable scoundrel he is. If we remain here, there is bound to be talk.” She looked grim. “Some of that talk will not be kind and some of those disappointed young ladies and their parents won’t be above spreading spiteful gossip and innuendo.”
Their arguments held weight and Emily gave in. “The banns it will be,” she finally agreed with an unflattering lack of enthusiasm.
“Good!” said Cornelia. Looking at Barnaby, she ordered, “You can ride over to the vicar’s today and tell him. The first calling of the banns can take place this Sunday and we can plan the wedding for the second week of February.” Thoughtfully, Cornelia murmured, “I must write Anne and apprise her of events. Naturally, she and Hugh and his mother will attend the wedding and there will be time enough for us to order gowns from London.” She smiled at Barnaby, her eyes dancing. “You’ll have to stand the nonsense, I’m afraid—can’t have your bride and her family appearing in rags. Once the banns are called, you should host at least one party, perhaps even a ball, and invite the neighbors, such as Lord and Lady Broadfoot, Sir Michael and Mrs. Featherstone and her brood. Oh, and naturally the vicar and his family. It’s a good thing Mathew and his brothers are already here—they’ll help even out the numbers.” She grinned wickedly. “Your cousins can provide a nice consolation prize for those girls of Mrs. Featherstone’s and Broadfoot’s trio of daughters.”
Upon further discussion, it was agreed that Emily and Cornelia would remain at Windmere one more night. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough for us to return to The Birches,” Cornelia decided. Tapping her finger to her lips, she said, “You know, after you’ve talked to the vicar this morning, it might be wise if you invite them to dinner tonight. Penelope Smythe is as kind a woman as you’ll ever meet and despite having three daughters of her own to launch, she won’t begrudge Emily’s good fortune. With Penelope on our side, she’ll be able to help smooth over any awkwardness.” Cornelia’s eyes twinkled. “And Christian lady though she is, she’ll enjoy being the only lady of the neighborhood, besides ourselves, to meet you. It’ll be a feather in her cap.”
Amused, Barnaby said, “Since I have my marching orders, I shall leave you ladies for a few hours. If you need anything, ring for Peckham.”
The small, hastily arranged dinner party that night went off very well. Mathew, despite his privately expressed disapproval of the engagement, closed ranks behind his American cousin and gave every appearance of a man well pleased with Barnaby’s choice of a bride-to-be. Not surprising, Thomas copied his older brother’s manner; Simon exuded nothing but goodwill and delight to everyone.
At the appointed time, the vicar and Mrs. Smythe arrived at Windmere with their three daughters and eldest son in tow. Since Mrs. Smythe was genuinely fond of Emily and Cornelia and had never given a serious thought to one of her daughters snaring the viscount, after her initial astonishment, she was, as Cornelia predicted, thrilled to meet the viscount and congratulate the newly engaged couple.
After dinner they all gathered in the grand gold-and-bronze salon. The Smythe girls, their brother and the Joslyn cousins were laughing and talking a short distance away; Barnaby, Emily and the vicar appeared to be deep in a private conversation in one of the alcoves created by a pair of bay windows that overlooked the front of the house. Her eyes on the trio in the alcove, Mrs. Smythe remarked to Cornelia, “They make a very handsome couple.” Giving Cornelia an arch look, she murmured, “I suppose it goes without saying that you are very pleased with the match.”
Cornelia nodded. “I cannot deny it.” She looked meaningfully at Penelope. “But you know when the word spreads of the engagement that there is going to be a great deal of gossip.”
The vicar’s wife of nearly three decades was a tall, slender redhead who wore her forty-eight years well—despite the birth of six children before she was twenty-five. Even in her youth she had been only passably pretty, but she had kind brown eyes, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose that imparted a gamine charm and a vivacious smile. Seldom ruffled, Penelope Smythe adored gossip, was seldom unkind and could be counted on to keep a cool head in the midst of a crisis. Cornelia was very fond of her and in spite of the gap in their ages, counted on her as one of her dearest friends.
Penelope considered Cornelia’s comment and agreed. “Yes, there’s no pretending that there won’t be a firestorm of gossip.” Her gaze affectionate, she added, “You know the vicar and I will do our best to help quell the worst of it. Your Emily is a darling and I couldn’t be happier for her . . . but there will be others who will suffer great heart burnings at her good fortune.” She frowned. “If only there was a way that I could help defuse the worst of the dismay that certain ladies are bound to feel when they learn that the most eligible gentleman in the neighborhood is no longer available.” She considered the situation a moment longer, and then an impish smile crossed her face. “I think I shall call upon Mrs. Featherstone tomorrow and perhaps Lady Broadfoot. After all, one might say, as the vicar’s wife, that it is my
duty
to apprise them of this exciting occurrence. Much better for them to learn of the engagement from me than to hear of it out of the blue on Sunday.”
Cornelia nodded her approval and Penelope went on. “Naturally, I shall let them know how much the vicar and I approve of the match—and remind them what a dear, charming young lady Emily is and how often they have expressed their fondness for her.” Her eyes twinkled. “What else can they be but happy for her good fortune?”
Cornelia laughed. “I wonder if the vicar knows what a clever little minx he married.”
“I think he suspects,” Penelope admitted, smiling, “but I am very careful not to be
too
clever.”
The two ladies were seated on one of the sofas near the fire that crackled on the hearth of the huge marble fireplace, and in perfect harmony, they sipped their tea, both of them satisfied with the plan Mrs. Smythe had put forth. Setting down her cup and looking toward the alcove where the vicar, Barnaby and Emily were still standing, Mrs. Smythe said, “After Mathew’s unflattering description, I must say that Lord Joslyn is not at all what I expected.”
Tartly Cornelia replied, “I’m sure that Mathew led you to expect a wild-haired barbarian wearing furs who eats raw meat with his fingers and wipes his nose on his sleeve.”
Penelope smothered a laugh. “Something like that.” Her expression serious once more, she added, “It was not very nice of Mathew, but one can hardly blame him for feeling rather hard done by. He’d been groomed for the title since he was a child.”
Cornelia fixed a pensive gaze on Mathew where he stood at the edge of the group of younger people. He looked animated enough, she thought, as he smiled at something Esther, the eldest of the Smythe daughters, said. Watching him closely though, she detected just the faintest air of unhappiness around him. Something in his forced gaiety and the resentment she had noted in him sometimes when he was around Barnaby and thought himself unobserved told her that Mathew had not fully accepted his fall from grace. She didn’t blame him. Only a saint would have accepted with equanimity the kind of loss Mathew had suffered.