Tempted By the Night (27 page)

“Harlot!” Lady Hustings cried out, pointing a finger at Hermione and clutching her handkerchief to her nose.

“Dear God, am I late?” Lord Rockhurst said from the doorway. “My apologies, Lady Walbrook, but I thought I was right on time for your rehearsal, but I can see you’ve begun without me. Lady Hustings, pray continue your scene.”

Both women gaped at this very unexpected guest, while Hermione blinked back the tears that had sprung up in her eyes.

Rockhurst lived! And gloriously so. He strode into the room, resplendent in a dark jacket and crisp white shirt, a perfect cravat and his tall beaver hat at a jaunty, rakish angle. The sight of him quite took Hermione’s breath away.

But what was he doing here?

Lady Walbrook appeared to regain her senses first. Never had someone come early to one of her practices, quite the contrary. And Hermione could see that her good mother was afraid to send the earl away lest he not return. But given the current tenor of the room, she could hardly include him. “I fear, Lord Rockhurst, the practice is not until four o’clock.”

He glanced at the bracket clock on the mantel. “How convenient that I am early.”

Lady Walbrook got up and tried to move him toward
the door. “I fear you’ve come at an inconvenient time, my lord. A family matter, if you will. If you wouldn’t mind, perhaps coming back in a few hours—”

“Oh, I fear that won’t work at all,” he said, dodging around her and coming to Hermione’s side. He held out his hand, his eyes shining with the light she’d come to love. She took his hand, and he pulled her up into his arms.

“I’ve come to practice now,” he said, not to anyone but Hermione. “And I thought to start like this.”

His head dipped down, and he kissed her. Not just any kiss, but one that plundered and devoured her.

Claimed her.

Hermione couldn’t believe it and sighed so happily, so thoroughly lustily, that Lady Hustings fell back on the sofa in a dead faint.

When the kiss finally ended, he looked down into her eyes. “I am so glad they are green.”

“What is green?”

“Your bonny eyes,” he teased, kissing the tip of her nose.

“I told you they weren’t very special.”

“I disagree. They are splendid, as is the woman behind them. If I had a wish, it would be to awaken to their bright and splendid light every morning for the rest of my life.”

“Truly?” she whispered.

“I wish it, so it must be so,” he told her, before he kissed her again.

“Now see here, my lord,” Lord Hustings sputtered. “That woman is not—”

“Any of your concern,” Rockhurst told him, then
kissed Hermione again, claiming her with his usual undeniable flair. When he finished, which thankfully took some time, he grinned at her. “My apologies for arriving so late, but it was demmed hard to get the Archbishop to agree to a Special License when you’ve already had banns cried with another. Quite inconvenient.” He shot a withering glance at Hustings, as if it was entirely his fault.

“I do believe Lord Hustings was here to cry off,” Hermione said.

“Indeed I was,” the fussy man said, as he began to wave the smelling salts Lady Walbrook had fetched under his mother’s nose.

That was good enough for Rockhurst, for he was once again kissing his bride-to-be, and whispering his proposal as well as his promise for a wedding night she would never forget.

“Lord Rockhurst, what is the meaning of this?” Lady Walbrook said. “You happen to be kissing Caliban! Nowhere in Shakespeare did Prospero kiss his monster.”

“This is my version,” Rockhurst told her. “And I think you will find the ending quite diverting.”

Hermione had to imagine even Mr. Shakespeare would approve of such a change.

May 1814

“Rockhurst!” came the cry through the town house on Hanover Square. “Rockhurst, where the devil are you!”

The servants who were within earshot of their mistress or anywhere near their master fled their posts, removing themselves to the kitchens.

When Lady Rockhurst had that note to her voice, they knew she was in a temper. Not that she was in a temper often, but she was possibly the only person in London who dared confront the earl and…well, it was often eventful.

“Oh, aye, and they’ll be abed all day tomorrow,” one of the maids said in a knowing aside to one of
the newer maids as they hustled down the hall to the kitchens.

Best to wait out the storm over a plate of scones and play with the new pups that had been born recently.

“Rockhurst!” Hermione called out again, finally finding her husband in his armory. Though they had closed the holes in the Dials, and there hadn’t been any problems in all of London for nearly four years now, Rockhurst still maintained his practice regime.

For he was still, by rights, the Paratus. And after some convincing, on Hermione’s and Mary’s parts, had begun a search of England for other families like his—protectors of the realm, though to date they had yet to find any clues as to the existence of others. But Hermione clung to the one line in Podmore, one he’d found in an ancient text that had her convinced that the Earls of Rockhurst weren’t the only ones:

The four corners of England are protected by the most skilled and ancient of warriors, ordained and christened to fend off the reaches of evil.

“That is why,” Hermione liked to argue, “it is called a ‘League.’ For you are not alone, Rockhurst. Never will be again.”

But right this moment, he probably wished he wasn’t so blessed with her help and love.

Hermione came in carrying their son in her arms. “Rockhurst!”

He turned from his practice, sword in hand, and smiled at his wife.

Hermione felt her pique take a direct hit, but she rallied her displeasure, for it was a matter most urgent.
“Rockhurst, my mother is coming over this afternoon, as well as your Aunt Routledge—”

“How thoughtful of you, my dear, to warn me.” He came over and laid a kiss on her forehead, and then reached out and ruffled young Thomas’s head. The toddler, just past his first year, was the spitting image of his father, same blue eyes and burnished hair. “I shall be at White’s for the remainder of the day.”

Hermione handed him Thomas and stuck her hands on her hips. “Oh no, you won’t. For however will I explain this to them.”

“Explain what?” he asked, smiling down at his son.

“This,” she said. Then she leaned over to Thomas. “Say your word, darling. Say your word.”

The boy looked at his mother, then his father, and said, “Carpio!” and clapped his hands together.

Rockhurst cringed, and Hermione glared at him.

“Whatever am I to say to them?”

“We could tell my aunt it is all your mother’s doing,” he offered.

“Harrumph!” She reached over and covered Thomas’s ears. “You’ve been reading Podmore to this child, haven’t you?”

“Well—”

Hermione cocked a brow at him.

“Not the scary parts,” he demurred.

She groaned. “This is going to be impossible to explain.”

He set Thomas down on the carpet and drew her into his arms. “Nothing is impossible when you set your mind to it. I know that with all my heart.” Then
he kissed her, thoroughly and expertly, chasing away every bit of her pique.

“You are a charming devil, Lord Rockhurst,” she said, a little breathlessly. “But what about little Thomas? Whatever are we to do?”

Rockhurst glanced over her shoulder at the spot to which their son had toddled off. “I believe he has his own destiny in mind.”

Hermione looked that way as well, only to find their son trying to pick up Carpio.

The boy got the hilt up off the floor and grinned triumphantly at them. “Paratus!”

“You knew what you were in for when you married me,” Rockhurst said quickly, and before Hermione could protest, kissed her again until she trembled with desire. “Remember, this is what you wished for.”

“Oh, it is. Ever so much so,” Hermione said, glancing over at her son and trying not to be overly proud of the boy’s accomplishments. For he was indeed, just like his father.

A man worthy of a thousand wishes.