A Wild Pursuit (30 page)

E
sme started awake, as always, with a bolt of fear. Where was William? Was he all right? A second later she realized that what had woken her was a chuckle, a baby's chuckle. The curtains were open and early sunlight was streaming into the room. Sebastian was standing in front of the window, wearing only pantaloons. His shoulders were a ravishing spread of muscles. And there, just peeking over his left shoulder, was a tiny curled fist, waving in the air.

A cascade of baby giggles erupted into the room.

Sebastian was dancing William up and down on his arm. The question of chilly drafts leaped into Esme's throat. She never let William go anywhere near a window. But then…it felt as if high summer had come. Sebastian spun around and William screamed with laughter. He was sitting on the crook of Sebastian's arm, and he wasn't even wearing a nappy.

Esme's heart skipped a beat. She
never
took all William's clothes off at once!

But the baby was clutching Sebastian's hair and squealing. Sebastian obligingly bounced him up into the air again. Esme found herself looking at a stunningly beautiful man, all muscles and smooth golden skin, and tumbling curls.

And then, suddenly, she looked at William. It was rather like looking sideways and suddenly catching sight of oneself in the mirror without recognizing who it is. Because the naked man in her bedchamber was holding one of the fattest, healthiest, happiest babies she'd ever seen.

That was William. Her sickly, fragile son?

Esme's mouth fell open.

Sebastian still didn't know she was watching. He was holding William in the air and laughing up at him. Pudgy little legs kicked with delight. “You love that, don't you, son,” he said. And every time he jiggled William, the baby giggled and giggled. Until Sebastian nestled him back against his chest. It was when Sebastian was kissing William's curls that he caught sight of Esme's wide eyes.

He was clearly unsure of Esme's reaction to William's undressed state. “He loves it, Esme,” he said quickly. “See?” And he tickled William's plump little tummy. Sure enough, William leaned back against his shoulder and giggled so hard that all his fat little bits shook with delight. And there were many parts jiggling.

“He
is
healthy, isn't he?” Esme said with awe.

“He's a porker,” Sebastian said.

“Oh my goodness,” Esme breathed. “I just—I didn't—”

Sebastian brought William over to the bed. “I promise you that he's not chilled, Esme. Not in the slightest. I never would have removed his clothes if I thought he might take a chill.”

William lay on the coverlet kicking his legs and waving his arms, gleefully celebrating freedom from three layers of woolens.

“It's summer, Esme,” Sebastian said gently. “Roses are blooming in the arbor. And I do believe some exercise will do him good.” He rolled the baby over. William squealed with delight and then poked up his large head inquisitively. “He's gaining some control over his neck,” Sebastian said, looking as pleased as if William had taken a top degree at Oxford University.

Esme opened her mouth—and stopped.

The sun was shining down on the sturdy little baby's body, on his brown hair that was so like his father Miles's hair. Onto his unsteady head, blue eyes blinking up at Sebastian with precisely the sweetness that Miles had given to him.

And there, at the very base of his spine, was a small spangled mark. A mark that hadn't been there at his birth, but was indubitably present now.

“Sebastian,” she said quietly. There was something in her voice that made him turn to her immediately. “Look.”

Sebastian stared at the bottom of his son's spine and didn't say a word.

“What do you think?”

“I think it looks very much like the mark I have at the base of my spine,” he said slowly. He looked puzzled rather than joyous. Then, after a moment, he laughed. “I was right! He may have suddenly become my blood relation, but I already loved him with every bit of my heart.”

Esme looked up at him, eyes brimming. “Oh, Sebastian, what would I ever do without you?”

He stared at her for a moment, and then a little crooked smile curled his mouth. “I won't answer that, because it will never happen.”

William rolled over, his naked little arms waving in the air. His mama and papa weren't watching him wave at the dust fairies playing in a ray of sunshine. They were locked in each other's arms, and his papa was kissing his mama in that way he had: as if she were the most delectable, desirable, wonderful person in the world. And she was kissing him back, as if she would throw away the world and all its glories merely to be in his arms.

William giggled again and kicked the air, scattering dust fairies like golden stars in all directions.

I
t was high summer. The air was heavy with dust and smoke, and the streets smelled of ripe manure. The odor crept into the houses of the very rich, even into an occasion as grand as Lady Trundlebridge's yearly ball, where bunches of lavender could do nothing for the stench. “Paugh!” exclaimed the Honorable Gerard Bunge as he held a heavily scented handkerchief to his nose. “I cannot abide the end of the season. Even I must needs think of the country, and you know I loathe the very sight of sheep.”

“I feel precisely the same way,” his cousin, Lady Felicia Saville, sighed, fluttering her fan so quickly that it would have ruffled hair less severely tamed by a curling iron. “London is simply abominable at the end of the season.” She straightened and snapped shut her fan, making up her mind on the moment. “I shall leave for the country tomorrow, Gerard. The season is over. This ball, for example, is unutterably tedious.”

Gerard nodded. “Nothing left but the dregs of gossip, m'dear. Did you catch a glimpse of Fairfax-Lacy and his bride?”

“A doomed marriage,” she said, with some satisfaction. Alas, Lady Felicia Saville was something of a personal expert on the subject. “A man of such reputation marrying the notorious Lady Beatrix!” Her high-pitched laughter said it all. “Do you know, I believe I saw Sandhurst earlier. Perhaps she will recommence her
alliance
now she is safely married. Given Lady Ditcher's interruption, I would say their encounter left, shall we say, something to be desired?”

Gerard tittered appreciatively. “You
do
have a way with words, Cousin. Look: Lady Beatrix is dancing with Lord Pilverton. She is rather exquisite; you can't fault Sandhurst for taste.”

But Felicia had never been fond of musing over other women's attractions, particularly those of women like Lady Beatrix, who appeared to have a flair for fashion rivaling her own. “I should like to walk in the garden, Gerard,” she commanded.

“My red heels!” he protested. “They're far too delicate for gravel paths.”

“And far too out of fashion to protect. This year no one wears red heels other than yourself, although I haven't wanted to mention it.” And she swept through the great double doors into the garden, her cousin reluctantly trailing behind her.

They weren't the only people to escape the stuffy ballroom. The narrow little paths of Lady Trundlebridge's garden were fairly heaving with sweaty members of the aristocracy, their starched neckcloths hanging limply around their necks. Stephen Fairfax-Lacy, for example, was striding down a path as if he could create a breath of fresh air just by moving quickly. Bea had talked him into giving up his pipe, and while he thought that it was a good idea on the whole, there were moments when he longed for nothing more than the smell of Virginia tobacco. Thinking of Bea, and pipes, he turned the corner and found himself face-to-face with—

Sandhurst.

Bea's Sandhurst. The man disreputable enough to seduce a young girl in a drawing room. The man who'd ruined Bea's reputation.

Sandhurst was a sleek-looking man, with his hair swept into ordered curls and a quizzing glass strung on his chest by a silver chain. He took one look at Fairfax-Lacy and didn't bother with prevarication. “I offered to marry her,” he said, his voice squeaking upward.

Stephen didn't even hear him. He was stripping off his coat. There was a reason why he'd trained in Gentleman Jackson's boxing salon, day after day for the past ten years. True, he hadn't known what it was, but now he realized.

“Mr. Fairfax-Lacy!” Sandhurst squealed, backing up. “Couldn't we simply discuss this like gentlemen?”

“Like what?” Stephen asked, advancing on him with the slow, lethal tread of a wolf. “Like
gentlemen
?”

“Yes!” Sandhurst gulped.

“You forfeited that title a few years ago,” Stephen said, coming in with a swift uppercut. There was a satisfying thunk of fist on bone. Sandhurst reeled back, hand to his jaw.

“Fight!” yelled an enthusiastic voice at Stephen's shoulder. He paid no mind. His arm shot out. A sledge-hammer, in Jackson's best manner. Sandhurst fell back, tripped, and landed on his ass. Stephen was conscious of a thrum of disappointment. Was the man simply going to stand there and play the part of a punching bag? He watched dispassionately as Sandhurst picked himself off the gravel.

There was a growing circle around them in the shadowy garden, calling to each other to discover who was in the fight, hushing to a whisper as the relation between the two men was explained. A voice bellowed from behind Sandhurst: “For God's sake, man, pull yourself together!” Others joined in, rather like a crowd at a cockfight. “Show yourself a man, Sandhurst! By God, you're nothing more than a nursling! A molly! A…” Stephen blanked the voices from his mind and watched his opponent, who was being goaded into a decent effort. He was pulling off his jacket with the air of a maddened bull.

I think, a nobber, Stephen thought. Yes, and then a left hook. And after that, he dodged a hit, feigned right, launched a chop at Sandhurst's jaw. Took one himself in the right eye—damn, now Bea would demand an explanation. The irritation he felt at that translated to his right arm: a leveller, and Sandhurst dropped to the ground like a fallen tree. Stephen nudged him with his foot to make sure he was completely out, looked up, and caught the eye of his hostess. She deliberately threw up her fan and said something Stephen couldn't hear to the lady beside her, who laughed shrilly and said, “It's what comes naturally after associating with the House of
Commons!
”

He was picking up his coat when he felt a hand on his arm. “Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” said Lady Felicia Saville, her voice sweet as honey. “
Would
you be so kind as to escort me to the house?”

Stephen bowed. Apparently barbarous—nay, common—behavior was the way to this gentlewoman's heart. “If you will allow me to replace my jacket,” he said.

“Hardly the behavior of the prudent man of Parliament,” Felicia laughed up at him as they strolled back toward the house, quite as if nothing had taken place at all. “You will be quite the man of the hour.”

“I highly doubt that. I'm afraid Lady Trundlebridge did not appreciate my behavior.” He didn't feel like a Member of Parliament. He felt damn near—exuberant.

Felicia shrugged. “You were defending your wife's honor. Any woman of sense must applaud you, sir!” There was a flutter of warmth in Felicia's stomach when he smiled at her compliment. Perhaps once Lady Beatrix returned to her wandering ways, she could comfort Beatrix's neglected husband.

Just inside the ballroom doors, Stephen bowed. “If you will excuse me, Lady Felicia, I shall locate my wife.”

He walked away without a backward glance, leaving Felicia with her mouth all but hanging open. Why had she never noticed how muscled and attractive the man was? She turned to meet the curious eyes of one of her bosom friends.

“Did you see the fight itself?” Penelope squealed. “Is it true that he called Sandhurst a blathering blackguard?”

Felicia's eyes were still a little dreamy. “Now there's a man worth having,” she whispered to Penelope. “He was like a medieval knight protecting his wife's honor. He
flattened
Sandhurst!”

“Do you think he means to keep it up?” Penelope giggled. “Unless marriage changes Lady Beatrix's nature, he's going to be a busy man.”

Felicia was watching his dark head as he made his way to the other side of the room. “She'd be a fool to stray,” she sighed.

Bea was growing a little tired. Her shoes pinched loathsomely, and thanks to an overly energetic waltz, Pilverton had left a damp patch from his hand on the back of her gown. She turned gratefully at the sound of her husband's voice, and then gasped. “Stephen! What on earth happened to you?”

But he was grinning. “Nothing important. Are you ready to leave, m'dear? It's damnably hot in here.”

“Stephen!” Bea said, her voice rising. “You tell me this moment what you've been up to.”

“Making a spectacle of myself,” he told her obligingly. “Fistfight in public. Shouldn't wonder if my reputation for tolerant debate isn't
ruined.
” He said it with distinct relish, towing her out of the ballroom as he spoke. “I think it's time to retire to the country.”

“We can't go to the country yet,” Bea said, stopping and looking up at him suspiciously. “The House isn't closing session for at least a week.” His eye was growing darker by the moment. “Just
who
have you been tussling with? Don't tell me you actually resorted to blows over that Enclosure Act?”

He reached around behind her and opened the door to the library. When she was inside, he leaned against it and grinned at her. “Something of the kind,” he drawled.

“Really!” Bea said, rather amused. “It's hard to believe that solid, respectable members of Parliament can bring themselves to violence.” And then, “What on earth are you doing, Stephen?”

He had turned the key in the lock. “I'm not a solid, respectable member, Bea. I'm resigning tomorrow morning, and I won't stand for reelection either.” There was a sound at his back.

“Someone wishes to enter,” Bea observed. “Stephen!” For he was walking toward her with an unmistakably lustful glint in his eye. There was something tantalizing about the air of wild exuberance that hung around him. “Did you take a blow to the head?” Bea asked, her voice rising to a squeak.

“No,” he said, and his voice was rich with laughter. There was a bang at the door. “It's Fairfax-Lacy,” he bellowed. “I'm in here kissing my wife. Go make yourself useful by telling Lady Trundlebridge.”

There was a sound of rapidly retreating footsteps, and then the room was quiet but for the faint hum of the ball continuing on the other side of the house.

“Stephen Fairfax-Lacy!” his wife gasped.

“I'm a madman in love with my wife.” He had her now, cupping her face in his hands. “I do believe I shall make love to you at Lady Trundlebridge's ball, and ruin my reputation for once and for all.” One hand slid to her breast, and that rush of melting pleasure that came at his slightest touch rushed down Bea's legs. He kissed her until she was limp, until he had backed her onto a couch, until she was gasping, pink in the cheeks, almost—almost lost.

“Stephen,” she said huskily, removing his hand, which had somehow managed to get under her gown and was touching her in a flagrantly ungentlemanly fashion.

“Darling.” But he was busy. The necklines of Bea's gowns were so useful that he didn't know why he'd ever thought they were too low. They were perfect.

She pushed at his shoulders. Something was prickling the back of her mind. “Stephen, with whom precisely did you fight?”

He raised his head and looked at her. His right eye was almost swollen shut, but the gleam of desire was there. He feathered his lips over hers.

“Stephen!”

“Sandhurst,” he said obligingly.

Bea gasped.

“We were fighting over an Enclosure Act, just as you guessed. I'm like all those nasty sheep farmers, Bea. You're mine. I've enclosed you.”

“But—but—”

“Hush,”
he said and kissed her again.

Bea looked up at him, and there were tears in her eyes. “Oh Stephen,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“Can we go home now, Bea? We've been in London for a month and have been received everywhere. I've tramped off to the House and listened to assinine debates. Our marriage didn't ruin my career. In fact, with the way Lord Liverpool looks at you, I stand to be named to the cabinet if I'm not smart enough to resign quickly.”

She smiled at him mistily. “Are you saying I told you so?”

“With any luck,
I
just ruined my career,” he said, kissing her. “Now may we leave London, please? Shall we go home and chase each other around the billiards table, and start a goat farm, and perhaps a baby, and make love in the pasture?”

Bea wanted to weep for the joy of it, for her luck in finding him, for the bliss of realizing he was right. He was
right
. She hadn't ruined his career. “Oh, Stephen,” she said huskily, “I do love you.”

“I made you woo me,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I think it's time that I courted you, don't you think?” His arms closed around her, arms that would never abandon her, and never let go. “Flowers at dawn,” he whispered into her ear, “daisy chains for lunch, champagne in your bath.”

Bea swallowed hard so she wouldn't cry. “I love you,” she said again.

“I think Romeo said it best,” her husband said, brushing his lips over hers. “You are, indeed,
my love, my wife.
”