Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (28 page)

“I told you of the dreams I have had these past weeks,” he said quite soberly. “In my mind, in my
heart,
they do not feel like dreams. They feel like memories. And two days ago at Dashbourne, I saw that statue glow.”

“You
did
?”

“It glowed as though lit with a lamp from within, yet no one saw it but me. Now tell me something. Anything.”

“I love you.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Yes, I am just becoming accustomed to that.”

“I love you.”

He laughed and took her hand and laced their fingers together. “Anything. Now. Satisfy my curiosity and your disbelief so that I can return to kissing you as soon as possible.”

“I don’t even know where to begin. I know you so well, I think I have memorized you.”

“That puts me at something of a disadvantage, doesn’t it?”

“A disadvantage?”

“I shall simply have to consider it a challenge. Rather, an opportunity to spend my time learning about you, exclusively.”

She looked down at their entwined fingers. “When I asked you to run away with me, you thought I was asking you to take me to another man.”

“But you were not?” he said quietly.

She met his gaze. “I think I have loved you since the moment you stood in my mother’s empty drawing room and said, ‘I am Dare.’ I had never wanted any man until then and I have never wanted another since. Do you— Can you believe me? Or is it too fantastical?”

“It is fantastical. And yet—”

“I’m pregnant. Two months pregnant. The child is yours.”

Abruptly his eyes became very bright.

“Mine?” he said deeply.

“Yes. I will understand if you cannot believe this. I— I will have to understand. But I could not lie to you.”

“Two months?”

She bit her lips together. “Actually, probably closer to three. Or possibly four. After a while, when I thought it would never end, I stopped counting the days.”

“We made love before that night? The night before we left Swinly?”

“Yes. Once. But it was toward the beginning of my days.”

“Was … Was there— That is … Did we— That private parlor at the inn, the room Smythe hired for his family … One of my dreams, it is— it is
remarkably
vivid. There was a table, and you—” His breaths seemed to catch and his gaze grew as beautifully loving as she had ever seen. “You asked me to take you into tomorrow.”

“Yes.”
She threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself to him. “Yes! Although technically it only began in the parlor.”

His hands curved around her waist. “Began?”

“It continued in your bedchamber. Quite nicely.” She stroked his jaw. “Afterward, you told me the rumor about how you acquired this scar, which I have to assume is a false rumor since you never fought anyone for me. I am the only woman who has ever stolen your heart, aren’t I?”

“Yes. What sort of glutton for heartbreak do you think I am?”

“No longer, my lord.” She nuzzled the scar.

“Good God, I made love to you in my bedchamber and I don’t remember it? How unutterably tragic.”

She twined her fingers through his hair. “Would you like to repeat the experience now, this time so you will remember it?”

“Yes. Immediately would be best. It might encourage more dreams, after all.”

“You believe me,” she whispered.

“It seems I do.” His arms encircled her and he drew her snugly to him. “And we are to have a child,” he murmured, kissing her neck. “Another child. A brother or sister for Harry. Excellent.”

Heart overflowing, she ran her hands over his back and gave herself to his kiss.

Abruptly his mouth lifted from her skin. “Three months?”

“Or so.” Her fingers played in his neckcloth, wanting it gone, wanting every piece of his clothing gone, and a bed and bliss. “I think.”

He grabbed her hand and moved toward the gig. “We don’t have time for this yet.”

“We don’t? What—? Why?”

“We are getting married.” He dragged the horse onto the path. “Immediately. As soon as we can reach the border. There’s no time to waste.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“I don’t either. But many people do, and I don’t wish our child to be poorly affected by it. And also I am using this as an excuse to ensure that I get to keep you this time.”

She laughed.

He pulled her into his arms.

“In other words, my lady,” he said upon a gorgeous smile. “Will you run away with me?”

Several months later,
the Marchioness of Dare gave birth to a daughter with beautiful stormy gray eyes.

The miniature lady’s brother, who had grown very fond of the Venus Star (as he called it), insisted that his baby sister be named after the goddess of love. For he had an inkling that Venus had been the reason for the journey that resulted in his superb new father, not to mention his sister, and he wished to thank the goddess in this manner.

There was no living with him until his parents bowed to his demand.

In a tender, joyful ceremony in the chapel at Dare Castle, the infant was baptized Venus Mariana Dare, despite her godmother’s skeptical brow and her godfather’s wicked grin.

“With that name you have condemned her to a lifetime of inane teasing,” Evelina told the radiant mother at the party after the ceremony.

“With that name she’ll be hounded by all the worst scoundrels,” the Viscount Mallory told the proud father moments later. “As her godfather I will, of course, defend her honor at sword point or pistol barrel as necessary,” he added with a noble sniff that was entirely ruined by the gleam in his eyes.

Neither radiant mother nor proud father, however, was actually listening to these comments. In the midst of their guests, across the room from each other they were engaged in a silent communication regarding how swiftly they could slip away from the party unnoticed.

Five minutes turned out to be all their mutual impatience could tolerate. With their children safely in the care of every relative they had, separately they departed the festivities and shortly united in an empty room nearby. In moments, she was in his arms and he was pressing her up against the locked door and devouring her neck with his lips.

They did not require a bed to do what they then inevitably did. With Tacitus’s American family again in residence, and Calista’s family too, the newlyweds had already become experts at finding useful locations—not to mention postures—for consummating their happiness whenever the inspiration occurred, which it frequently did.

After all needs had been enthusiastically and ecstatically seen to, and Lady Dare was enjoying a lingering final taste of her husband’s lips, he drew back and regarded her curiously.

“Where is the statue?”

She nibbled his jaw. “In Mama’s personal chambers at Dashbourne. Next week,” she added, kissing his neck, “she is taking it to London. She still hopes to mount an exhibition at the museum someday.”

“You have no concern that Aphrodite will work her tricks with another unsuspecting victim?”

She looked into his eyes. “How could I begrudge anyone else the gift she gave me?”

He smiled and touched his lips to hers. “Gift, indeed,” he murmured, and kissed her again.

Thank you for reading
Again, My Lord
. I hope you enjoyed Calista and Tacitus’s love story.

If you would like to know when my next book is available, you can sign up for my e-newsletter at
www.katharineashe.com
.

Reviews help authors find new readers, and I’m grateful to each of you who has reviewed my books in the past! For links, visit the Quick Reference Booklist page at
www.katharineashe.com
.

Many of you will recognize the inspiration for Calista’s journey toward happiness: the film
Groundhog Day
. I adore
Groundhog Day
, and I loved turning the story of an individual fighting against life into a full-fledged romance set in Regency-era England.

History is chock-full of fiction, and myth and legend intertwine with fact so thoroughly in human culture that oftentimes the two are inseparable (except to folks with little imagination). For my readers interested in these sorts of things, here are a few mentioned in
Again, My Lord
: In ancient lore, souls were ferried across the River Acheron to reach Hades, although the River Styx was also a boundary between Earth and the Underworld. The philosopher Plato’s
Symposium
is a fictional conversation between real friends gathered together to drink and to share theories about love. The theory quoted in the Epigraph here is attributed to Aristophanes, a comic playwright. Finally, the novel Calista and Tacitus read aloud to each other is
The
Castle of Otranto,
a fantastically dramatic tale of magic and heroism published first in 1764, and hugely popular. (I like to think Calista borrowed the book from Harriet Tinkerson.)

Though I don’t ever intend a moral to any of my stories, the message of Calista’s journey is inescapable. Living with gratitude
in
the present
for
the present is a Truth I certainly need to remind myself of daily. Living with gratitude is, of course, not the same as passively accepting one’s lot in life, especially when that lot includes emotional or physical abuse. In gratitude for those who help victims of domestic abuse, I am donating a portion of the sale of every copy of
Again, My Lord
to nonprofit, nonsectarian organizations dedicated to helping women and children escape from abusive relationships.

Again, My Lord
is part of my Twist Series of historical romances. As Tacitus suspects, Aphrodite’s interference in the lives of misguided lords and ladies is far from over. The rest of the Chance siblings (and a few of their friends) are in for a ride! Look for Evelina’s book coming soon. And turn the page here for an excerpt from
 
My Lady, My Lord
, my 2015 RITA® Award-nominated Twist Series novel starring Lord Ian Chance and Lady Corinna Mowbray, a rake and a bluestocking like never before …

Murmurs of interest and feet scuffling
on the wooden floor attended visitors as they moved from one objet d’art to another. The familiar sounds and the bubbly drink softened Corinna’s fidgets. She circled the exhibition chamber, greeting friends and enjoying their remarks about the statuary, which were exceptional examples of the Classical Period carved from smooth white marble. One table-top-sized rendering of Aphrodite had been wrought from a single block of creamy alabaster.

Corinna stared at the supple creation. The goddess’s graceful arms, shapely hips, and legs draped with a sheer suggestion of fabric, her hair flowing down her back and across her shoulders and over her rounded buttocks, suggested movement, fluid and sensuous. Appropriate for the Goddess of Love.

But something beyond that drew Corinna closer. The statue seemed to glow from within, a golden hue suffusing its curvaceous surface as though from hidden fire. In contrast, the goddess’s almond-shaped eyes seemed disappointingly hard.

“Envious?” A voice like fire-warmed brandy on a winter night came just behind Corinna’s shoulder. She pivoted and met the Earl of Chance’s gaze. As usual, laughter colored his clear blue eyes. Also as usual, that laughter mocked.

The hair at the back of Corinna’s neck bristled. She turned her shoulder to him. “Why don’t you go crawl back under the rock you were born beneath, my lord?”

“Because it seems you are currently using it to wash your clothing upon,” he drawled. “It can be the only explanation for the constantly dismal hue of your gowns.”

“Oh, how flattering,” she cooed. “I never imagined you would notice.”

“I’m merely observing that you appear as though you are at a funeral, or at the very least en route to one.”

She swung around to face him. “Where is your latest lightskirt— oh, pardon me—your latest
friend
? I noticed her earlier, attempting to insinuate herself into your mother’s good graces.”

“I daresay she’s off somewhere taking in the exhibition.”

“She is very beautiful. Helenesque, really.”

“She is, isn’t she?” He smiled with natural arrogance.

“Too bad she hasn’t two sticks to rub together in her head. But then, you do make a perfect pair.”

His crystal eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes, because the ability to dissertate upon the fourth satellite of the planet Jupiter and the metaphor of Shakespeare’s thirty-fifth sonnet is much to be prized over beauty, charm, and good manners. You’ve certainly proven the two cannot coexist.”

“What on earth are you doing here? Did you come solely to vex art patrons?”

“Not at all. I came to please my mother.” He bowed, a graceful movement of his broad-shouldered frame entirely at odds with his taunting grin. He cocked his head. “Vexing art patrons is merely an accidental
coup de maître
.”

“Perhaps you might consider enjoying the art, instead.” If he didn’t remove himself, she would be obliged to cut him. But his mother was a friend, and mustn’t be insulted so.

“I could,” he conceded. “But I don’t know that cretins are capable of becoming connoisseurs of anything of real value.”

Corinna tilted her face up to examine his features more closely. It did not seem that he teased now.

She pursed her lips. “You could make an attempt.” She gestured to the statue. “This one is Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty. You ought to be familiar with her, at least.”

“All right.” He appeared to study the piece carefully. His brow bent and one of his hands cupped his jaw—a square jaw of classical proportions not unlike the statuary about them. After a moment, his lips curved into a skeptical twist.

“What is it?” she ventured, an odd frisson of hope mingled with the usual wariness tingling in her stomach. She didn’t know why she should care that he took some interest in the alabaster figure, except that she was always happy to welcome a new member to the ranks of art devotees. But she held her breath. “What do you see?”

“Well, I don’t know that I should say …” His brow creased beneath a thick fall of overly long black hair. He never bowed to fashion; he was far too indolent and self-satisfied. “But it seems to me that … No. No, I shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?” She glanced at the statue. “No comment proffered from a standpoint of true respect for the artist, his medium, or his creation lacks merit.”

The earl’s mouth curved up at one edge and he shifted his gaze to her for a moment before returning it to the Aphrodite.

“Then I should feel free to say anything I wish about this statue? To you?”

“Of course. There is no critique of art I have not already heard more than once, I daresay. You cannot surprise me.”

He slanted her a quick glance. “You sound proud of that.”

A warning tingle scurried in where hope had briefly dallied. “Merely confident.”

“Well, then, I shall forge ahead and offer my observation.”

Something wasn’t right. Her heart beat too quickly. She had known this man since they were both in leading strings. On the surface his attitude now seemed perfectly reasonable. Some instinct forged in her during childhood must be in operation. But what if her instinct was wrong? What if he had finally grown a conscience? And a cerebrum? His mother was a woman of great intelligence, after all. He could not have entirely taken after his father.

“Yes. Do,” she forced herself to say.

“You say these all came here from Greece?”

“Of course. Attica, mostly, drawn from private collections throughout England and elsewhere.”

He scratched his jaw with two long fingers. Corinna watched in sick fascination.

“Ancient Greece?” he said. “Are you certain of that?”

“Quite. Your mother never would have had them installed here if she and the experts at the museum were not completely convinced of their authenticity.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“But why on earth?”

“This one must be a recent production. Very recent, I’ll wager.”

She scrunched her eyes to peer at the piece more closely. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, you see.” He gestured to the Aphrodite. “Just the other night Drake had this very girl up to his rooms on Piccadilly. She wore precisely this same shift. Had her hair somewhat differently arranged, but I know Drake would swear she’s the one. Grace would, too. He saw her first, of course. Always has a quick eye for the sweetest beauties. But Stoopie stole the march on him.” He leaned close to her ear. “Tells them he’s going to be a duke someday. They can’t resist it.”

She stepped back, stomach churning. “You and your friends are barbarians. Hedonistic heathens. You don’t possess an ounce of character among the lot of you.”

As though a curtain lifted, from sober and thoughtful his features turned cool.

“You believe that your prosy, stiff-necked politicians and scientists are better?” he said, the drawl much more pronounced now. “I think not. At least Drake and Grace know how to enjoy themselves.”

Corinna fisted her hands. It simply was not fair. At least when they were children she usually anticipated this. But over the past decade he had perfected his skills in dissimulation, probably to help him waste away the Chance fortune at the gaming tables.

“That is all they do,” she snapped. “Enjoy themselves to the detriment of those around them and society at large.”

“Oh,” he grinned, but there was no real mirth in it, “we tend to keep our amusements rather closer to home than that.”

“And that’s another thing. You are ruining your brother.”
What was she saying
? She should walk away. What did it matter if anyone saw her cut him? He deserved it—he and his grotesque mockery of civility. But her tongue knew no curb. “I saw Gregory the other night at William Lamb’s house. He conversed with several of the most prominent men in government with ease. He could make something of himself, but you won’t let him.”

The earl shrugged. “My brother is a grown man. He does what he likes.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, dragging poor Gregory into debased behavior, as though he weren’t worth five of you. Ten. If I were you I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night for the guilt of it.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re blathering about, Corrie dear. I sleep exceptionally well, deep and untroubled, whether inebriated or stone sober, accompanied or alone.” He paused. “My conscience does not distress me, as obviously yours does.” He tipped a fingertip toward her chest.

“You are despicable. That you even mention such—such accompaniment in a lady’s presence is despicable.”

“I seem to recall someone speaking of lightskirts a moment ago. But you are correct, of course.” He smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his lips. “After all, generally ladies prefer not to hear about my accompaniment, but rather to live it.”

“You are astoundingly arrogant. Despite what the society rags claim, not all women fall under your spell. Exceptions to the rule do exist.” It was like staring at a carriage accident in progress. She could not seem to halt her tongue, draw her gaze away, or move her feet.

He gave her a slow perusal up and down, from the crown of her head all the way along her skirt. Spine shivering, she regretted not fleeing before.

Fleeing?

“Oh, I doubt it.” His odious confidence fairly oozed. “I’ve long suspected, Corrie dear, that you put on this prickle with me for safety’s sake.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

The smile deepened at one side, a dent appearing in his smooth-shaven cheek. Other women might call it a dimple. Corinna called it horrid.

He spoke beneath the hum of voices. “You want me to bed you.”

Scalding heat rushed into her cheeks and her mouth dropped open.

His eyes flared with satisfaction. “Ah, I am not off the mark, I see. The blush of the virgin reveals all.” He tapped a fingertip to her cheek.

She flinched back. “Perhaps your powers of observation are as poor as your judgment of character and your capacity for rational thought, Lord Chance,” she said through gritted teeth. “Members of the human species color in the face from anger as well as embarrassment. But since you don’t belong to that species, perhaps you simply do not know that.”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said smoothly, regarding her with lazy intent, as though he were reading her thoughts and finding them singularly uninteresting. “I believe you have had a secret
tendre
for me all these years. Haven’t you? Poor little Corrie. It would explain your attitude of contempt, a contrivance to protect your fragile self-esteem in the face of my continual disinterest.”

“My self-esteem is far from fragile, and actual contempt for you explains my attitude of contempt.”

“I think not.”

“Is that all you can say? You think not? Is that the extent of your ability to debate a position upon which you feel so fully secure?”

His crystal blue eyes danced. “The only position I feel fully secure in, my dear, is atop a naked woman.”

“You are disgusting,” she spat out.

“And you are a cold fish.”

“Reprobate.”

“Bluestocking.”

“Rogue.”

“Prude.”

“Dissolute.”

“Ice queen.”

Corinna’s head spun from the champagne. “I despise you,” she lashed out.

“The feeling, my dear, is entirely mutual.”

“I beg your pardon?” A thin voice sounded at Corinna’s elbow. “Could you help me?”

With a breath of relief, Corinna pivoted around. An elderly woman stood beside her. Garbed entirely in dove gray silk and chiffon, carrying a silver-tipped walking stick, with a gray silk hat sporting an enormous brim and a profusion of gray feathers, she looked to be about a century old. From within her face, lined to nearly caricature, a pair of soft, moist gray eyes entreated.

“Yes, certainly,” Corinna said. “How may I assist you?” They must have already opened the exhibition doors to the public. She would certainly know of a matron of these advanced years if she came from one of the families of the
ton
that Lady Chance had invited to the preopening soirée.

“Oh,” the woman tittered, her voice stronger than her appearance suggested, “it seems I have lost my reticule. I am here every day, you see, and the place feels so much like home that sometimes I leave my belongings about.” Her paper-thin lips smiled around surprisingly even, white teeth. “But I cannot see very well any longer. My eyes haven’t got the sharpness they used to.”

“Let me help you find it,” Corinna said.

The earl moved to the woman’s side.

“Madam,” he said in a steady, gentle voice Corinna did not recognize, “allow me to escort you to a chair while Lady Corinna looks about the place for your property.” With great care, he grasped the old woman’s hand and slid her arm through his elbow. The top of her outrageous hat barely reached his shoulder.

“Oh, you are very kind, young man.” She patted his coat sleeve. “And your lady is beautiful. The two of you make a lovely pair.”

Corinna’s gaze snapped to Ian, but his attention remained on the woman.

She pointed her cane at Corinna. “You will have charming children, I am certain.” She touched Corinna on the sleeve.

A jolt of heat coursed through Corinna from brow to toe. Her ears went cottony, the sounds of people moving through the chamber, talking, all abruptly muted. She blinked and gasped a hard breath. The earl’s hand hovered over his brow, his eyes half closed.

With a single shake of his head he seemed to recall himself.

“I will return shortly,” Corinna said, blinking again to focus her vision, and hurried off.

She found a little gray reticule tucked behind a life-sized statue of Ares, the god of war. She looked about for the earl and the old woman, but the hall had grown crowded. Instead, she followed the wall around the perimeter until she saw him ahead. He was taller than most of the men in the place, and she followed the sight of his glossy black hair until she reached them.

The old woman sat in a fragile heap on the stone bench, so thin beneath the gray gown that her bones protruded.