A Study in Death (Lady Darby Mystery, A Book 4) (31 page)

I ran my fingers under the lapels of his frock coat. “What brought you to this conclusion? Did something happen?”

“My father,” he admitted.

I tilted my head in curiosity.

“He has always kept secrets from me, but I realized the other day that he also kept them from my mother.” His gaze strayed over my shoulder, as if thinking back. “I remembered an argument I overheard them have one time, and how unhappy my mother was when he refused to talk about his time away from us. As a child I hadn’t understood, but I recognize now that they were almost strangers. They wed for love, but then they drifted so far apart. Perhaps it would have been different if my father hadn’t been away so much of the time, at sea and manning the naval blockade against France, but somehow I think it might actually have been worse. With the war and the Royal Navy keeping them apart, at least they could blame something other than themselves.”

His eyes locked with mine. “I don’t want that to be us. I don’t want to live separate lives in the same bed.”

My throat constricted at the earnestness of his voice. I gripped his lapels harder. “I don’t want that either.”

“Then we’ll have to consciously curb our inclinations toward secrecy to keep it from becoming so.” He squeezed my waist in emphasis. “And hopefully, in time, maybe we won’t have to try. It will simply become natural.”

“I feel like I’ve already made great strides in that direction,” I admitted, and then smiled. “And a year ago I’m not sure I would have ever thought I would be able to say such a thing.”

“A year ago I’m not sure I would have either.”

I smirked, looking up at him coyly through my eyelashes. “Not even with Lady Felicity?” I teased, naming the girl his father had been intent on him marrying.

He grimaced. “Especially not with Lady Felicity.” His eyes narrowed in mock reproach as he leaned closer. “But you know that.”

“I do?”

“You should,” he growled, and I smiled.

But there was still one more thing bothering me, and he could tell. He pressed a gentle kiss to my brow. “What is it?”

“It’s only . . . Do you think your father will ever accept our marriage?”

“In time,” he replied, sounding less concerned than I had expected. “When he realizes there’s nothing he can do to change it. He’s not accustomed to being challenged, and you certainly do that, my dear.” He grinned. “It’s good for him.”

Then a tender light entered his eyes. “But what you’re really asking is whether I’m willing to endure his disapproval, and the answer is yes. Unequivocally, yes.” His voice dipped lower as he leaned in so that his lips were just inches from mine. “Is that what you needed to hear?”

“Yes,” I replied, becoming distracted by his proximity.

“Good.”

We didn’t speak then for a good long while, our mouths being otherwise occupied. I gained a new appreciation for the breadth and strength of Gage’s shoulders, and the privacy my studio afforded.

When reluctantly we parted, he did so with a groan, pressing his forehead to mine. “Do we truly have to wait until August to wed?”

“If we want to be married in St. George’s as Alana has planned.”

“And do you? Do you
truly
want that?”

I gazed into his eyes, which demanded my honesty, and at last admitted the truth aloud. “No.”

His shoulders dropped. “Then why are we?”

“Because I didn’t want to disappoint my sister. And I knew she needed something to distract her during her confinement, especially these last few weeks.”

“But now that’s over. So don’t you think you should tell her how you really feel?”

I dropped my gaze. I knew he was right. But I still hated to upset Alana. She’d done so much for me. I hated to ruin her excitement.

He squeezed my shoulders. “Kiera, I realize you know your sister
better than I do, but in this instance I’m quite sure she will just be glad to see you happily wed. It will not matter to her how it’s done.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” he stated with certainty.

I nodded in acceptance, feeling as if a great weight had fallen from my shoulders.

“So how would you like our wedding to be?” he prodded.

“Something simple and private. Family and a few close friends. I don’t need a grand affair or people who are barely acquaintances discussing my gown. A small wedding breakfast. And preferably sooner than August.” I paused in my recitation to study his face. “But perhaps you would like a larger wedding . . .”

He shook his head. “I only want to marry you. I don’t care how it’s done.”

My chest filled with warmth.

“Though I will say I definitely approve of your request that it be sooner.” He pulled me close. “Much, much sooner.”

So we wed two weeks later, with our family and a handful of our dearest friends by our side. And although the day was not without its hitches—including a missing necklace, a muddled cat, and a frightful tempest—the most important part was perfect. The part that made me Gage’s wife.

It is sufficient to say we were happy. Though we should have known our peace could not last, for soon enough we found ourselves embroiled in another inquiry, this one at the request of the Iron Duke, the Duke of Wellington himself. That it should take place in Ireland was intriguing enough, but that it involved the death of a nun was both shocking and unsettling. And as we swiftly found out, also
treacherous.

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