Song From the Sea (28 page)

“Oh, yes, my lord? What would that be?” Plimpton finished wiping Adam's face with a warm towel, then stepped back to admire his handiwork.

“Miss Callie has agreed to marry me,” Adam said, and watched with satisfaction as Plimpton dropped the towel, exactly as Adam had predicted.

“Why—why, that's wonderful news!” Plimpton exclaimed, his eyes practically popping out of his head and his hands trembling like two large leaves in a storm. “Many congratulations, my lord. We all think the world of Miss Callie. When is the happy event to occur?”

“It will occur shortly, Plimpton, and with a minimum of fuss. Be so good as to ask Mr. Dryden to join me in my study after breakfast. I'll tell him the news myself,” he thought to add.

“Naturally, my lord,” Plimpton said, drawing himself up. “Would you care for me to inform the senior members of the staff?”

“If you'd be so kind,” Adam said absently, already in the process of planning his letters to Sir Reginald and to Doctors' Commons for the marriage license. He needed to write to Lord Fellowes as well, as a matter of courtesy, but that could be brief and to the point. He didn't expect any surprises from that quarter. He didn't really expect any surprises at all. Whatever the terms of Magnus Melbourne's will, they became moot once he and Callie were wed, for he intended to look after her and he had more than enough money to do so very nicely without any help from her inheritance.

Probably the person most surprised about his impending marriage was himself. Just a month ago he would have laughed himself silly if anyone had told him he would ever remarry. But just a month ago he'd been on his way to kill himself.

Adam frowned as Plimpton began the job of tying his neckcloth, not entirely sure when he'd changed his mind. He knew that the idea was no longer a consideration, not only because he was taking on the responsibility of Callie as his wife, and wouldn't do something like that to her, but also because life no longer seemed quite so … unbearable.

It had its moments, like the ghastly one in the woods the other day, but he had to admit that Callie had brought a certain degree of sunshine into his life—a surprising degree of sunshine, really, when he thought about it. She might have caused him a great deal of trouble, but at least it was trouble that he could manage, unlike his grief.

No matter what Callie seemed to think, grief was not something that could be put aside like an old pair of boots one had worn through. It stayed deep within one, aggravated by constant reminders, wearing down the heart and soul until just the effort of breathing seemed too difficult.

To be fair to her, she couldn't know, never having experienced the joy of romantic love or the all-encompassing love for one's own child. She had a dim memory of a father she'd loved, but nothing more. Oh—there was that man called Niko, but he sounded as if he'd been a friend, nothing more, so that wasn't the same.

No. Callie didn't have the first idea what romantic love was, only some high ideal of what it should be that she'd probably picked up in a book somewhere.

“Ahem,” Plimpton said, politely clearing his throat. “Your coat, my lord.”

Adam looked over at Plimpton, who patiently stood a few paces away, coat held out for him to slip into. “Sorry,” he said. “I was woolgathering.” He obediently turned and reached his arms back.

“I am sure you have many things on your mind,” Plimpton said kindly, smoothing out the fabric with a practiced hand. “If you have no further need of me, I will attend to the soaping of your boots.”

“Thank you, Plimpton,” Adam said, completing the same conversation that they had every morning, although this morning he was sure that Plimpton couldn't wait to bolt downstairs and corner Mrs. Simpson and Gettis with his sensational news.

He wondered if Callie was going through the same ritual with her maid. He also wondered if Callie still looked as pleased with herself as she had last night.

By God, she had taken his breath away, her body gleaming like alabaster in the moonlight. If he hadn't been sitting, he might have fallen over when she drew off her nightdress and revealed her small, high breasts with their pink-tipped nipples, that lovely small waist, the slender curve of her hips leading to the soft, light patch of down between her long, shapely legs. Aphrodite in all her glory: That had been Cal-lie, offering herself up to him like a goddess, fair hair tumbling around her back and shoulders, that gentle, alluring smile inviting him to partake of her.

He'd had his share of women, but he'd never seen anything like Callie. He'd never experienced anyone like Callie, who gave of herself with a freedom and an unselfconscious sensuality that made his senses reel just remembering.

Adam looked down at himself with an amused smile, thinking it was a very good thing that Plimpton had already left the room, or he'd be shocked by the badly disturbed line of Adam's trousers.

Marrying Callie might not have been what he'd had in mind, but it was certainly going to have its advantages. His heart might be irreparably broken, but he'd discovered that his body was as whole and healthy as ever. With a little luck, he might even manage to produce a son with Callie, and that would take care of Harold and his aspirations toward Stanton and the marquessate in short order.

The thought gave him immense satisfaction and yet another practical reason for remarrying.

Whistling merrily, he went downstairs to eat a hearty breakfast, gaze some more at Callie's tantalizing curves, and enjoy her conversation before settling down to the day's business.

Plimpton, taking every advantage of the astonishing information he possessed as his lordship's trusted valet, solemnly gathered the senior members of the staff in the housekeeper's parlor after breakfast, being gracious enough to include Cook and Roberts, the head gardener.

“I have an announcement,” he said, clearing his throat and pausing for dramatic effect. “His lordship has informed me that he and Miss Callie are shortly to be joined in wedlock.”

The stunned silence that followed hugely satisfied him, as did the almost instantaneous applause and cries of “Hear, hear!”

Mrs. Simpson collapsed into her armchair, shedding tears of joy that challenged even her oversized handkerchief, her loud sobs sending Cook, crying just as hard, running for the smelling salts as much for herself as for the housekeeper.

Gettis bowed his head and clasped his hands fervently together, as if he was offering up a prayer.

Roberts grunted. “Well, I'll be blowed,” he said, as if he didn't care that there was a lady present. “Good for the girl, I say, and it's about time we had another mistress about the place. She's a good girl, Miss Callie is, and appreciates the finer aspects of my plantings.”

Plimpton clapped his hands together, trying to get their attention. “If you will attend for a moment, I'd like to wish both Miss Callie and his lordship happiness. In support of that endeavor, I would also like to propose that we show a quiet and sustained indication of our enthusiasm for the match, as the time for grieving has passed and the time for celebration has come.”

“Dear boy. Dear girl,” Mrs. Simpson sobbed into her handkerchief and raised a tear-stained, swollen face. “Whoever would have thought when his lordship brought the poppet in that night that it would come to this? Such joy, such joy.” She dabbed at her nose. “Now, Mr. Plimpton,” she said, immediately turning to practicalities, “will we be having a large wedding or something more subdued?” She waved off Cook's offer of smelling salts.

“I believe the ceremony will be held quietly,” Plimpton replied. “We will need flowers, of course, Mr. Roberts, and a small wedding breakfast and a bridal cake would be in order, Cook, but from the little his lordship said, I think that we need not prepare for company. Perhaps later his lordship and future ladyship will want to give a party, but we must remember that this has been a house of mourning for some time and Miss Callie's health is still to be considered.”

“Nonsense. I've never seen a sign of delicacy in the girl,” Roberts said. “She looks right as rain to me. I don't know what you're all fussing over.”

Gettis glared at him. “You are not a doctor, Mr. Roberts, and Miss Callie is not one of your plants. We will continue to keep a careful eye on her until such time as the doctor declares her restored to full health, and I won't hear another word about it.”

“Rightly so, Mr. Gettis,” Mrs. Simpson said approvingly. “His lordship wouldn't have it any other way, and didn't he make that clear enough to me only the other day? I saw the way the wind blew, given the way he went on when he thought her missing. Yes, indeed, I saw it, didn't I, Mr. Gettis, but you didn't think he'd tumble in love so quickly after all the grief he's suffered since the tragedy.”

“As Mr. Plimpton said, let us put the sadness of that time out of our minds,” Gettis interjected quickly, not because he minded having been proved wrong—he'd already reached that conclusion the evening before—but because he really couldn't bear Mrs. Simpson bringing up the tragedy now. “I shall inform the footmen of the news, and you, Mrs. Simpson, and you, Cook, may inform your underlings. It is a great day, a great good day indeed,” he murmured to himself, returning to the tasks at hand.

14

I
am here as summoned, my lord,” Nigel said as he entered the study. “Plimpton conveyed your request with the air of a royal command, so I brought my humble and foolish self promptly. How may I serve you this morning? Or perhaps I should be serving myself—a little arsenic, perhaps?”

Adam was in too good a mood to let Nigel needle him. “I beg your pardon if I was short with you last night,” he said. “I called you in to tell you that Callie is going to marry me after all, and I wanted you to hear the news from me and not the servants, who are probably already buzzing like bees.”

Nigel raised his eyebrows and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, well,” he said. “This is happy news indeed. It's amazing what a difference a night can make.”

Adam, startled by this observation, regarded Nigel sharply, wondering not for the first time if Nigel had the ability to read Adam's mind. They'd been friends for so long that he sometimes felt Nigel knew him better than he knew himself. “The light of day can often bring clarity to a problem,” he said, not about to let Nigel know that he'd managed to thoroughly and happily compromise Callie. “She seems content with her decision. I suppose she simply needed time to recover from the shock of yesterday's events.”

“I suppose so,” Nigel said. “That's a woman for you. One never knows what they're going to do or say next.”

“One never knows,” Adam agreed, regarding Nigel with suspicion. Nigel's eyes danced with suppressed laughter as if he was enjoying a private joke, and Adam imagined he probably was.

Adam knew Nigel just as well as Nigel knew him, and he was damned if he was going to be a party to Nigel's amusement, not at Callie's expense.

“Why don't you get back to what you were doing before I interrupted you?” he said, thinking that in another minute Nigel would hardly be able to miss the physical evidence of Adam's attraction to his future wife, for just thinking about Callie in all of her abandoned splendor made his groin start to tighten with renewed need.

Looking at her was even worse and had created some serious problems at the breakfast table. He'd never been so grateful for his napkin before. He really didn't know how he was going to get through the next two weeks and still keep his resolution to stay away from Callie's bed until they were married.

Adam decided to put aside his letter to Sir Reginald and write immediately for the special license, so that it could go in the morning post. The blasted license couldn't arrive soon enough for his liking. He had to suppress a strong stab of guilt at his desire for haste, for he couldn't help feeling that his physical attraction to Callie was a betrayal of Caroline's memory and his love for her—even though love didn't enter the equation when it came to his reasons for marrying Callie.

Still, the least he could do would be to behave in a far more circumspect fashion and push his desire to the back of his mind, at least until he was safely married.

Concentrating on her careful pruning, Callie didn't realize that Adam had entered the rose garden until she heard him speak from behind her.

“The roses are almost as pretty—almost—as you are,” he said.

Callie dropped her pruning sheers and spun around. “Adam—you startled me!” she said with a breathless laugh.

“I'm sorry. I should have announced myself sooner, but I was enjoying the scenery.”

“It's lovely, isn't it?” she said. “Roberts explained all the names of the different varietals, but he's only just today decided to trust me to do the pruning on my own. He's very possessive of his roses.” She smiled up at him, happy to be alone in his company.

She'd seen him at breakfast, but they'd eaten with Gettis, Michael, and Henry standing nearby with their customary watchful attention, so she was forced to behave as if nothing had changed between Adam and herself. That had been an exercise in self-control, for she found it very difficult to eat toast and marmalade while thinking about the way that Adam's powerful, masculine body looked without the benefit of clothing.