Stormswept (39 page)

“But there are others who yearn for schooling and have no chance of it. So take some of that money and influence you’ve gained by walking over people, and turn it toward opening a school as respected and prestigious as Eton, where Welsh children can go to learn about their own country’s glories.”

He glanced at Juliana, who nodded. “That would satisfy us far more than any apology. And you may find that it will satisfy you more, as well.”

“It will be done,” Overton vowed.

Northcliffe hesitated, then nodded. “I will make sure that it is done.”

Rhys smiled. At present he felt charitable toward the whole world, even Juliana’s family. His wife was at his side, full of love and hope for the future. They had Llynwydd and each other. And one day soon, perhaps, they would have children.

Indeed, life was good.

Overton stepped forward. “And now, my friends, let us seal the agreement with dinner. I fear if we linger here much longer, Mother will wash her hands of us.”

Northcliffe turned to the door and Juliana started to follow.

Rhys caught her arm. “We’ll be there in a moment. I’d like a word with my wife in private.”

As soon as they left, Rhys slipped his arms about her waist and kissed her long and deep, reveling in the ardency of her response.

Then she drew back, laughing. “I thought you wanted a word? It appears to me, my impatient husband, that you wanted to do something else with your mouth. But now is not the time or place.”

He thought of the long two hours ahead before they could even think of excusing themselves. With a grin, he walked to the door. After everything her family had made him suffer, they could wait awhile longer to watch him play the dutiful in-law.

Shutting the door, he turned the key in the lock.

“Rhys! ” Juliana scolded.

Yet her eyes smoldered as he stalked back to haul her into his arms, sliding his hands down to cup her bottom and pull her up against him.

“My life on’t, you’re a wicked man, Rhys Vaughan! ”

He nuzzled the top of her breast. “Aye,
cariad
. But no more wicked than my wife, I suspect. Shall we find out?”

Her breath was already quickening, and she slipped her hands around his waist. “Well . . . I suppose we can always join the family for breakfast . . .”

Then she smothered his laugh with her kiss.

And though in the desert night

I’ve wandered many a year

And often had to drink

Of the bitter cup, despair;

The yoke I suffered was my gain

And not for nothing came that pain.

—WILLIAM WILLIAMS PANTYCELYN, “FAIR WEATHER”

M
other, I want to go home! ” Five-year-old Owen threw himself across the bed in Northcliffe Hall’s nursery. Enveloped from head to toe in a flannel nightshirt, he tossed his auburn curls and crossed his arms, looking for all the world like his father.

“Shh! You’ll wake the baby, and I had a wretched time getting her to sleep.”

Thankfully, Margaret merely turned over and chewed on the corner of her blanket before settling down once more.

Owen lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I’m not sleepy. Can’t I stay up?” A wily look crossed his face. “Mrs. Pennant
is letting Edgar come over tonight, and Uncle Overton is going to let Edgar look at his French pictures. I want to see them, too! ”

Juliana sighed. Much as she loved her brother, he was such a bachelor. French pictures indeed! Lettice would be appalled to know her son was being corrupted by Overton while Morgan was away. It made Lettice uneasy to have her son at Northcliffe Hall, even though Darcy spent little time here now and was in London at present.

“No, you may not stay up. Tomorrow your father will be back and there will be plenty of things to do, not to mention the ride to Llynwydd. So be a good boy and go to sleep.” She blew out the candles in the sconce by the bed.

“But I’m not sleepy.” He yawned wide enough to swallow a small cat and settled against the pillow. “I’m . . . not . . .”

She watched him a moment. Although he’d gotten his auburn hair and green eyes from her, he was like his father in every other way—cocky and confident and arrogant.

And utterly lovable. With a sigh, she tucked the covers around him. “Sleep well,
cariad
.”

Picking up the brace of candles, she headed for her own bedchamber. Only one more day until Rhys returned. Although she was glad that he’d won a seat in Parliament as M.P. for the shire, joining Morgan as M.P. for the borough, she hated the long absences when Parliament was in session.

Coming to Northcliffe for part of the session had been a good idea, since it provided a change for the children and allowed her to visit with her family. And it was always nice to see Lettice. Between Lettice’s son and daughter and Juliana’s
own two, there was plenty to talk about. But like Owen, Juliana was eager to return home. Even after years with Rhys, she couldn’t get enough of his lovemaking.

With a sigh, she entered her bedchamber and began to disrobe. It was still early, but she didn’t feel like dealing with her family tonight. She wanted to lie in bed and read. And dream about tomorrow.

A noise at the window startled her. It sounded like . . . like . . .

She whirled toward the window, her heart jumping into her throat as she saw Rhys perched on the branch outside, tossing pebbles at the glass with a rakish grin.

She flew to open the windows. “Rhys! You’re here! ” Then she looked down. “Are you mad? You could fall and break your neck, you blasted—”

“I’m coming in.” He gave her only a second to back away before he swung onto the sill and into the room. He kissed her soundly, then murmured, “God, how I missed you.”

She covered his face with kisses. “I missed you, too. But if you’d broken your neck coming in that window—”

He laughed. “I’ll leave the tree-climbing to Owen from now on, but I couldn’t resist tonight. I saw the light in your window, and I knew if I entered downstairs, I’d have to endure an hour of Overton’s questions and your mother trying to force food on me, before I could finally get you alone.” His voice dropped to a husky murmur. “And I very much wanted to get you alone,
cariad
.”

He began to loosen the ties of her night rail.

“Why are you back so soon?” she whispered. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

He quickly shed his clothing. “The session ended early. I am yours for the next year.” His eyes gleamed as he jerked down his drawers. “
All
yours.” Then he carried her to the bed.

Much, much later, she lay beside him, sated and content, their bodies curved together spoon-fashion. His legs were draped over hers as he kissed her shoulder.

He splayed his hand across her belly. “Do you realize it’s been almost exactly six years since I returned to Wales? Yet we’ve been married twelve.” He nuzzled her neck. “Have you ever wondered what might have happened if the coach hadn’t been late? If we’d been able to leave together as planned?”

She covered his hand with hers. “We’d have had six more years together. Sometimes I hate Darcy for taking them away from us.”

“Me, too.” He laced his fingers with hers. “But other times, I wonder if our years apart made our marriage stronger. Perhaps we wouldn’t have known the depths of our love without our separation.”

She turned to face him. “An interesting thought, my love. You are either the wisest man I know . . . or utterly mad. I’d have rather had the years with you and saved us some pain.”

He chuckled. “I figured I should find some silver lining in the cloud Darcy created, since he’s established not just one but several schools in our names.” He sobered. “But really, don’t you think our marriage might have faltered if we’d been left to our own devices? We were so young and foolish.”

She stared up at the man she loved more than life itself. Was it possible their marriage might not have been so full and rich if they’d thrown themselves recklessly into it from the beginning? If they hadn’t been forced to overcome so many obstacles to be together?

“I think, my dearest husband, that time and place have had little bearing on our love. If we’d spent one hour apart or an eternity, I know I would have always loved you. We were meant to be together. Compared to that, six years apart means nothing, don’t you think?”

He smiled as he pulled her into his embrace. “Aye, my love,” he murmured. “Nothing at all.”

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London

August 1830

W
hen Warren Corry, Marquess of Knightford, arrived at a Venetian breakfast thrown by the Duke and Duchess of Lyons, he regretted having stayed out until the wee hours of the morning. Last night he’d just been so glad to be back among the distractions of town that he’d drunk enough brandy to pickle a barrel of herrings.

Bad idea, since the duke and duchess had decided to hold the blasted party in the blazing sun on the lawn of their lavish London mansion. His mouth was dry, his stomach churned, and his head felt like a stampeding herd of elephants.

His best friend, Edwin, had better be grateful that Warren kept his promises.

“Warren! ” cried a female voice painfully close. “What are you doing here?”