Page 29 of The Marquess's Final Fling
She faced him, tears on her lovely long lashes. “And if she needs time to accept that, will he grant her that?”
“He would give her anything in this world or the next.”
She struggled not to cry.
This, he saw, was his moment to proclaim his earnest dedication to her. He got to his feet and went to his traveling satchel in the far corner. Fishing to the bottom, he extracted the small flat case he’d brought with him from home. This he laid by her side and returned to his place on the bench.
She searched his gaze, then reached for it and opened the lid. One hand to her mouth, she sniffed. Then she ran her fingers over the long strands and the delicate ear-bobs.
“Those are the pearls of all the duchesses of Harlow. Worn at each marchioness’s wedding, they are now yours, my darling.”
And with a cry, she ran to him and kissed him. Her lips were sweet apology and his were kind understanding.
He stood and led her to the bed where he took his time removing her clothes, blessing all her skin revealed to him as he went. And in silence, she did the same for him.
Their union was slow and sensual, a bonding of body and mind.
That afternoon, the storm cleared.
The following morning, Theo hired a messenger to ride to Marsden Hall in Brighton. He ordered his coachman to prepare the carriage, get Penn’s maid and come for them at the Royal Swan.
Chapter 9
Taking his seat in Parliament was usually the reason for him to spend the winter in London. This year, he could give a fig about making laws. No indeed. He was interested in gaining a wife and making love to her.
The means to do it was his problem. And for days, he walked his study and pondered what his new plan must be to get the job done.
He’d collected his daughters from his sister’s where they’d spent their Christmas and repaired to his Mayfair townhouse in London. When his youngest Suzanna came down with a fever and chills, he’d called in his favored family doctor. The man, as ever an expert, had prescribed lots of hot tea, broth and cold compresses. Within a week she was better and Theo trained his focus once more on Penn.
When days later he once more walked into his study and took up his correspondence, he saw a letter marked with the escutcheon of his father.
He tore it open, vowing not to allow his anger to dominate his response. If his father was not willing to bless his marriage, Theo had made his position clear. He would not budge.
But the words in his father’s bold brash handwriting sustained him.
“‘I am sorry, Theo. I was wrong to deny you what I myself enjoyed. A woman to love who loves you in return is a blessing. I should never have stood in your way. I do not now. Nor ever again.’”
Theo had to read the letter three times before he could smile.
Then he put it away in his special drawer with the seal of the marquessate and the deeds to his properties. That letter, he wanted to show his children when they were old enough to fall in love and marry. He sniffed back his sorrows and straightened the points of his waistcoat.
He was ready to devote himself to his other project with his whole heart.
As in any diplomatic maneuver, he knew allies would be key. But precisely whom could he enlist in a campaign to persuade a stubborn lady to marry him? His father, long his best friend in most matters, had not been that when it came to marrying Penn. Besides, in a second letter from his father yesterday afternoon, the duke told him that he was about to marry Gertrude Harlinger, the Countess of Marsden. Shocking and delightful as that news was, he knew his father would remain in Brighton for the next week or more. The ally Theo needed for this venture should be one who was in town.
So who?
Men were good conspirators but they usually frowned upon working with a man besotted by a woman. Though men complained and many even objected to marriage, if a man wished to get himself leg-shackled, he could jolly well do it by himself.
So. A woman it was.
He’d require one who did not argue with him. Dear god. Was there any woman in the world who did not pick a man apart? He snorted. Only his Penn. He’d been married to two different women, each opposite in temperament, but both had always argued with him…or rather given him their best opinion on anything from tenant rents to curbing their dressmakers’ bills.
But there was one gem. Not a perfect woman by many standards. She liked to gossip. She spent money like it grew in her rose garden. She drank. Oh, my, like a bawdy, she did. But she could hold her liquor…and her tongue. She’d proven it at the Countess of Marsden’s house party when she’d often spied him with Penn, but she’d never spread a word to cause a scandal. She also had been a good friend of his mother. Acid-tongued but always had used her acerbic words to back those she befriended and those she loved.
Two weeks after he arrived in London, he called upon the lady in question.
“Lady Bridgewater, I am honored you have received me.”
