Page 117 of Marry in Haste
Radcliffe waved his thanks away. “Not sure it was necessary. The ladies carried it, I think. Those young women, Lady Maldon, Lady Burford, Hampton’s girl and the rest, make up a set she’s long been trying to become part of—the dashing younger set, future leaders of the ton. They took her aside and threatened to ostracize her.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
Radcliffe smiled, sphinxlike, which was all the answer Cal knew he’d get.
“You put on a good show there, family and friends rallying around, public show of support for your wife. Well done. Surprised your father-in-law didn’t show, though.”
Cal frowned. “My father-in-law? If you mean my wife’s father, he’s dead.”
Radcliffe gave him a sharp look. “Sir Humphrey? Dead? I didn’t know that. When did he die?”
Cal looked at him oddly. “Years ago.”
“Ah, I thought you meant he’d died in the last week or so—but now I come to think of it, if that were the case your wife wouldn’t be dancing at parties, would she? He’s not dead.”
Cal glanced over to where his wife was now dancing with some fellow. He lowered his voice. “Are you saying my wife’s father—Sir Humphrey Westwood, of Bucklebury in Berkshire—is alive?”
Radcliffe nodded. “Became something of a recluse in the last seven or eight years, I believe, but otherwise, as far as I know he’s hale and hearty.”
Cal’s brain was spinning. “Would you mind not mentioning that to my wife? Or anyone else. Just until I can confirm it.”
Radcliffe gave an indifferent shrug. “You know me. I’m a vault.”
“Thank you. I’ll call on you tomorrow.”
“What for? I can tell you now there’s no news of the assassin fellow. I’m beginning to think we were mistaken about him. I think he’s fled the country.”
“No, it’s not about him,” Cal said. “I’m coming in to formally resign my commission. You were right. I’m needed here.”
***
Cal and his family rode out the morning after the Braxton party, a little later than usual, not only because of the party, but because his wife had been in a strange mood—emotional, exhilarated and several times on the verge of tears. And very, very affectionate.
They’d made love three times during the night, and each time, she’d made love to him, taking the lead, lavishing on him every skill he’d taught her, and a few she was makingup as she went along. They were so attuned to each other’s bodies now, the experience was deeper, more intense. And after the triumph of last night, more joyous.
Cal would have been happy to spend the morning in bed. But she rose bright and happy and eager for her morning ride.
He’d offered her a different kind of ride and she’d laughed, a joyous peal of delight, and reminded him the girls would be waiting. In this mood she was irresistible, and Cal had crawled out of bed. And was now glad he had.
It was a glorious morning—crisp, but clear—and to see his wife and sisters and niece laughing and chattering as they picked over the evening’s events made him feel... well, he couldn’t name the feeling, but it filled his chest.
He hadn’t yet told Emmaline of the decision he’d made a few days before, the decision to resign his commission and take up his life here. He’d never really considered the future before. By necessity, he’d lived more or less from day to day. Now...
He looked at his wife on her spirited little gray mare. He had a future now. And a purpose.
They raced at first, and George won. She was a sight to behold on horseback. His sisters were good, but she... She’d mastered the sidesaddle and was now teaching Sultan to jump with it, starting with fallen tree trunks. And whenever she jumped, he caught a glimpse of breeches beneath her smart London habit.
The girls cantered off, their groom following, and, as had become part of their morning routine, Cal and Emm walked their horses quietly and talked.
“I didn’t expect to be supported,” she told him. “Not like that. I knew you’d support me.” She reached out to him and they held hands for a minute before the horses parted them. “I’ve been so alone for so long. Surrounded by people, yet essentially on my own, and facing a lifetime alone—and I thought I was content with that, honestly I was. But last night, when people—the girls, the Mallard girls especially, most of whom I thought had forgotten me the moment they left school, and Aunt Agatha, and, oh, everyone—cameforward to support me... I was un, unwomannedby their generosity, Cal.”
He nodded. It had renewed his belief in basic human goodness.
“Cal,” she said abruptly, in quite a different voice. “What is that man doing?” She pointed. “There’s a man crouched in that tree and he’s got a—”
Several things happened at once. Just as the man in the tree swung a rifle up in an action that curdled Cal’s blood, George, screaming like a banshee, galloped up to the tree and flung something. There was a loud bang, and the man overbalanced. Flailing wildly, he twisted to grab a branch, dropped his rifle and fell to the ground with a loud thud. He didn’t move.
Cal swung around to his wife. “Emm, are you all right?”
