Lord Garson’s Bride (Dashing Widows 7)

“Thank you, Charles,” Hugh said. “I’m a very lucky man.”

He even sounded like he meant it. Feeling like a shaken champagne bottle, with happiness fizzing up ready spill over, Jane let Hugh lead her onto the dance floor. The orchestra played the introduction to a cotillion. She wished it was a waltz, then reminded herself she and Hugh would waltz later.

She’d whirled the evening away with a stream of partners, but she reached a stage where she hungered for her husband’s nearness. In the last few weeks, his touch had become an addiction.

As they took their places in the square, she stared up into his eyes and saw them darken with intent. “Are you desperate to dance, or may I take you out for a walk on the terrace?”

Susan had told her about enough balls for her to understand that “walk” was a euphemism for “privacy.” How delicious. She smiled at Hugh. “Did you read my mind?”

“It happens with married couples. My parents never needed to finish a sentence.”

“How very…economical,” she said drily, while the idea of such intimacy squeezed her susceptible heart.

He bustled her through the French doors before she had a chance to offer her excuses to the other dancers. The night outside was mild for March, but still cold enough to discourage guests from lingering. Flaming torches lined up along the balustrade, turning the large garden below into a region of mysterious shadows.

Jane laughed as Hugh tugged her toward an alcove around the corner of the building and out of sight of the ballroom. He rushed her across the flagstones so fast, she felt like her red satin slippers barely skimmed the ground. “Where’s the fire?”

He hauled her into the darkness. “If I told you, I’d shock you,” he muttered, as he backed her into the wall.

The saw of her breath betrayed her excitement, then she forgot to breathe altogether when Hugh’s mouth crashed down onto hers. Searing heat stole all thought, and after a startled hesitation, she kissed him back. With a rumbling growl of satisfaction, he set to driving her mad.

By the time he pulled away, her knees felt like wet string. She sagged against the cold stone behind her and gazed up at him. In the darkness, she could make out his high cheekbones and that determined jaw.

“I should take you back inside.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “You must be freezing.”

The places he didn’t touch were cold. Where he touched, her blood pumped hot. “Let’s stay a moment longer.”

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his body. “Is that better?”

She felt surrounded with Hugh. “Yes.”

They stood without speaking, and her soul fluttered down to lie easy in a way it hadn’t all night. Gradually she became aware of sounds apart from the music and laughter from inside. The rustle of leaves in the breeze. The tinkle of a distant fountain. The call of a night bird.

“I’ve missed you,” he muttered. “A pox on all those blockheads who insist on dancing with you.”

His mocking self-pity was amusing, but even

nicer was the note of sincerity beneath the humor. “Do you mean that?”

“I do, although there’s some consolation in knowing you’re coming home with me.” He firmed his grip until her breasts squashed into his chest. He was crushing her lovely dress, but she didn’t mind. “Are you enjoying your triumph, my darling?”

She loved it when he called her his darling. It made her all gooey, like toffee toasted in a fire. “Oh, yes. Your friends have been so kind to me.” She pulled away and pressed one hand to the ruby and diamond necklace she wore. “Thank you again for my present. I love it.”

Before they left Half Moon Street, Hugh had come into the bedroom just as the new maid Peggy finished dressing Jane’s hair. He’d been carrying a flat leather case, which he’d presented to Jane after Peggy had gone. What she’d found inside had robbed her of words. A glittering array of gems, fashioned into a necklace, a bracelet, earrings, and pins for her hair. She’d blinked back tears of poignant emotion, as she’d stared down at his magnificent gift, and wondered just why she was crying. Even now, with Hugh’s big, strong body sheltering her from the cold, the memory of her overpowering and puzzling reaction to his present lingered.

“On this special night, I wanted you to wear something bought just for you,” he said, as he rested his chin on her hair and tightened his embrace against the cold. “You’re welcome to use any of the family jewels, but I hope you’ll treasure my small tribute to how happy you’ve made me.”

“Oh, Hugh…” she said, lost for words, and feeling like crying again. Which was stupid when she should be ecstatically happy.

She’d long ago accepted that he was a romantic—only a dyed-in-the-wool romantic would pine so long for a lost love. And presenting her with that extravagant gift had been a romantic gesture, however unromantic their dealings might be. Yet some instinct made her keep that revelation about his character to herself. She didn’t want his past sorrows intruding on her evening. More selfishly, she didn’t want to shift his focus to Morwenna in a moment when his thoughts were all for his wife.

“I haven’t bought you nearly enough presents. Clearly it’s a lack I need to make up for.”

Although her sentimental heart still overflowed, she mustered a light tone. “Every man should have a hobby. If you want to shower me with baubles, I approve.”

“I thought you might,” he retorted. “We’ll need an extra carriage for all your finery when we go back to Derbyshire.”

“When do you plan to go?”