“Did you reconcile with the duke?” She scanned his expression, trying not to show her irrational hopes on her face. She knew it would mean so much to him if his public reputation could be restored.
“Not reconciled, precisely. He purchased me a commission. It’s a ceremonial office, mostly—diplomacy, not combat. Apparently it galled the old duke to think of his heir serving as a lowly enlisted soldier.”
“Or perhaps he cares about you, Harry. You know—in a disapproving, distant, duke-ish way.” Eliza threw her arms about his neck and hugged him tight. “I’m so relieved for you.”
“Don’t get too excited. The income will be enough to support us, but it won’t be an extravagant lifestyle.”
“I don’t need extravagance.”
“Good. A modest house in Town is likely all we can manage. No grand tour of the Continent or palatial country estate just yet. But I can promise you a new frock twice a year, and we’ll be able to give the children meat on Sundays.”
She gave his shoulder a light punch. “Stop joking.”
“I’m not joking. I’m very serious about the children part. And we’d best start soon. I’m not getting any younger.”
She blinked back a tear. “I’d reconciled myself to a lifetime as the maiden aunt. If you didn’t want me when you returned, or…” Her voice failed. She swallowed a painful lump and tried again. “Or if you didn’t return at all.”
She dropped her gaze to his mussed neckcloth, unable to look him in the eye for a moment. Soon she would walk down the aisle with Georgie. This wasn’t the time to dissolve into tears.
Tying his cravat made the ideal diversion. She took her time smoothing every fold and sharpening every crease. When she’d finished, she sniffed and tried to smile. “There now. All better.”
“Eliza.” Devotion simmered in his gaze. “I’ll never leave you again.”
He tightened his arms, plucked her off her feet, and twirled her in a circle. She landed dizzied by her short flight and absolutely muddled with love for him.
He teased her lips with gentle kisses. “I’ll wait to marry you. But I won’t wait long. I’ve been waiting years already.”
Eliza understood, with all her heart. She’d been waiting years, too.
“I told you I wanted a wedding day of my own.” She caressed his cheek. “But that doesn’t have to mean a long wait. I believe it’s a different day tomorrow.”
His lips quirked in that devilish way. “So it is, my dear. So it is.”
Tessa Dare is a part-time librarian, full-time mommy, and swing-shift author of historical romance. She makes her home in Southern California, where she shares a cozy, cluttered bungalow with her husband, their two children and a big brown dog.
Follow Tessa Dare on twitter at @TessaDare, like her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/TessaDareAuthor, or visit her website at http://www.TessaDare.com.
More about Tessa’s other books, and an excerpt from her upcoming release, A Lady by Midnight, can be found at the back of this book. Click here for a shortcut.
To Anne. Tiako ianao.
And to all the readers who asked for Cat’s story. Your reviews, comments and emails have meant the world to me. Enjoy!
Many thanks to Ashlyn Macnamara, Emily Greenwood and Tracy Brogan for their wonderful critiques on this novella. The Dashing Duchesses are a treasure! Rhonda Helms and Martha Trachtenberg, thank you for editing. And my heartfelt gratitude to Carey, Tessa and Courtney—your friendship is a balm to my soul.
Nottinghamshire, 1821
HE WAS SIMPLY a boot at first. A scuffed boot propped on her newly upholstered ottoman. Catherine Meredith Carthwick Raybourne, the Marchioness of Forster, paused on her way down the hall. Quiet settled as quiet does on a tame Wednesday afternoon. The butler had not announced any guests, and her brother was not to return to Nottinghamshire for five days yet. The boot gave way to a long leg. Cat leaned forward and peered around the corner of the library door.
And nearly fell over.
She’d never expected to find her missing husband in the library.
Forster sat in a puddle of sunlight beneath the near windows, all dark hair and tanned skin. He’d removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and propped his dusty boot on her Chinese silk.
Her husband was home.
Cat had awaited his return for five years. Five long years of moldering in the country with nary a letter from him. Nary an inquiry or a simple message directed through an impartial third party.
Only once, in all that time, had she queried her errant spouse’s whereabouts. The family solicitor was “not at liberty to share such information.” But he did confirm, “The marquess is of sound health and mind.”
Catherine had received the news with a proud spine and undiminished composure. Inside, she’d been gravely disappointed.
Forster, it seemed, was not stranded on an exotic island with a strange disease. Or trapped by the ice in the cold north. Or eaten by a bear in the Americas. More’s the pity.