In her new role as hostess, Henrietta organized the family dinner at Langford House that evening, which included the Pomeroys and the Wardley-Hines. The first piece of business, after a toast was drunk to the absent Lord Lucien, wherever he might be, was to settle the living of St. Alcelda on Mr. Rutherford Bales.
The second was to send word to Bellamy Hall that Mr. Rathbone Bales and his wife should prepare to return to the life and lodging of a solicitor’s family, a remove from which several unpleasant scenes were expected to ensue.
The newlyweds departed from Portsmouth the next morning on a wedding trip to the Austrian Netherlands. Despite the fact that France had recently declared war on Austria, Henrietta chose Flanders as their honeymoon destination. With them went the groom’s father, who had not been abroad in an age; Miss Bales, for whom it was thought travel would be very educational; and Miss Celestina, whose parents did not wish to be parted from her.
The Marquess of Langford strolled the gently rolling deck and considered the odd company in which he found himself. Near the mast sat his new daughter’s cocky groom, throwing thebones and telling Banbury stories to the sailors, who laughed uproariously as each tale grew wilder than the last. At the stern clustered the women, the baby’s wet nurse and the two maids scooped from some place called the Benevolence Hospital.
He’d heard Hetty had sent others from the same place to her estate. It must be some sort of placement agency. A pretty picture they made: the fair nurse who was rocking a drowsy Celestina, the dark-haired one who was singing in a voice fit for the stage, and the redhead teaching dance steps to Horatia, who laughed as he hadn’t heard her laugh in years.
Strolling the deck in the opposite direction was the woman who had brought all this into his life, leaning on the arm of her husband as they cooed in lover’s language to one another. Every so often, a sweet nothing drifted to the marquess’s ear.
“—invented an automated loom using punch cards that weaves patterns directly onto the silk, calledjacquard?—”
“—improved on Newcomen’s engine, but it requires a great deal of coal to create the steam.”
“—Hopton Wood Stone for the inside. He said the Duchess of Devonshire has it all over Chatsworth?—”
The marquess smiled. This was the best sort of lover’s talk, the kind to rivet his son to his wife’s side. No sensible man would risk the love and loyalty of such an intelligent, warm-hearted woman as Henrietta, and his youngest and wildest boy, it seemed, had finally come to his senses.
They reminded him of another pair of lovers who had once crossed the English Channel, a raven-haired southern princess who recited Italian poetry to her young British lord until his heart had swelled and burst out of his chest. God, he missed Pip. He missed all of them—Horace, Lucien, Lucretius, even Nell. The ache was enormous. And yet he was happy.
Henrietta fell silent,watching the English coast fade into the gray sea. Darien rested his chin on her head.
“Do you wish you were a countess?” he asked.
“No.” She squeezed his hand. “You will keep Bellamy in trust for Horatia, and Lucien still bears the title. And we will continue to pray for his safe return.”
“You are like no other woman on Earth, Henrietta Bales.”
She laughed. “I am often told that. Though I do wonder if a countess would have better luck securing subscriptions for her charitable homes and signatures for her petitions. Ah, well, Bess will see to it.”
“Is there a place for the husbands, do you think? The”—he searched for a word—“Gentlemen of Minerva. The Hounds of Actaeon.”
He pressed a kiss to her ear when she laughed again. “Neither sounds flattering. Perhaps you can form a society of your own.”
“For the reformation of rakes.” She stilled, and he noticed. “Still you do not believe me?”
Henrietta pressed a small kiss to his neck, that firm, strong, splendid stretch of skin. She had ample evidence of her husband’s devotion; their conjugal relations weremostsatisfactory. “I will concede the point in two score years, when I may say you have never looked at another woman.”
He chuckled, and she felt the flutter in her chest. “Minx.” He nuzzled her hair, then fell quiet. “You’ve never said why you chose me. I know very well it wasn’t because I kissed you at the museum.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Apollo.”
“You adore me for my physique? I should have known.”
She shook her head, glancing up at him. “Lord Ellesmere’s. I turned, and there you were. Looking—” So wary, so guarded, with such desperate appeal in his eyes. As if she, and she alone, held out the hope that could save him. “I’d been told to have nothing to do with you, because of your reputation. And then you handed me that ostrich feather, and I knew I had to take you in.”
His lips moved through her hair, his arms tight about her. “I hear Queen Charlotte has banned ostrich feathers from her drawing rooms. Too many of them tickling her nose.”
“I cannot blame her. I have banished all avian elements from my wardrobe. No more birds.”
“We shall name our firstborn Apollo Horatius Wardley Bales,” he said.
“I like Lucretia Frances. Or Apollonia.”
“We shall keep producing children until we run out of names. My scandalous bluestocking.”
“Lord Daring,” she said affectionately. “My rake.”
