Page 68 of Dare to Risk it All

“So you should,” she retorted, and then flashed him a swift grin, snuggling into his arms.

They lay like that, content for a few moments, before Greer sat up.

“I’m famished,” she said. “Let’s see what they’ve left us to eat.”

“Good Lord, I thought I’d done enough to make you keep still for five minutes at least,” he complained, tugging the pillows up behind him so he could sit up. Greer stuck her tongue out at him and hurried into the adjoining dressing room to clean herself up, but ignored the pretty wrap left out for her use. Raphe watched her as she emerged and padded, stark naked, to the table and began lifting the covers.

“Do you want anything?” she asked him, glancing up and hiding a smile as she noticed the arrested look in his eyes.

“Yes,” he growled. “You. Come back here.”

Greer shook her head and picked up a small savoury tart, popping it in her mouth and chewing. She sighed with pleasure and picked up another. “These are divine. Are you sure you don’t want one?”

“You promised to obey me, wife,” he reminded her, mock severity drawing his eyebrows down.

“Good luck with that,” she replied with a snort of amusement.

“If you don’t do as you’re told, I might be forced to spank you,” he warned her.

She paused, a delicate cheese tart suspended in mid-air as she stared at him with interest.

“You’d like that,” she observed, realising that he did like the idea, very much. Curious now, she deliberately ate the tart and reached for another.

“Do you want me to punish you?” he demanded, an edge of excitement to his voice that made her breath catch.

Good Lord, they’d only just—and she—and he clearly wanted—good Lord.

“Maybe,” she said, giving him a wicked look before reaching for another of the delicious pastries.

Chapter 17

Dearest Aisling,

We have all missed you a great deal this Christmas, my dear sister.

Thank you kindly for my Christmas gift. It is a truly splendid waistcoat. However, please tell me you were not responsible for that garish monstrosity I saw Ashton sporting yesterday. I think it burned my eyeballs.

―Excerpt of a letter from the Right Hon’ble Conor Baxter, The Viscount Harleston (Eldest son of the Right Hon’ble Luke and Kitty Baxter, the Earl and Countess of Trevick) to his sister, Lady Aisling Baxter.

2nd January 1841, on the road to Marcross Manor.

At Laurie and Arabella’s insistence, they remained at Royle House until after New Year. Raphe knew he was further than ever in Bainbridge’s debt for how discreetly both their friends and the household staff treated them. If they felt like socialising, the couple welcomed their presence, but did not bat an eyelid if they disappeared and didn’t surface once all day.

By the new year, however, Raphe could not be persuaded to linger, no matter how great the temptation. So, with warm farewells, they set off on the journey to Monmouthshire.

As the carriage drew them ever closer towards a life he had left behind a long time ago, Raphe felt increasingly on edge, a fact that was not lost on his bride.

“Don’t fret so,” she said, taking his hand in hers as he watched the countryside he remembered from his youth appear around them. “It will be fine.”

Raphe snorted before leaning down to kiss her. “My wife, the optimist,” he said darkly.

Silently, she reached down into the carpetbag at her feet and handed him the handsome leather book his brothers had given him for Christmas. The name Marcross Manor glinted in the winter sunlight. Raphe took it, smoothing his hands over the fine brown leather binding.

“Perhaps I am optimistic,” she said, her voice quiet. “But what of it? What’s the worst that can happen? The estate is crumbling, we know that. So either we save it or tear it down and start again.”

“Simple,” he said, smiling at her.

“It is simple,” she retorted.