Page 88 of The Cornish Inheritance

Chapter Thirty-Five

Sir Hugh lingered on two more days, allowing his family to say their goodbyes. He never regained the power of speech, but his faded blue eyes still held their fierce intelligence. Caroline was able to report to him how Trefusis and Mrs. Treloar had been both outwitted and dismissed from Treloar. His grip on her hand as she told him that Nat and Yves were now safe reassured her that he’d understood. Without Mrs. Treloar to turn to, Rodgers became much more biddable and inclined to oblige, and after Sir Hugh’s death, she was given a glowing reference and sent on her way.

After the funeral held in the small chapel at Kennegy Downs, the rector called the banns for three Sundays in succession and on the Saturday following the final calling, Nat and Caroline were finally married. Only immediate family attended, along with Caroline’s mother who’d arrived a few days before, Ysella and Sam Beauchamp, and Miss Hawkins, who came out from Penzance especially to celebrate not just the wedding but the future security of the young Sir Yves Treloar, baronet, aged nine and a half.

“I don’t want to be called Sir Yves,” he complained, several times a day. “I just want to be plain Yves again. Nat can have the Sir bit of it. It would sit much better on a grown man than it does on me.”

“It’s yours by right,” Caroline explained. “And one day you’ll be a grown man yourself and glad to have the title. But at home, we’ll just call you Yves still, have no fear. I can hardly tell a baronet off for getting his Latin verbs all wrong if I have to call him Sir.”

“You won’t need to tell me off,” Yves retorted. “I shall be good and studious, for a start. And on top of that, you won’t be my governess any longer.” He wriggled on his seat. “But instead, I should very much like to call you Mama, if I might? I’ve never had a mother, and Aunt Ruth never offered for me to call her that.” He paused. “Not that I wanted to, because she was so horrid to me. But I’ve always felt it unfair that Hetty had a mother and I didn’t. I’d like you to be my mother, if you don’t mind.”

Sudden tears moistened Caroline’s eyes and she had to wipe them away in a hurry and hope he hadn’t seen them. She put her arms around the little boy and hugged him close. “And I’ve never had a little boy before, either, but I should be most honored if you were to call me Mama. In fact, it would be a dream come true for me, for I love you like my own already. How could I not?”

Yves hugged her back after that for a long time, and she suspected he, too, might have had wet eyes.

After the wedding came the wedding breakfast at Roskilly, which lasted from early afternoon until the middle of the evening, with even Yves allowed to stay up late to celebrate and drink a small glass of claret, which made him first, squiffy, and then, sleepy. When the meal was over, two young men with fiddles came in from one of the nearby farms to play for the dancing. The servants were invited to join in to create more workable formations for the sets, and because, as Yves announced as he partnered a delighted Patience, there were “only the nice ones left.”

The last dance was by special request from Caroline—the waltz. And it was just for her and Nat. He took her in his arms just as he’d done on the night of the ball at Carlyon Court, and swept her around the dance floor, one hand on her waist, his touch hot on her skin through the thin gauze of her beautiful wedding gown. When the music finally ended, they were at the foot of the stairs.

He didn’t release his hold on her. “Shall we go up?”

She ran her eyes over the assembled crowd, which the wedding party had swollen to with the addition of the now tipsy servants, and met her mother’s joyful face. Tears were running down her cheeks, but tears of joy, not sadness. She was holding fast to Yves’s hand, as he’d adopted her as his new grandmother and refused to be parted from her. Mrs. Fairfield, to Yves’s delight, would be staying on after the wedding. “Goodnight, everyone.”

A rousing cheer, mainly from the servants, greeted this farewell. And Ysella blew her a kiss. It would have been wonderful if Morvoren and Kit had been able to come, but they were expecting another baby to add to their growing family.

Yves suddenly wrested his hand from Mrs. Fairfield’s and ran forward holding a single rose and thrust it into her hand. “For you, Mama.”

She lifted it to her nose and inhaled the scent. Her mother had one pinned to the bodice of her gown, no doubt also presented to her by Yves.

Then she and Nat turned and climbed the stairs, leaving the party to slowly wind down behind them.

*

In the quietof their bedchamber, Nat closed the door behind them and shrugging out of his coat, threw it down on the chair in the corner. Caroline walked over to stand beside the bed, staring down at it, perhaps a little afraid of what was coming next.

He unbuttoned his waistcoat, and that joined his coat. His fingers, trembling a little in anticipation, went to his cravat.

Caroline turned around. Never had she looked more beautiful, standing with the single rose held to her bosom. Hetty’s lady’s maid had wrought wonders with her hair, but all he wanted now was to unpin it and let if fall in all its glory over her pale shoulders. He let his cravat drop to the floor and rolled his right shoulder a little. It still pained him from time to time, and he’d always have to be careful it didn’t slip out again, but apart from that, and a few now barely visible bruises, he’d recovered well from their adventures.

Now to do what he’d wanted to do some time ago. Unwrap her slowly, appreciating every tiny exposure of her body, kissing every new inch he found. He stepped up to her and lifted his hands to her hair, pushing a stray curl out of her eyes. “I love you, Mrs. Treloar.”

It was the work of a moment to loosen her hair, allowing luxuriant chestnut tresses to tumble over her shoulders. He lifted them to his face, breathing in the scent of the rosewater on them as her hands went to the buttons of his shirt. His breeches felt suddenly far too tight, barely able to contain his arousal. If she were to drop her hand to it…

“And I love you, Mr. Treloar,” she whispered, a feather-light finger sliding over his ribs.

He bent and kissed her. Softly, at first, then with more passion, and she responded, her mouth opening beneath his, her tongue meeting his, and her hands slipping inside his shirt to the bare skin of his chest, then straying lower. God, how he wanted her. But he refused to hurry this moment. Neither of them would ever have it again—this first time, this discovery of each other’s bodies, and he wanted it to be memorable.

Their lips parted. “Turn around,” he whispered.

She meekly turned her back to him. Damn it. He’d intended to undo her gown and petticoat with steady fingers but he could hardly still the tremble. To hide it, he bent and, pushing aside her hair, softly kissed the back of her neck and down to her bare shoulders, her skin satin beneath his lips. He felt her shiver with excitement or pleasure… or both, and under his fingers the dress ties finally came undone. He slipped the gown off her shoulders and let it pool at her feet. The petticoat followed.

She was glorious.

Now her back was exposed, he let his lips trail over her skin as he started on the laces of her stays, his arousal throbbing uncomfortably in anticipation. Stay laces were harder than gown laces, he knew from experience. If he’d had a knife, he’d have sliced through them to get at her the quicker. At last, they were undone and the stays came away. Still with her back to him, she stood exposed in just her thin, gauzy slip and drawers.

He ran more kisses down her back, trailing them along her arms then back up to the nape of her neck, and gently turned her to face him. Her nipples, hard and erect, pressed against her slip. “Would you like to lie down on the bed?”

“I would.”