She cast a glance out the window, to the sea beyond and to world that awaited them. “I want to go,” she told him, “to all the places I’ve always dreamed of seeing.”
“Are you taking me?” he teased, nuzzling her neck with kisses.
Swatting his shoulder, she laughed, then pressed her lips to his, seeking his kiss, his warmth. “Of course I want you with me. I want to explore Venice, and Athens, and Paris, wherever our whims carry us. And I want to see it all with you.”
“Then I am at your command, Mrs. Reyburn,” he said, bowing his head to her. “I shall carry your trunks wherever your heart desires. And in the evening I shall warm your bed and keep you safe.”
“And my heart, Jemmy. Promise me always to be in my heart.”
He nodded. Then pulled her gown from her, slipped her delicate stockings from her legs, and when she was gloriously naked, showed her exactly how he would keep such a bargain …in Venice, and Athens, and Paris.
And sometime later, when the sun was high in the sky, they stirred from their bed and Jemmy held her close as they gazed out at the sea.
“Five thousand is quite a bit of money,” he said.
“What would you do with it?” she asked.
“Build a wall.”
She glanced up over her shoulder at him. “A wall? Whatever for?”
“For the gatehouse. I think twelve feet high ought to do the trick. And I think your aunt would approve.”
“And why do we need a wall around the gatehouse?” she asked, almost afraid to hear his answer.
Jemmy winked at her. “To keep my interfering mother out, of course.” Amanda laughed. “Yes, I think even Aunt Hortensia would approve of such a rapscallion expense.”
The Third Suitor
Christina Dodd
One
Wildbriar Inn, on the coast of Dorset, England
September 1847
Leaning over the high porch railing, Harry Chamberlain looked down into the flowering shrubbery surrounding his oceanfront cottage and asked, “Young woman, what are you doing down there?”
The girl flinched, stopped crawling through the collection of moss, dirt, and faded pink blossoms, and turned a smudged face up to his. “Shh.” She glanced behind her, as if someone were creeping after her. “I’m trying to avoid one of my suitors.”
Harry glanced behind her, too. No one was there.
“Can you see him?” she asked.
“There’s not a soul in sight.” A smart man would have let her go on her way. Harry was on holiday, a holiday he desperately needed, and he had vowed to avoid trouble at all costs. Now a girl of perhaps eighteen years, dressed in a modish blue flowered gown, came crawling through the bushes, armed with nothing more than a ridiculous tale, and he was tempted to help. Tempted because of a thin, tanned face, wide brown eyes, a kissable mouth, a crooked blue bonnet, and, from this angle, the finest pair of breasts he’d ever had the good fortune to gaze upon.
Such unruliness in his own character surprised him. He was, in truth, Edmund Kennard Henry Chamberlain, Earl of Granville, the owner of a great estate in Somerset, and because of the weight of his responsibilities there, and the additional responsibilities he had taken on, he tended to do his duty without capriciousness. Indeed, it was that trait that had set him, eight years ago, to serve England in various countries and capacities. Now he gazed at a female intent on some silliness and discovered in himself the urge to find out more about her. Perhaps he had at last relaxed from the tension of his last job. Or perhaps she was the relaxation he sought.
In a trembling voice, she pleaded, “Please, sir, if he appears, don’t tell him I’m here.”
“I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”
“Oh, thank you!” A smile transformed that quivering mouth into one that was naturally merry, with soft, peach lips and a dimple. “Because I thought that’s what you were doing.”
Harry winced. “A good shot.”
“I’ll be on my way,” she whispered, and started to crawl forward. “Warn me if he appears before I am away.”