“Assuredly not—I refuse to promise to be a comfortable wife.”
His lips twitched. “You’re quite comfortable enough—‘obedient’ is the word you want, or ‘acquiescent’—you’ve never been either.”
“Nonsense—I am when it suits me.”
“Therein lies the rub.”
“I’m not going to change.”
He looked into her eyes. “I don’t want you to. If you can accept that I’m similiarly unlikely to change, we can go on from there.”
Portia smiled. Theirs would not be the marriage she’d wanted; it would be the marriage she needed. “Despite all prior experience, we’ve managed remarkably well so far. If we try, do you think we could make this last a lifetime?”
“With both of us trying, it’ll last.” He paused, then added, “We have the right reasons, after all.”
“Indubitably.” She drew his lips to hers. “I’m starting to believe that love can indeed conqueror all.”
He paused, their lips separated by a breath. “Even us?”
She made a frustrated sound. “You, me—us. Now kiss me.”
Simon smiled. And did.
He’d reached the end of his journey and found all he’d been seeking; in her arms, he’d found his true goal.
The Pavilion, Brighton
October, 1815.
His Royal Highness’s straits must be dire indeed if he needs must summon His Britannic Majesty’s best simply to bask in the reflected glory.”
The drawled comment contained more than a little cynicism; Tristan Wemyss, fourth Earl of Trentham, glanced across the stuffy music room, packed with guests, sycophants, and all manner of toadies, at its subject.
Prinny stood in the center of a circle of admirers. Decked out in gold braid and crimson, with epaulets high and fully fringed, their Regent was in genial and expansive good humor, retelling heroic tales of derring-do drawn from the dispatches of recent engagements, most notably that of Waterloo.
Both Tristan and the gentleman standing beside him, Christian Allardyce, Marquess of Dearne, knew the real stories; they had been there. Easing free of the throng, they’d retreated to the side of the opulent chamber to avoid hearing the artful lies.
It was Tristan who’d spoken.
“Actually,” Tristan murmured, “I’d viewed tonight more in the nature of a distraction—a feint, if you will.”
Christian raised heavy brows. “Listen to my stories of England’s greatness—don’t worry that the Exchequer’s empty and the people are starving?”
Tristan’s lips quirked downward. “Something like that.”
Dismissing Prinny and his court, Christian surveyed the others crowding the circular room. It was an all-male company primarily composed of representatives from every major regiment and arm of the services recently active; the chamber was a sea of colorful dress uniforms, of braid, polished leather, fur, and even feathers. “Telling that he chose to stage what amounts to a victory reception in Brighton rather than London, don’t you think? I wonder if Dalziel had any say in that?”
“From all I’ve gathered, our Prince is no favorite in London, but it seems our erstwhile commander has taken no chances with whose names he volunteered for the guest list tonight.”
“Oh?”
They were talking quietly, out of habit disguising their communication as nothing more than a social exchange between acquaintances. Habit died hard, especially since, until recently, such practices had been vital to staying alive.
Tristan smiled vaguely, distantly, indeed through a gentleman who glanced their way; the man decided against intruding. “I saw Deverell at the table—he was seated not far from me. He mentioned that Warnefleet and St. Austell were here, too.”
“You can add Tregarth and Blake—I saw them as I was arriving—” Christian broke off. “Ah, I see. Dalziel has only allowed those of us who have sold out to appear?”
Tristan caught his eye; the smile that was never far from his mobile lips deepened. “Can you imagine Dalziel allowing even Prinny to identify his most secret of secret operatives?”