Mary gave him a soft smile and a peck on the cheek before walking off with Tristan.
“Trust her with a man that none of the mothers in London would trust their daughters with?” Rafe asked. Other than a slight limp when he walked with the aid of a cane, he showed no outward evidence that he’d had an encounter with his uncle’s villainy. Sebastian’s arm was in a sling as it recovered from the bullet that had passed through his muscle.
“I’d trust him with my life. Just as I do you.”
Rafe seemed taken aback. He glanced down at his polished boots.
“Rafe, I know I should have taken you with me. I would ask you to forgive me for leaving you behind,” Sebastian said quietly.
Rafe lifted his head, studying him for a moment as though judging his sincerity, then nodded. “Consider it done.”
“That easily?” Sebastian asked, unconvinced.
“I blamed you when I should have been blaming Uncle. He’s dead. Let the past be buried with him.”
“I do hope someday you’ll tell me what happened with you during all those years we were away.”
“Someday, perhaps. Although I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for it.”
Sebastian nodded. He’d have to be content with that.
As he and Rafe began walking toward the carriage to join the others, Rafe said, “Something seems different about Pembrook.”
“It’s once again a place of love.”
“Love Mary do you then?”
“I always have.”
“This evening, dress in your finest evening gown,” her husband had told her an hour earlier. “I am of a mind to have a very formal dinner.”
No company he assured her. Only the two of them. His plans coincided well with hers, because she was of a mind to tell him that she was with child. It chilled her to the bone when she realized that if Lord David had killed her, he’d have killed her child as well.
It had been two weeks since that awful night when Lord David had dragged her up to the tower. She awoke often with nightmares, the sound of the gun’s report echoing between the stone, the look of desperation on Sebastian’s face when he reached for her, his cry, “Noooo!”
He remembered screaming her name, but little beyond that. She recalled it all, every horrifying second, when she thought she would plummet to her death, when his arm snared her from the opening, when he threw them back, twisting his body so he was beneath her, cushioning her landing.
His blood, her tears, his heartfelt words. How they held each other in bed that night and every night since. The one thing they’d not done was make love. It was enough to hold each other near, to listen to each other breathing. To awaken in the throes of a nightmare and to feel his lips brush across her brow as he whispered soothing words.
“It’s all right. Everything’s all right now.”
His arm was healing. Today was the first that he’d been able to manage without the sling. She’d caught him a couple of times testing it, extending it, nodding as though satisfied with his efforts. She’d been so afraid he’d lose the arm, when he’d lost so much.
She gazed at her reflection in the cheval glass. She wore her pale pink gown with the dark green velvet trim. At her throat was the emerald the lords of Pembrook had given her.
A light knock sounded on the door and Colleen opened it.
“Is she ready?” an impatient voice asked in a low whisper.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Mary walked across the room, stepped into the hallway, and smiled. “You must be hungry.”
“For the sight of you.”
Poetry from her nonpoetic husband. Oh, and he did look handsome, although she knew he wouldn’t believe her if she said the words. He was freshly shaven, his hair styled to perfection. He faced her squarely, his eyepatch giving him a rakishness that set her heart to fluttering. He wore an unbuttoned black swallow-tailed jacket with black trousers and a pristine white shirt. His vest and cravat were gray. Where a pocket watch would be housed was a small lump that she knew was the soil he’d carried with him, wrapped in her ribbon.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said with appreciation.
“You must not believe these are merely words, because they carry the weight of my heart,” she said. “To me, you are truly handsome.”
He smiled, a true smile that touched his gaze, and although only one side of his face curved up, the other too burdened by scars, it was enough. “As I have said before, you are mad.”
His tone was light and teasing and it lifted her spirits.
He extended his arm. “Shall we?”
She wound her arm through his. “Your arm has healed?”
“Almost completely,” he said as they descended the stairs. “A few twinges here and there.”
“I thought we might have your brothers here for Christmas.”
“I would like that. Perhaps while they are here we shall have a portrait done.”
“I am not having a portrait done with Tristan.”
“I want one of you and me,” he said quietly. “And one of my brothers. They will not be us as boys. Those portraits are gone forever I fear, but Tristan has heard of a rather good artist who goes by the name of Leo. Word is that he has a talent for capturing on canvas a person’s heart. Perhaps he can portray me with kindness.”
“If he is half as good as claimed, and he sees what I see, I believe you will be most pleased.”
They reached the foyer and he escorted her down a hallway.