But perhaps, for him, the only easy thing would have been a wife who had no interest in him or what he did. A wife who only cared for hats and table settings. And he’d never be able to bear that.
“Prove yourself?” she breathed. “I could laugh at myself, Your Grace. I was always going to say yes. I know that now. Being with you, well, it makes me happy.”
“It makes me happy too,” he replied.
And the truth was he did love being with her. She was like a breath of fresh air, the female version of himself, and he had not realized how much he needed that.
Oh, how he had loved all the kisses that they had exchanged over the last weeks. He desperately wished to go further, but he’d not allowed himself to because he had been certain that such a thing would cause her family, no matter what she said, to turn on him, and he would not let that happen.
No. He was going to achieve his goal, just as he always did, and that was marriage to Cymbeline Briarwood. And he had succeeded.
Yes, waiting to take her to bed had been wise. Because he knew she hungered for him too. But he did not wish to be merely a lover. He wished to be the man she chose forever.
And she had chosen him.
He’d known she had the night they met, and he was relieved she was finally admitting it now.
They turned and bounced about the room, laughing and enjoying the lilt of the music.
“All right,” he said. “Christmas in the country it is. Somehow, I shall manage it. Perhaps we can import in all sorts of entertainment.”
She looked at him, her brow furrowing. “Do you always need to be entertained, Your Grace?”
“Of course,” he said. “I always need something to keep my mind engaged or else I go a bit mad.”
She tilted her head to the side, which caused the flowers in her hair to shimmer in the light. “Well, I suppose I can understand that,” she ventured, “but don’t you think rest is important?”
A muscle tightened in his cheek.
“After we are wed, perhaps we could go to the coast. We could promenade by the sea, lounge upon the beach, thinking of nothing but the clouds crossing the sky, and we could look out to the water and then go swimming.”
“Swimming is an excellent idea,” he said, wondering how to tell her there would be no such trip after their wedding. He did not take such trips. “Lounging is not for me. I won’t be able to do it. But I’m sure one of your cousins would be delighted to go with you.”
She frowned. “I see.”
A wave of concern swept through him. “Does that bother you?” he asked suddenly. Perhaps he had said too much. Perhaps he had he revealed the wrong thing about himself.
He studied her face.
Perhaps he’d made a terrible mistake. This was, of course, what he’d always feared. That he would go too far. That he would reveal some part of himself that was impossible for others to understand. For her to understand.
And this was why he usually always kept things on the surface. How was he to make her understand that he simply would never have the time for such endeavors?
“Of course it doesn’t bother me,” she rushed, a smile returning to her lips. “You are who you are, Your Grace. But sometimes it’s good to pause and actually look at the world.”
“Oh, I do look at the world,” he countered, turning her quickly about the waxed floor. “I just look at it faster than most people, you see?”
She tilted her head to the side and pondered him. “I suppose I do. And I suppose I actually admire you for it. You are a wonder.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you.”
And as the waltz came to an end, he took her hand and guided her outside. He felt they were on the verge of something, of an understanding. Perhaps a moment under the moon would help that along.
When they paused on the veranda, the scent of summer flowers wafting on the air, he turned to her. “You are suddenly not certain, are you?”
“Can anyone be certain of anything?” she asked as she took his hand, walked along the veranda, then descended to the path that wound to a pavilion covered with climbing roses.
“I want you to feel certain,” he said. “I don’t want you to ever look back and regret that you have chosen me.”
“I refuse to pretend anymore.”
He tensed. Dear God. What did that mean?
“I never should have made this preposterous condition for me to say yes,” she murmured, framed by the roses. “I did it to protect myself, as if I could protect myself from making the wrong decision. But you have always been the right decision. You were always going to be the right decision.”
He sucked in a breath and stepped towards her, his boots skimming the hem of her skirt as he swallowed her up in his embrace. “I felt it too. When we met.”
Her lips parted, and she trembled in his arms as she nodded. “I’m done fighting it. I’m done trying to be reasonable. Perhaps you have your flaws, but I have mine too. And I want you. My soul wanted you from the moment you crossed the room of that club and made comment about Mark Antony.”
He trailed his fingers along her jawline and tilted her head back. “Then you’ll be my wife?”
She nodded. “I will.”
He wanted to melt with relief. He had not realized how tense he had been.
How deeply he longed for her to be the one who said yes.
When he’d picked her that night, he’d not realized how much he wanted her.
He’d tried to rely on logic and reason that, of course, she, a Briarwood who dressed as a man, was the best choice for a man who lived like he did.
But she was so much more than that.
Somehow, he knew in his bones that she was the key to his life. And now that he had her, all the doors would open.
It was terrifying, but he couldn’t turn away from it. He had to be careful though. He had to make her understand that he would always be how he was. He knew he could be impossible, and so he had to give her something in turn.
“Now,” he rumbled, “it is my turn to have a condition.”
“Oh?” she breathed, licking her lower lip.
“I want you to come to Parliament and watch me speak.”
“Ladies like me aren’t allowed—”
“After the wedding, I want you to come dressed as a man and sneak in by my side, right under everyone’s nose, slip up to the gallery, and see what I do, so you will understand why our lives will be—”
She lifted her fingers to his lips. “You do not need to apologize for who you are, Callum. You see, I think I can understand you, all of you. How you cannot rest, how you can barely sleep. I won’t ever recriminate you for not slowing down, for not resting as my uncles and my cousins wish to do.
You see, I don’t believe that a wife should wish to change her husband.
So since I am saying yes now? I’m also saying I’ll never try to change you.
Because I want to marry you. Not who I think you could be. ”
His heart swelled at that. It was what he wanted more than the world, to be accepted for exactly who he was and, dear God, he found himself falling in love with her for that.
“Now, I think you must come to Parliament even more. I do not want you to forsake who you really are either, Cymbeline. For that is who I want. Not a society lady. Not a pretty debutante. But you, Mr. Marlowe. The cheeky girl in breeches who gave as good as he got in conversation with a duke.”
Slowly, oh so slowly, he dragged his thumb over her lower lip. “You won’t be the first wife to go in disguise.”
“Yes,” she said, frowning. “Caroline Lamb.”
He winced. She was who he was thinking of. Not everyone knew, but many did know that Caroline often came to Parliament in disguise so that she could hear her husband speak. But Caroline was a dangerous woman because she was in pain. She was a powder keg waiting to blow.
She was a legend already, but if she was not careful, she would be a pariah. The way she was acting with Lord Byron was hard to ignore.
As if she could sense his distress, Cymbeline stroked her hand up to his cheek, cupping it. “Whatever worries you, let it go. I shall not be like her. After all, you and I shall be happy.”
He hesitated as fear whispered through him. The first fear he had felt since the death of his father.
Caroline Lamb and her husband had been happy too for a good long time, and then it had all gone wrong. And he thought about what his manservant Shepard had said—that marriage always went wrong.
He swallowed. He would not allow himself to entertain the thought of Cymbeline and him falling into such ruin. He would not think of the pain of the future. Life was full of hills and valleys, of pain and joy. Whatever came, he would defeat it. He always did.