Brighton, England
August, 1818
Gawain stood onthe terrace of Northam Hall with Reggie on a particularly fine summer’s day as they watched their wives engage in lawn games with the other house party guests. Reggie, much matured and proving to be of great help in managing the Bromleigh properties, had married Margaret three months ago, and appeared as besotted with the sweet peahen as Gawain was with Cherish.
The current game was archery, and teammates Margaret and Cherish were demolishing their competition. “You are a terrible influence on Cherish,” Reggie jestingly remarked. “She is as ruthless as you and Fiona at these games, not to mention she is turning Margaret into a competitive beast with killer instincts. We should not have allowed them to team up. They are showing no mercy to the others.”
Gawain laughed. “I shall be content so long as they beat Fiona’s team. Stomp on them. Rout them. Annihilate them.”
“Uncle Gawain!” Reggie tried to appear disapproving, but Gawain saw the twinkle in his eyes and knew he was just as eager to see Fiona defeated. They loved her, of course. But Gawain wasout for sweet revenge for the team she had saddled him with during her own house party last year.
What misery!
And Fiona had yet to stop teasing him about it.
His friends, Camborne and Lynton, had admired her diabolical genius when told about the torment she had put him through. Those Silver Dukes would arrive soon, but Gawain was already exacting this harmless prank on Fiona. Why wait when the perfect opportunity had already presented itself?
And what could be sweeter revenge than to have Cherish and Margaret, the two sweetest and gentlest ladies at this party, defeat her?
“You invited Pershing just to stick him on Fiona’s team, didn’t you?” Reggie accused. “Lord, he’s so drunk, I’m surprised he is still standing. I ought to go over and take his place. He is going to shoot someone through the eye with his arrow, probably himself. The man is utterly useless. His arrows have yet to hit a single target.”
Gawain stopped him. “Fiona is about to strangle him with his own bow. I cannot wait to watch this.”
Durham now joined them, laughing just as hard as he and Reggie were as they watched Fiona chasing Pershing around the lawn. “You are cruel, Bromleigh.”
Gawain grinned. “Pershing is too drunk to keep running for long. He’ll pass out soon. I’ll rescue him before Fiona actually strangles him,” he said. “Oh, hell,” he added a moment later. “Cherish is going to rescue him. Botheration—I had better get down there before she ends up with a black eye.”
He raced onto the lawn and caught his wife gently around her increasing waist. “Love, you are in no condition to be mixing it up with those two.”
“Fiona knows my condition and will be careful around me,” she assured him.
“But Pershing doesn’t. You are only four months along and hardly showing yet. I will have to kill him if he hurts you, accident or no.”
She cast him a loving look. “Gawain, you are being apishly protective again. But very well. For the sake of saving Pershing’s life, go ahead and separate those two before Fiona knocks out one of his teeth. You know how competitive she is, so why torment her? You are having far too much fun with this.”
“It is nothing to the agony she put me through last year. Although she did find me my perfect match, so I suppose I ought to be grateful. All right, I’ll put Durham on her team tonight. He’s a very smart fellow. I’ll even let her team win, if that will make you happy.” He gave Cherish a lingering kiss, and then ran off to haul Fiona off Pershing, who was sprawled on the grass and not moving. “He looks dead,” Gawain muttered. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“No, but it isn’t for lack of trying,” Fiona grumbled. “I can hear him snoring. Just leave him there. He is in no one’s way and will eventually wake up on his own. I hope it rains on him.”
Gawain glanced up at the sky that was a deep, cloudless blue. “No rain today.”
“Too bad.” Fiona sighed and returned to the other guests to finish the archery game her team could not possibly win, since Pershing had just forfeited his turn.
Gawain returned to Cherish’s side, amazed by how exquisite she looked. She grew lovelier by the day—quite a feat, because she had always been strikingly beautiful. There was a serene beauty about her, an ethereal glow that radiated from within.
She had wrapped herself around his soul.
He was shamelessly happy in this marriage. But it was easy to love Cherish because—these cutthroat house party games aside—she was the kindest, sweetest, and most caring wife a husband could have.
“Gawain, I see Potter setting out refreshments on the terrace. Would you care for some lemonade?”
“No thank you, love.” He had gone hard after her uncle, the Earl of Northam, because she was such a genuinely good person and had not deserved any of that oaf’s cruel treatment. His villainous accomplices were now disgraced and imprisoned. Gawain, with the assistance of Reggie, Durham, and London’s finest Bow Street runner, Homer Barrow, had recovered all she was due to inherit. At his behest, the Crown had imposed a heavy fine on Northam, burdening his entailed estate so that he and his wife were forced to live on the brink of penury, as they deserved.
“Are you sure I cannot pour you a lemonade?” Cherish asked. “It is getting warm out here.”
“I’m fine, sweetheart. Reggie, Durham, and I shared a bottle of brandy earlier.”
“Hmm, no wonder you have a naughty glint in your eye. You are forbidden to carry me off into a quiet corner and kiss me senseless. Understood?”
