Chauncey (The Assistant)
Standing in the breakfast room with his lips firmly pressed against his wife’s, St. Clara found it rather difficult to release her. His shoulders felt light, like he was no longer carrying the boulder-sized weight of the past.
There was still a small voice in his head reminding him of the impending year. He wanted to ask Pippa if she would stay and be his wife in every way, forever.
They had lost nine years because of his father and a maid he barely knew. He couldn’t lose her again. He wouldn’t.
“I must write to my aunt, Julia, and Beatrice before my tour with Mrs. Morris, and you need to search for the document,” she said, her warm lips pressing against his cheek.
After their rather strenuous morning in bed, they had shared a late breakfast, their hands intertwined like they were still handfasted. The old Scots tradition had quickly become his favorite thing, and he would have to insist they stay handfasted every year on the anniversary of their wedding day.
Closing his eyes, he pressed his lips to hers again, praying she wouldn’t leave him. Ending the sweet kiss, he stared in her eyes, hoping she knew exactly how much she meant to him.
“Very well. You go and write your letters, and I will go to the stables.” St. Clara was aware it was imperative that he find the document with Maggie’s name on it. He recalled having it in his hands when Reaper’s men attacked, but now, it was nowhere to be found amongst the papers.
Offering his wife his arm, he waited, trying to ignore the loud thump of his heart skipping a beat.
Wrapping her arm around his, she smiled up at him, stealing his breath again as she had since they had reconnected in London.
St. Clara opened the breakfast room door to find Mrs. Morris waiting.
“Ahh, Mrs. Morris,” he said, releasing Pippa and placing a kiss on her hand.
He watched enthralled as his wife’s gaze dropped, her cheeks turning a delicate red color that threatened to reawaken his hunger for her.
Pippa hit his arm playfully. “Goodbye, Your Grace.”
Her sultry voice stirred his sleeping cock, and for a moment, he wanted to forget about his father and Maggie. “Mrs. Morris, I will meet you in the kitchens in an hour.”
“Very well, Your Grace,” the older woman said, smiling widely at his wife.
His wife disappeared down the hall, the skirts of her green day dress mesmerizing him.
“Your Grace.” Mrs. Morris pulled St. Clara’s attention from his wife’s pleasing form. “The town is in chaos with the news of you and Her Grace’s marriage and return to Archer. We have received countless invitations, and the front gate is filled with the tenants wanting to see you.” She clasped her hands together, giving him a smile brimming with sincerity. “We do hope you’ll stay through winter?—”
St. Clara shook his head, speaking over the matronly woman. “I’m afraid we must return to London right away. Please inform me when Mr. Sullivan has arrived. We are in need of a new carriage and a new coachman. Agnes, Patrick, and Randall will remain here until they are well enough to travel.” He turned to leave her standing outside of the breakfast room but her next words froze him in place.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I thought you would like to know that your mother’s personal things have been taken to the Queen Anne rooms. They were delivered here after the sale of Litchfield Park.”
All the breath left St. Clara at the mention of his mother’s things. He could not speak; he barely had the strength to nod his head in acknowledgment before he left the housekeeper standing in the hall.
He moved through the castle with ease, the mentioning of his mother’s belongings threatened to upheave the happiness he had been feeling all morning at finally learning the truth of what had separated him and Pippa all those years ago.
He remembered every detail of the large castle like it had not been years since he had lived in the two-hundred-year-old home.
There was a small part of him that wanted to stay and make new memories with his wife, but he knew they needed to return to London as soon as possible. St. Clara would rid their lives of John Reaper once and for all. But he could not leave until he found the document with Maggie’s name on it.
Being back in his childhood home reminded him of his parents. They had been a family for years, so the house never was a castle for St. Clara. His parents weren’t a duke and a duchess, and his sister wasn’t a bastard.
When Amelia was first born, the whole house had erupted in cheers as his six-year-old self played with wooden blocks in the middle of the green parlor, watching his father drinking brandy at the mantle. When Mrs. Morris finally came to inform them that the baby had been born, he remembered his father shouting happily, lifting him up and twirling him around.
His father’s jovial countenance started changing when the rumors of his sister’s parentage began when she was three years of age. He became cold and heartless even to St. Clara.
Once outside, St. Clara let the fresh air quell his increasing panic as he desperately tried to rid himself of the past. His only defense against the painful memories was his beguiling wife.
Finally reaching the stables, he found the carriage in good condition with only a few scratches. Climbing in, St. Clara searched around the empty space, wondering if he had conjured up Maggie’s name somehow.
Sitting, he threw his head back, exasperated with the outcome. He was sure he’d seen Maggie’s name right before the highwaymen attacked, but where had the proof gone?
