Part 1 (2/2)
”Surely your children will object to you remarrying. They will consider it an insult to their mother, and they'll resent any legacy you might bequeath me.” She thought of the earl's three grown children. They were pleasant enough to her as a minor member of the household, but the idea of young Gwynne Owens as their stepmother was indeed absurd.
”I am still the master of Harlowe House and may do what I choose,” he said dryly. ”But after I have spoken to them, they will not object. Marrying you would serve Guardian interests, if you would be willing to accept me.”
She tried to conceal her disappointment. ”You are proposing because it is your duty to the Families, Lord Brecon?”
”While preparing you for your destiny benefits our people, I could do that without wedding you. I . . . I have always found pleasure in your company, Gwynne,” he said haltingly. ”The years since Charlotte died have been lonely. Your wit and warmth and grace would be a blessing beyond what an old man deserves. I would be honored and grateful if you would become my wife.”
He meant it, she realized. This wonderful man of power and wisdom truly wanted her to marry him. For the first time in her life, she felt the presence of power-not the power of magic, but the even more ancient power of a woman to please a man.
Glowing with delight, she rose and offered him her hands. ”You do me honor beyond anything I've ever imagined, my lord. If you truly wish it, I will gladly be your bride.”
With a smile that took her breath away, he clasped her hands. ”This is right for both of us, Gwynne, I know it.”
So did she, with a certainty beyond reason. Impulsively she raised their joined hands and pressed a kiss on his gnarled knuckles. Already she was saddened to know how short their time together would be. But she would make sure that he didn't regret this decision.
Destiny could take care of itself. For now, she would concern herself with being a good wife.
ONE.
Summer 1745 Richmond, England.
D uncan Macrae inhaled deeply, intoxicated by the rampant scents of summer. Having arrived in London the night before after a long, grueling tour of the Continent, he would have preferred to spend the day sleeping, but his friend Lord Falconer had insisted on dragging him from London to Richmond. Now Duncan was glad he had come.
As they rounded the corner of their hostess's mansion, he scanned the women in gorgeous gowns who drifted across the emerald gra.s.s, flirting outrageously with even more gorgeous gentlemen. ”The ladies of London are like a bouquet of exotic flowers.”
Simon Malmain smiled lazily. ”You'll find no females so exquisite in those wild Scottish hills of yours. ”
”Scottish la.s.sies are just as lovely, and with far less artifice.” Duncan glanced at the sky. ”Lady Bethany chose her day well. Britain at its best.”
”As you know, she has some Macrae blood. Enough to always choose a fine day for her entertainments despite our chancy English weather.” Simon lovingly smoothed a wrinkle from his blue brocade sleeve. ”If rain threatened, I'd not have worn this new coat. It was d.a.m.nably expensive.”
Duncan grinned. His friend mimicked the manners of a fop so perfectly that even Duncan, who had known him since the nursery, sometimes had trouble remembering that Simon was the most dangerous mage in Britain. Except, perhaps, for Duncan himself. ”Where is Lady Bethany? I should pay my respects to our hostess. It's been years since I've seen her.”
Simon shaded his eyes to scan the crowd. ”Over there, below the gazebo.”
The men turned their steps toward their hostess. Duncan eyed the lavish refreshment tables with interest, but eating must wait upon manners. As they neared the gazebo, he heard a string quartet inside, playing music as lighthearted as the day. ”It's hard to believe that the shadow of civil war lies over Britain, ” Duncan said softly.
”That's why you're here,” Simon said with equal softness. ”And it's why I and others have spent so much time in Scotland. The future isn't fixed. If we Guardians build enough bridges between our nations, perhaps war can be averted.”
”Perhaps, but the Scots and the English have been fighting for centuries, and such b.l.o.o.d.y habits are not easily broken.” Duncan gave his friend a slanting glance. ”The first time you and I met, we did our best to beat each other unconscious.”
”Yes, but that wasn't based on the fact that you were a barbarian Scot,” Simon said promptly. ”I hated you because you were brought to the nursery during my lessons, and immediately proved that your Greek was better than mine.”
Duncan smiled wryly as he remembered that first encounter. ”I suppose that's better than hating each other for our nationalities.”
The group they were approaching included half a dozen men and women, with the rounded figure and silver hair of Lady Bethany Fox in the center. Though past her seventieth year, she had the posture and fine bones that had made her an acclaimed Beauty her entire life. She was a pa.s.sionate gardener, a doting grandmother, and the most powerful sorceress in Britain.
Lady Bethany laughed at something said by the woman at her side. Duncan s.h.i.+fted his gaze, and stopped dead in his tracks, entranced by Lady Beth's companion. Tall and elegant, she wore a creamy gown of modest cut, yet her demure garb couldn't disguise a lushly curving figure designed to drive men mad. As if that wasn't alluring enough, her straw bonnet accented a cla.s.sically featured face that sparkled with humor and intelligence. This was a dangerous woman.
”Dear G.o.d,” he breathed as thunder cracked in the distance. ”Helen of Troy.”
”I beg your pardon?” Following Duncan's gaze, Simon said, ”Ah, Lady Brecon. A lovely la.s.s, but launch a thousand s.h.i.+ps? I think not. Five or six at the most.”
”Ten thousand s.h.i.+ps. More. She is like an ancient enchantress whose glance could drive men to madness.” Duncan gave thanks that Lady Brecon was unaware of his devouring gaze. In the full flower of her womanhood, she was so compelling that he could not have looked away to save his life. ”Lord Brecon's wife, you say? The earl has good taste.”
”She's not wife to the present Brecon, but widow to the old one. You were on the Continent when they married, but it was something of a scandal since she was only seventeen and Brecon was over seventy. She seemed rather a plain girl at the time.”
”Plain?” Duncan watched as the lady turned her attention to a languid young fop in gold brocade. The pure curve of her throat mesmerized him, and that luminous skin begged to be caressed. ”Her?”
”She blossomed during the marriage-a wealthy husband often has that effect. But she and Brecon seemed most sincerely devoted.”
Trust Simon to know all the gossip. Absurdly grateful to learn she was a widow, Duncan tried to remember when the fifth Lord Brecon had died. A little over a year ago, he thought. ”She must have legions of suitors now that she's out of mourning.”
”She has many admirers, me among them, but I've never seen her favor any in particular.” Simon c.o.c.ked one brow. ”I haven't seen you like this since we went to the gypsy horse fair and you spotted that gray hunter.”
His friend was right. Duncan had been sixteen when he saw that horse, and his reaction was the same as today when he saw Lady Brecon: He had to have her.
He drew a slow breath, reminding himself that he wasn't sixteen anymore, the lady might be a shrew, or she might find him as alarming as most women did. One might purchase a desirable horse, but women were more difficult. ”If she was Brecon's wife, she must be a Guardian?”
”Yes, one of the Owenses. She has no power to speak of, but she grew up in the library at Harlowe and is a notable scholar of Guardian lore. Since her husband died, she lives here in Richmond with Lady Bethany.” Simon grinned. ”Hard to believe they're sisters-in-law. The dowager countess looks like Lady Bethany's granddaughter.”
If the lady was bookish, it didn't show. From her powdered hair to her dainty slippers, she was an exquisite confection designed to ornament the highest social circles.
Thunder sounded again, this time closer. Duncan's eyes narrowed. Directness was out of place in aristocratic London, but it was the only way he knew. ”Introduce me to the lady, Simon, so I can learn if she is as perfect as she appears.”
Gwynne smiled at the appallingly bad sonnet Sir Anselm White had recited to her. Though his heart was in the right place, his verses were leagues away in the wrong direction. ”You flatter me, Sir Anselm. My eyes are light brown, not 'sapphires bluer than the summer sky.'”
His languid gaze came briefly into focus as he studied the color of her eyes. ”Golden coins that outs.h.i.+ne the sun!”
She guessed that a metaphor had fallen on the poor man's head when he was an infant and he had never recovered. Since a small amount of Sir Anselm's poetry went a long way, she was glad to hear Bethany say, ”Lord Falconer, how good to see you again.”
Giving Sir Anselm a last smile before turning away, Gwynne greeted the newcomer warmly. ”Simon, my favorite fop!” She extended her hand. ”You've been neglecting me, you rogue.”
One of the handsomest men in London, Falconer was always worthy of admiration. Today his fair hair was tied back with a blue riband the same shade as his brocade coat, both an exact match for his azure eyes. That embroidered silver waistcoat was more deserving of sonnets than any part of Gwynne's body. He could give Sir Anselm lessons in languid elegance-and underneath the elegance, he was a glittering blade sheathed in silk.
”A fop?” He sighed dramatically. ”You wound me, my lady.” He bowed over her hand with consummate grace, looking not at all wounded. ”Allow me to present my friend Lord Ballister. You'll have heard of him, I think, but he's been travelling abroad for some time and says you've never had the opportunity to meet.”
All Guardians had heard of Lord Ballister. Chieftain of the Macraes of Dunrath, among the Families he was known as Britain's finest weather mage. Some said he was even more powerful than his ancestor, Adam Macrae, who had conjured the great gale that destroyed the Spanish Armada.
Since he stood with the sun behind him, she could see little except the silhouette of a powerful, commanding figure. ”It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Ballister.”
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