Chemistry of Magic: Unexpected Magic Book Five (Unexpected Magic #5)(31)

She lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “Someone held you at gunpoint and said kill yourself?”

“My father, essentially.” He shrugged. “He ran us to the brink of ruin, then rode off a cliff one drunken evening, leaving me to deal with the consequences. I had to come home from Oxford not just to console my mother and sisters, but to keep the creditors from carrying off every stick of furniture. One cannot overcome obstacles that high without taking risks.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. He stood there looking authoritative and gentlemanly, as if he’d just asked which party she would like to attend that evening. He must have been no more than a boy. . . “That, my father did not tell me,” she said in a whisper of awe.

“It is not something we let get about,” he admitted. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that wealth attracts wealth.”

She chuckled at his paraphrase from a popular novel. “So you pretended to still have a nice income, put off the creditors, and gambled on what?”

“Waterloo, essentially. I wagered Wellington would win and soon bring home his men. I invested borrowed money in horses and ships, hoping there would be hundreds of soldiers needing good transportation. It was lucky timing.”

“The timing was there for anyone to see. You’re the one with the confidence to use it,” she corrected. “And knowing what I do of you, I assume you burned the midnight oil racing about the countryside in all sorts of weather to gather the funds, the horses, and the ships.”

“But my days of juggling a dozen balls have run out.” He shrugged out of his coat and began unfastening his linen. “What time did you tell Mrs. Peacock to serve dinner?”

She wanted to linger and watch him undress. He had apparently realized that arriving at the table covered in road dust was not polite. But people waited on them. Now was not the time to indulge in her womanly curiosity. She glanced at her pocket watch. “In another half hour. If you would prefer to rest, I can have dinner sent up.”

He shook his head, sending a gold-dusted lock tumbling over his brow. “Abandon my bride for our first meal together in our new home? Not likely. I am not entirely an invalid yet.”

She wanted to explain that she might help extend his life a few months by laying her hands on him, using her gift, but perhaps giving him that hope was not a good idea. If she failed. . . he might hate her. Sometimes, she was very slow thinking through human reactions.

Daringly, she stood on her toes and kissed his whiskery cheek. “You are more man than most,” she murmured, darting out of his reach before he could grab her, and retreating to the dressing room.

She really needed to think about tonight, and the expectation of a man who was not entirely an invalid yet.



Dare hadn’t been really hungry in longer than he could remember, but apparently country air was good for him. Or Mrs. Peacock’s light broth, meltingly delicious bread, fancy greens, and thin slices of ham sat easier on his stomach than richer fare. He was afraid to eat too much. Nausea was a poor companion to lust. But he felt remarkably satisfied as they departed the table.

“Did you help Mrs. Peacock choose the menu?” he asked his bride as they faced the parlor jumble together after dinner.

“Not at all. She had an enormous list. I suggested she make do with what had arrived. Dinner was the result. Was that enough for you? I fear she’s trying to please me by assuming I eat lightly.”

“A meal designed for ladies and invalids, no doubt. Word spreads quickly among the servants, and James knows I do not eat.” Dare lifted boxes he recognized as his and shifted them to one corner. He didn’t want to wear out his renewed energy before bedtime.

“If so, Mrs. Peacock did well. You ate everything set before you. That trunk is books. Do not think to move it,” she warned.

The reminder of his weakness irritated him. Once upon a time, he would have taken it as a challenge. With a grumble, he realized illness had taught him caution, a little late. He said nothing but sorted out other trunks he knew weren’t his. “Which of these will you need on the morrow?”

“The two smaller ones should suffice. I’ll stay home and help Mrs. Wiggs organize and interview, I suppose. I cannot move my equipment to the abbey until a room is prepared.”

She sounded so sad, he wanted to hug her again. Instead, Dare lifted one of her small trunks to his shoulder, and offered his other arm to her. “We’ll have the marquess’s footman for a while longer. We may as well keep him employed. James has cleared the worst of our suite. Let us repair to our private parlor.”

Where he could divest his beautiful bride of all her clothing was the thought primarily on his mind. Her bold kiss earlier had stirred him more than his lust. Lust was for interchangeable women who offered physical release. His intriguing wife stirred him in possessive, proud ways he’d never experienced—and aroused his need to explore.

As Emilia took his elbow and lifted her skirts to go up the stairs, she sent him an admiring glance. The look sizzled his innards, and Dare realized he’d never suffered even a calf love for any woman. He’d never had time. In his youth, he had sought the favors of young ladies whose fathers he wooed for business reasons. Once he had access to the right clubs, he’d discarded that approach. She was right—he’d been living in an all-male society of his own making.

Surrounded by his mother and sisters, he’d never noticed the lack of feminine company. Lust could be quenched by women he saw in bedchambers and nowhere else. They weren’t exactly conversationalists—but then, neither was Emilia. Yet her company captivated him as others did not.