Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(78)

Beatrix turned to give him a questioning look. “Don’t I get a horse? A pony cart? Or am I to trot along behind you?”

His lips twitched. “We’ll ride together, if you’re willing. I have a surprise for you.”

“How unconventional of you.”

“Yes, I thought that would please you.” He helped her to mount the horse, and swung up easily behind her.

No matter what the surprise was, Beatrix thought as she leaned back into his cradling arms, this moment was bliss. She savored the feel of him, all his strength around her, his body adjusting easily to every movement of the horse. He bade her to close her eyes as they went into the forest. Beatrix relaxed against his chest. The forest air turned sweeter as it cooled, infused with scents of resin and dark earth.

“Where are we going?” she asked against his coat.

“We’re almost there. Don’t look.”

Soon Christopher reined in the horse and dismounted, helping her down.

Viewing their surroundings, Beatrix smiled in perplexity. It was the secret house on Lord Westcliff’s estate. Light glowed through the open windows. “Why are we here?”

“Go upstairs and see,” Christopher said, and went to tether the horse.

Picking up the skirts of her blue dress, Beatrix ascended the circular staircase, which had been lit with strategically placed lamps in the wall brackets where ancient torches had once hung. Reaching the circular room upstairs, Beatrix crossed the threshold.

The room had been transformed.

A small fire glowed in the formerly dark hearth, and golden lamplight filled the air. The scarred wooden floors had been scrubbed clean and covered with rich, thick Turkish carpets. Floral tapestries softened the old stone walls. The ancient bedframe had been replaced by a large chestnut bed with carved panels and spiral columns. The bed had been made up with a deep mattress and luxurious quilts and linens, and plump white pillows piled three deep. The table in the corner was draped in mauve damask and laden with covered silver trays and baskets spilling over with food. Condensation glittered on the sides of a silver bucket of iced champagne. And there was her trunk, set beside a painted dressing screen.

Stunned, Beatrix wandered farther into the room, trying to take it all in.

Christopher came up behind her. As Beatrix turned to face him, he searched her face with a gently quizzical gaze. “If you like, we can spend our first night together here,” he said. “But if this doesn’t suit you, we’ll go to Phelan House.”

Beatrix could hardly speak. “You did this for me?”

He nodded. “I asked Lord Westcliff if we might stay the night here. And he had no objections to a little redecorating. Do you—”

He was interrupted as Beatrix flung herself at him and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

Christopher held her, his hands coursing slowly over her back and hips. His lips found the tender skin of her cheeks, her chin, the yielding softness of her mouth. Through the descending diaphanous layers of pleasure, Beatrix answered him blindly, taking a shivering breath as his long fingers curved beneath her jaw. He shaped her lips with his own, his tongue questing gently. The taste of him was smooth and subtle and masculine. Intoxicating. Needing more of him, she struggled to draw him deeper, to kiss him harder, and he resisted with a quiet laugh.

“Wait. Easy . . . love, there’s another part of the surprise that I don’t want you to miss.”

“Where?” Beatrix asked drowsily, her hand searching over his front.

Christopher gave a muffled laugh, taking her by the shoulders and easing her away. He stared down at her, his gray eyes glowing.

“Listen,” he whispered.

As the thrumming of her own heart quieted, Beatrix heard music. Not instruments, but human voices joined in harmony. Bemused, she went to the window and looked out. A smile lit her face.

A small group of officers from Christopher’s regiment, still in uniform, were standing in a row and singing a slow, haunting ballad.

Were I laid on Greenland’s coast,

And in my arms embrac’d my lass;

Warm amidst eternal frost,

Too soon the half year’s night would pass.

And I would love you all the day.

Ev’ry night would kiss and play,

If with me you’d fondly stray.

Over the hills and far away . . .

“Our song,” Beatrix whispered, as the sweet strains floated up to them.

“Yes.”

Beatrix lowered to the floor and braced her folded arms on the windowsill . . . the same place where she had lit so many candles for a soldier fighting in a faraway land.

Christopher joined her at the window, kneeling with his arms braced around her. At the conclusion of the song, Beatrix blew the officers a kiss. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she called down to them. “I will treasure this memory always.”

One of them volunteered, “Perhaps you’re not aware of it, Mrs. Phelan, but according to Rifle Brigade wedding tradition, every man on the groom’s honor guard gets to kiss the bride on her wedding night.”

“What rot,” Christopher retorted amiably. “The only Rifles wedding tradition I know of is to avoid getting married in the first place.”

“Well, you bungled that one, old fellow.” The group chortled.

“Can’t say as I blame him,” one of them added. “You are a vision, Mrs. Phelan.”