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“Of course, yes, you ridiculous man.”

He rose and gathered her into his arms. This time, when he kissed her, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty concerning what might follow, and no fear that duty would require him to deny what he felt.

Judith’s arms slipped around his neck, and she returned his kiss with such warmth that he forgot, for several blissful moments, the existence of Lady Dunsmore, military intelligence, and every other difficulty which had brought him to Blackthorn.

When they finally drew apart, she rested her forehead against his. “I love you, too, Basil.”

He closed his eyes. Those five words were worth every miserable hour he had endured that morning.

“I had begun to hope you might.”

“Then you are not quite as observant as you imagine. You had better improve. I do not intend to spend our marriage explaining the obvious.”

“Our marriage,” he repeated, hardly believing the words.

Judith smiled. “Yes… unless you have already reconsidered?”

“Not for a moment.”

A distant commotion interrupted them. Voices rose from the courtyard, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps.

Baines glanced towards the door. “I suspect Renforth has found our quarry.”

Judith straightened her gown. “Then we ought to discover what has happened.”

“We ought to do nothing of the sort. They can handle her.”

“Basil—!”

“Judith?”

She regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I begin to suspect that marriage to you will require considerable patience.”

“Then we are admirably suited. I have already concluded that marriage to you will require every ounce of mine.”

She laughed, and he kissed her once more before taking her hand.

“I can see I shall have to be mindful of my confidences. They are far too dangerous for you.”

She hit him on the shoulder. “Impertinent man. You will regret making the attempt!”

EPILOGUE

Blackthorn Hall, Northumberland — June 1820

Colonel Laurence Renforth had commanded men through campaigns, endured the attentions of foreign diplomats, and negotiated with officials whose capacity for obstruction might have defeated a less determined officer. He had even survived the peculiar difficulties presented by a troop of gentlemen who considered his authority an invitation to demonstrate their ingenuity.

Nevertheless, he was beginning to suspect that none of those experiences had adequately prepared him for the wedding of Major Basil Baines. Of all the men who had served beneath him, Baines had always occupied a particular place in his affections. Renforth had watched the young officer mature from an impetuous lieutenant into a man of considerable courage and sound judgement, although the latter quality had occasionally required more encouragement than the former. In many respects, Baines had become the son Renforth had never expected to possess. Now the impertinent fellow was getting married.

Renforth surveyed the drawing room at Blackthorn Hall, where the remainder of his officers had assembled in varying states of preparedness for the ceremony.

Major Stuart stood beside the fireplace, staring into the flames. Captain Fielding was examining the arrangement of his neckcloth in a looking-glass, whilst Major Manners appeared to be engaged in a spirited discussion with Captain Cholmely concerning the merits of Scottish whisky.

Their wives had wisely abandoned them to their own devices.

“Has anyone seen the bridegroom?” Renforth enquired.

“Last observed pacing the corridor outside his bedchamber,” Stuart replied. “I believe he has worn a path through the carpet.”