by Lisa Kleypas
An unsteady sigh escaped Leo, and he took the baby from her gingerly. He looked down in wonder at the miniature pink face, the rosebud mouth. How light the baby was … it was difficult to believe he was holding an entire human being in his arms.
“There’s a great deal of Hathaway in her,” Amelia said with a smile.
“Well, we’ll do what we can to correct that.” Leo bent to kiss his daughter’s tiny forehead, the wisps of dark hair tickling his lips.
“Have you chosen a name?” Amelia asked.
“Emmaline.”
“French. Very pretty.” For some reason, Amelia laughed quietly before asking, “What would you have named a boy?”
“Edward.”
“After Father? How lovely. And I think it suits him.”
“Suits who?” Leo asked, still engrossed in his daughter.
Reaching up to his face, Amelia guided him to look at the doorway, where Win stood with another bundle, displaying it to Merripen, Cam, and Beatrix.
Leo’s eyes widened. “My God. Twins?”
Cam approached him with a broad grin. “He’s a fine-looking boy. You’ve come into fatherhood with a vengeance, phral. ”
“And Leo,” Beatrix added. “You’ve had an heir just in time … with one day to spare!”
“In time for what?” Leo asked dazedly. Handing his daughter back to Amelia, he took his son from Win. Looking down at the infant’s face, he fell in love for the second time in the same day. It was almost too much for his overwhelmed heart to endure.
“The copyhold clause, of course,” he heard Beatrix say. “The Hathaways will keep Ramsay House now.”
“I can’t believe you would even think about that at a time like this,” Leo said.
“Why not?” Merripen asked, his dark eyes twinkling. “Personally speaking, I find it a relief to know that we’ll all be able to stay at Ramsay House.”
“You’re all concerned about a bloody house, when I’ve just endured eight hours of sheer hell.”
“I’m sorry, Leo,” Beatrix said, trying to sound contrite. “I wasn’t thinking about what you’d just been through.”
Leo kissed his son and handed him carefully to Win. “I’m going to see Marks now. It’s probably been difficult for her, too.”
“Give her our congratulations,” Cam said, a tremor of laughter in his voice.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Leo went to the bedroom where Catherine rested. She looked very small beneath the covers, her face exhausted and pale. A weary grin curved her lips as she saw him.
He went to her and pressed his mouth to hers. “What can I do for you, love?”
“Nothing at all. The doctor gave me some laudanum for the pain. He’s coming back in just a moment.”
Continuing to lean over her, Leo smoothed her hair. “Damn you for not letting me stay,” he whispered against her cheek.
He felt her smile.
“You were frightening the doctor,” she said.
“I merely asked if he knew what he was doing.”
“Forcefully,” she pointed out.
Leo turned to rummage through the articles on the bedside table. “That was only because he’d pulled out a case of instruments that looked more suited to a medieval inquisition than childbirth.” He found a little pot of salve and applied a dab of the unguent to Catherine’s dry lips.
“Sit with me,” she said against his fingertips.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” She patted the mattress invitingly.
Leo sat beside her with extreme caution, trying not to jostle her. “I’m not at all surprised that you produced two children at once,” he said, taking her hand and kissing her fingers. “You’re terrifyingly efficient, as usual.”
“What do they look like?” she asked. “I didn’t see them after they were washed.”
“Bowlegged, with large heads.”
Catherine chuckled and winced. “Please, please don’t make me laugh.”
“They’re beautiful, actually. My dearest love…” Leo pressed a kiss into her palm. “I never fully realized what a woman went through during childbirth. You are the bravest, strongest person who’s ever lived. A warrior.”
“Not really.”
“Oh, yes. Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan, Saladin … all milksops, compared to you.” Leo paused, a grin spreading across his face. “It was well done of you to make certain one of the babies was a boy. The family is rejoicing, of course.”
“Because we can keep Ramsay House?”
“Partly. But I suspect what they’re truly ecstatic about is that now I’ll have to contend with twins.” He paused. “You know they’ll be hellions.”
“I should hope so. They wouldn’t be ours otherwise.” Catherine snuggled closer, and he settled her carefully against his shoulder. “Guess what happens at midnight?” she whispered.
“Two hungry infants will wake up screaming simultaneously?”
“Besides that.”
“I have no idea.”
“The Ramsay curse will be broken.”
“You shouldn’t have told me. Now I’ll be terrified for the next…”—Leo paused to glance at the mantel clock—“seven hours and twenty-eight minutes.”
“Stay with me. I’ll keep you safe.” She yawned and let her head drop more heavily against him.
Leo smiled and stroked her hair. “We’ll both be fine, Marks. We’ve just begun our journey … and there’s so much we have yet to do.” He spoke more softly as he heard her breathing turn even and steady. “Rest against my heart. Let me watch over your dreams. And know that tomorrow morning, and every morning after that, you’ll awaken next to someone who loves you.”
“Dodger?” she mumbled against his chest, and he grinned.
“No, your confounded ferret will have to stay in his basket. I was referring to myself.”
“Yes, I know.” Catherine slid her hand up to his cheek. “Only you,” she said. “Always you.”
Don’t miss the next wonderful novel by
Lisa Kleypas
Love in the
Afternoon
Coming in July 2010
Prologue
Captain Christopher Phelan
1st Battalion Rifle Brigade
Camp near Cape Mapan
Crimea
June 1855
Dearest Christopher,
I can’t write to you again.
I’m not who you think I am.
I didn’t mean to send love letters, but that is what they became. On their way to you, my words turned into heartbeats on the page.
Come back, please come home, and find me.
—unsigned
Chapter One
Hampshire, England
Eight months earlier
It all began with a letter.
To be precise, it was the mention of the dog.
“What about the dog?” Beatrix Hathaway asked. “Whose dog?”
Her friend Prudence, the reigning beauty of Hampshire County, looked up from the letter that had been sent by her suitor, Captain Christopher Phelan.
Although it wasn’t proper for a gentleman to correspond with an unmarried girl, they had arranged to discreetly send letters back and forth with Phelan’s sister-in-law as a go-between.
Prudence sent her a mock-frown. “Really, Bea, you’re displaying far more concern over a dog than you ever have for Captain Phelan.”
“Captain Phelan has no need of my concern,” Beatrix said pragmatically. “He has the concern of every marriageable miss in Hampshire. Besides, he chose to go to war, and I’m sure he’s having a lovely time strutting about in his smart uniform.”
“It’s not at all smart,” came Prudence’s glum reply. “In fact, his new regiment has dreadful uniforms—very plain, dark green with black facings, and no gold braiding or lace at all. And when I asked why, Captain Phelan said it was to help the Rifles stay concealed, which makes no sense, as everyone knows that a British soldier is fa
r too brave and proud to conceal himself during battle. But Christopher—that is, Captain Phelan—said it had something to do with … oh, he used some French word…”
“Camouflage?” Beatrix asked, intrigued.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Many animals have ways of camouflaging themselves to keep from being seen. Chameleons, for example. Or the way an owl’s feathering is mottled to help it blend with the bark of its tree. That way—”
“Heavens, Beatrix, do not start another lecture on animals.”
“I’ll stop if you tell me about the dog,” Beatrix coaxed.
Prudence handed her the letter. “Read it for yourself.”
“But, Pru,” Beatrix protested as the small, neat pages were pushed into her hands. “Captain Phelan may have written something personal.”
“I should be so fortunate! It’s utterly gloomy. Nothing but battles and bad news.”
Although Christopher Phelan was the last man Beatrix would ever want to defend, she couldn’t help pointing out, “He is away fighting in the Crimea, Pru. I’m not sure there are many pleasant things to write about in wartime.”
“Well, I have no interest in foreign countries, and I’ve never pretended to.”
A reluctant grin spread across Beatrix’s face. “Pru, are you certain you want to be an officer’s wife?”
“Well, of course … most commissioned soldiers never go to war. They’re very fashionable men about town, and if they agree to go on half-pay, they have hardly any duties and they don’t have to spend any time at all with the regiment. And that was the case with Captain Phelan, until he was alerted for foreign service.” Prudence shrugged. “I suppose wars are always inconveniently timed. Thank heavens Captain Phelan will return to Hampshire soon.”
“Will he? How do you know?”
“My parents say the war will be over by Christmas.”
“I’ve heard that as well. However, one wonders if we aren’t severely underestimating the Russians’ abilities, and overestimating our own.”
“How unpatriotic,” Prudence exclaimed, a teasing light in her eyes.
“Patriotism has nothing to do with the fact that the War Office, in its enthusiasm, didn’t do nearly enough planning before it launched thirty thousand men to the Crimea. We don’t have adequate knowledge of the place, nor any sound strategy for its capture.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
“From the Times. It’s reported on every day. Don’t you read the papers?”
“Not the political section. My parents say it’s ill-bred for a young lady to take an interest in such things.”
“My family discusses politics every night at dinner, and my sisters and I all take part.” Beatrix paused deliberately before adding with an impish grin, “We even have opinions.”
Prudence’s eyes widened. “My goodness. Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone knows your family is … different.”
“Different” was a far kinder adjective than was often used to describe the Hathaway family. The Hathaways were comprised of five siblings, the oldest of which was Leo, followed by Amelia, Winnifred, Poppy, and Beatrix. After the death of their parents, the Hathaways had gone through an astonishing change of fortune. Although they were common-born, they were distantly related to an aristocratic branch of the family. Through a series of unexpected events, Leo had inherited a viscouncy for which he and his sisters hadn’t been remotely prepared. They had moved from their small village of Primrose Place to the Ramsay estate in the southern county of Hampshire.
After six years, the Hathaways had managed to learn just enough to accommodate themselves to good society. However, none of them had learned to think like the nobility, nor had they acquired aristocratic values or mannerisms. And whereas a family in similar circumstances might have endeavored to improve their situations by marrying their social betters, the Hathaways had so far chosen to marry for love.
As for Beatrix, there was doubt as to whether she would marry at all. She was only half-civilized, spending most of her time out of doors, riding or rambling through the woodlands, marsh, and meadows of Hampshire. Beatrix preferred the company of animals to people, collecting injured and orphaned creatures and rehabilitating them. The creatures that couldn’t survive on their own in the wild were kept as pets, and Beatrix occupied herself with caring for them. That had always been enough for her … until lately.
More and more frequently, Beatrix had become aware of a chafing sense of dissatisfaction. Of yearning. The problem was that Beatrix had never met a man who was right for her. Certainly none of the pale, overbred specimens of the London drawing rooms she had frequented. And although the more robust men in the country were appealing, none of them had the unnameable something Beatrix longed for. She dreamed of a man whose force of will matched her own. She wanted to be passionately loved … challenged … overtaken.
Beatrix glanced at the folded letter in her hands.
It wasn’t that she disliked Christopher Phelan as much as she recognized that he was inimical to everything she was. He was sophisticated, born to privilege, able to move with ease in the civilized environment that was so alien to her. He was the second son of a well-to-do local family, his maternal grandfather an earl, his father’s family distinguished by a significant shipping fortune.
Although the Phelans were not in line for a title, the oldest son, John, would inherit an estate in Warwickshire upon the earl’s death. John was a sober and thoughtful man, devoted to his young wife, Audrey.
But the younger brother, Christopher, was another sort of man entirely. As so often happened with second sons, Christopher had purchased an army commission at the age of twenty-two. He had gone in as a cornet, a perfect occupation for such a splendid-looking fellow, since his chief responsibility was to carry the cavalry colors during parades and drills. He was also a great favorite among the ladies of London, where he constantly went without proper leave, spending his time dancing, drinking, gaming, purchasing fine clothes, and indulging in scandalous love affairs.
Beatrix had met Christopher Phelan on two occasions, the first at a local dance, where she had judged him to be the most arrogant man in Hampshire. The next time she had met him was a picnic, where she had revised her opinion: He was the most arrogant man in the entire world.
“That Hathaway girl is a peculiar creature,” Beatrix had overheard him say to a companion. “With none of her sisters’ beauty, unfortunately.”
“I find her charming and original,” his companion had protested. “And she can talk horses better than any woman I’ve ever met.”
“Naturally,” came Phelan’s dry rejoinder. “With her appearance and manners, she’s better suited to the stables than the drawing room.”
From then on, Beatrix had avoided him whenever possible. Not that she minded being compared to a horse, since horses were lovely animals with generous and noble spirits. And she knew that although she wasn’t a great beauty, she had her own charms. More than one man had commented favorably on her dark brown hair and blue eyes.
These moderate attractions, however, were nothing compared to Christopher Phelan’s golden splendor. He was as fair as Lancelot. Gabriel. Perhaps Lucifer, if one believed that he had once been the most beautiful angel in heaven. Phelan was tall and silver-eyed, his hair the color of dark winter wheat touched by the sun. His form was strong and soldierly, the shoulders straight and strong, the hips slim. Even as he moved with indolent grace, there was something undeniably potent about him, something selfishly predatory.
Recently Phelan had been one of the select few to be culled from various regiments to become part of the Rifle Brigade. The “Rifles,” as they were called, were an unusual brand of soldier, trained to use their own initiative. They were encouraged to take up positions forward of their own front lines and pick off officers and horses that were usually beyond target range. Because of his singular marksmanship skills, Phelan had been promoted to a captaincy in the Rifle Brigade.
“Go on and read it,” Prudence said as she sat at her dressing table. “I must repair my coiffure before we go on our walk.”
“Your hair looks lovely,” Beatrix protested, unable to see any flaw in the elaborately pinned twist of blond braids. “And we’re only going to Stony Cross. None of the townspeople will know or care if your hair isn’t perfect.”
“I’ll know. Besides, there is never any telling whom one might run across.”
Accustomed as she was to her friend’s ceaseless primping, Beatrix grinned and shook her head. “All right. If you’re certain you don’t mind me looking at Captain Phelan’s letter, I’ll just read the part about the dog.”
“You’ll fall asleep long before you get to the dog,” Prudence said, expertly inserting a hairpin into a twisted braid.
Beatrix looked down at the scrawled lines. The words looked cramped, tight coils of letters ready to spring from the page.
Dear Prudence,
As I sit in this dusty tent and try to think of something eloquent to write to you, I find I’m at wit’s end. You deserve beautiful words, but all I have left are these: I think of you constantly. I think of this letter in your hand and the scent of perfume on your wrist. I want you. I want silence and clear air, and a bed with a soft white pillow …
Beatrix felt her eyebrows lifting, and a quick rise of heat beneath the high collar of her dress. She paused and glanced at Prudence. “You find this boring?” she asked mildly, while her blush spread like spilled wine on a linen tablecloth.
“The beginning is the only good part,” Prudence said. “Go on.”
… Two days ago in our march down the coast to Sebastopol, we fought the Russians at the Alma River. I’m told it was a victory for our side. It doesn’t feel like one. We’ve lost at least two-thirds of our regiment’s officers, and a quarter of the non-commissioned men. Yesterday we dug graves. They call the final tally of dead and wounded the “butcher’s bill.” Three hundred and sixty British dead so far, and more as soldiers succumb to their wounds.