Lords, Ladies and Babies: A Regency Romance Set with Little Consequences

by Meara Platt

  She could not be inside. Nobody could remain inside and live.

  And yet he stepped inside. “Lillian!” He could just barely make out the interior.

  White, orange, yellow, and blue flames snaked across the floor, up the walls, and licked at the ceiling.

  Christian had no choice but to look for her. He couldn’t go on without her. At the same time, he was haunted by the words he’d promised his sister less than one hour ago.

  “I won’t die.”

  “Lillian!” Christian shouted and brushed at a spark that had landed on his jacket. He would not die. He could not. But he needed to find his wife first.

  He would find her.

  He could not die for her. He’d promised…

  “Christian!” A voice sounded so distant that at first, he thought he’d imagined it. He covered his mouth with the handkerchief. “I’m here! Christian! I’m here!”

  He raised his hand to cover his eyes and ducked into the furnace.

  The smoke was blinding. How could everything appear black when flames burned all around? “Lillian!” he shouted. Her voice had not been an apparition. Where are you, luv? “Lillian!”

  “Up here!”

  Christian did not give himself a chance to think but headed up the stairway. Everything on the upper level seemed hotter, more horrifying, more dangerous and that was where Lillian’s voice had come from. She must be trapped… or injured.

  He rushed forward, not considering that the flames behind him might cut off their means of escape. He’d promised Bernadette he would live, and damnit, he would. But so would Lillian. If he could have faith that he was going to die, then he might as well be able to have faith that she could live.

  “Christian!”

  “Lillian!” He followed her voice around the corner and startled when he nearly tripped over a massive suit of armor that had fallen over.

  “I’m here.” Although closer, her voice sounded weaker. The armor had toppled onto her, somehow.

  Christian stepped across the fractured suit to where she lay on her back. Her hair and face were covered in soot, her eyes barely visible. She was alive but he needed to get both of them out of there and quickly.

  Grasping the shoulders of the armor, he went to lift it. What the devil? It was attached––damnit, bolted!––to a heavy iron stand, which was lodged beneath a fallen beam.

  Unable to detach it and impatient to free Lillian, he moved to her opposite side and, crouching, tried again with the same disappointing result.

  He squashed the panic he felt at the sight of blood on her brow. “Where is your mother?” He would keep her talking. He also needed to know in case she lost consciousness.

  “She is across the street, with one of the neighbors,” Lillian’s voice rasped. How long had she been breathing in the smoke and fumes? “My father’s writings.” Her gaze flicked behind her and he could barely make out a spilled collection of papers that had burned likely from the heat alone. “She begged me not to come looking for them but she was frantic, and I thought I had time to save them for her.”

  He would be angry with her for this later, but for now he critically assessed her situation, testing the weight of the beam from different angles while she continued. “My gown caught on the sword. When I pulled at it, it fell over. It’s heavy, Christian and so very hot.” The pain in her voice was punctuated by the sound of falling debris that sounded far too close for comfort.

  “I’m going to get you out of here.” He promised, an idea forming.

  “It’s no use! Go! You must go! Bernadette needs you! Please, Christian.” She had turned her head. Her eyes were pinched shut, and tears streamed down her face.

  Ignoring her pleas, he leaned over her, placed his hands on both sides of her face, and forced her to look at him.

  “Lilian! Look at me.” She opened her eyes at his command. “I love you, and I’m not leaving without you. You and I are going to escape together. We are both going to live.” He flicked his gaze to the armor laying on top of her. “The thing is, sweetheart, I need you to help me. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, his words having calmed her somehow. “How?”

  “That’s my girl.” He smiled grimly as he withdrew the sword from its sheath. Thank God.

  “I’m going to wedge this under the beam and lift the suit. Help me as much as you can and as soon as you feel it move, crawl free. Can you do that for me?”

  She nodded again.

  “On three.” He created a fulcrum with one of the armor’s gloves and then lodged the sword beneath the beam. The metal burned his hand and he dared not imagine what it was doing to her pale lovely skin. He couldn’t imagine her pain or he would go mad. “One. Two.” He secured it and pushed down on the sword with all his might. “Three.”

  It moved up, a few inches. “Now, Lillian, push.” Her eyes were squeezed tight, and she attempted to pull herself out with the spare inches he’d managed to give her.

  “I’m stuck!” She gasped. “My gown! Go, Christian. Go!”

  Using the blade, he sliced off as much of the lower half of her gown as he could manage and then quickly shoved the sword back into place. “One. Two. Three.”

  He lifted harder this time, ignoring the pain in his hand and at the same time reaching down to drag her to freedom. She was caught, again, but they didn’t have time. With one jolting motion, feeling desperate, he tugged with all his might and most of her gown ripped right off her as she emerged from beneath the medieval trap.

  When he was certain she was clear, he released the sword and allowed the armor to drop. Blood soaked her white chemise, and she lay lifeless on the floor.

  He’d promised Bernadette that he would live. “Damnit, Lillian. I need you. Don’t you die on me!” he shouted as he lifted her into his arms. “Don’t you dare die on me! I know it’s impossible. But I love you. You are my wife and I intend to be your husband for a very long time.” Carrying her toward the stairway, his voice was hoarse and dry. “I need you to live with me, though. Do you hear me?” Was that a sob that tore from him?

  Fully immersed in flames now, the stairwell was their only means of escape. He straightened his spectacles, steadied his grip, and hoped that love was enough to keep them both alive as he dove into the tunnel of hell.

  Chapter Eleven

  No Regrets

  “She’s a lucky young lady.”

  Lillian fought drowsiness as she listened to a man’s voice. A physician?

  “The ankle looks worse than it is. Have her maid apply the balm to her burns again later tonight and again in the morning. I’ll return tomorrow afternoon to check on both of you. You need rest as well, Your Grace.”

  “She’s all right, though?”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Of course.”

  Footsteps and then the sounds of the door opening and then closing signaled that she was alone with him. So much of what had happened earlier that night was unclear.

  Christian had come into the fire to save her. She remembered that much, but other things he’d said—promises he’d made—felt more like a dream amidst the nightmare of the fire.

  “I love you, and I’m not leaving without you…”

  She must have dreamed those words.

  “We are both going to live.”

  “Christian.” Her voice came out little more than a whisper. Her throat hurt. Every where hurt but the pain seemed to be easing as she fought off drowsiness. The doctor must have given her Laudanum but she needed… “Christian?”

  “I’m here.”

  Covered in soot, Christian’s blue eyes gazed down at her lovingly, hair standing on end and with cracked spectacles.

  “You saved me.” Then she frowned. “Mother?”

  “She’s asleep in one of the guest chambers, safe and sound and quite angry with herself for allowing her daughter to risk her life for a few old letters.” He smiled tenderly as he spoke the words, and as
though he couldn’t help himself, his fingers caressed the side of her face. “I thought I’d lost you.” His voice broke.

  “I don’t want to lose you, either.” Her throat felt as though she’d swallowed broken glass and she was so very sleepy, but she needed to tell him. She needed him to know how she felt. When she’d lain trapped in the fire, believing certain death was her fate, her greatest regret was that she’d not grow old with him.

  They were meant to grow old together. She would believe in the future for both of them.

  The sight of blood mixed in with some of the soot along his jaw broke her train of thought. “You are hurt?”

  At her question, he shook his head. “It is nothing. Lillian. I’m so sorry for everything. For being such a fool.” His eyes shined even brighter than usual. “I pushed you into this marriage, but I can never regret it. I only regret that I was not able to meet you at a ball and request a waltz or be presented to you at a garden party and row you around a pond. I regret that I never courted you properly. That I haven’t yet met your sisters and brother and all of your family. I regret I didn’t allow you a proper wedding. But I’ll never regret marrying you.”

  Although her mouth was dry and cracked, she could not help but smile at his words.

  “I know you didn’t marry me thinking to put up with me for a lifetime,” he continued with force. “You had hoped to become an independent woman, but I have decided I’m not going to believe in death. I’m going to believe in life—and in love. After all my foolishness before, this likely sounds like nonsense to you… but everything has changed inside of me… I was wrong, you see, but I am not sorry now because I have fallen—”

  “I love you.” She forced her hand up to cover his, where he cradled her cheek. “I love you,” she said again.

  “I love you.” He stared back at her, almost as though in awe.

  And then both of them laughed a little. It was madness, really, how quickly such feelings had roared to life. Had the seeds been planted the day they’d met in the street? Or when he entered the room where she waited to be interviewed, his hair askew, his eyes squinting? Or had it been later, after their wedding?

  She didn’t know and it didn’t matter.

  All that mattered was that he loved her enough to hope, and that she loved him more than life itself.

  “You will not leave me?” She had to ask. She had to be certain.

  He pressed his lips against the corner of hers. “I will not.” His voice came out sounding hoarse. “You are not going to be upset with me for living?”

  She closed her eyes but felt her smile go wider. “I will not.”

  “I’ll remind you of that in fifty or so years,” His laughter comforted her as the drowsiness became too strong to fight any longer.

  “Promise?” she whispered.

  “Most assuredly,” he whispered back.

  Epilogue

  Exactly forty weeks later, Christian paced the corridor outside of their bedchamber at their country estate, listening to intermittent screams, each worse than the one before, and each taking at least a year off of his life.

  “You are certain this is normal?”

  Lillian’s stepbrother, the Duke of Crawford, whom Christian had become well acquainted with over the past several months, walked the long corridor with him. Both Crawford’s wife, Louella, and Lillian’s mother, were inside the birthing room with Lillian, assisting the midwife.

  “Nothing about childbirth is normal, if you ask me,” the duke answered, providing no reassurance whatsoever. As they passed one another, Crawford handed him the half-empty bottle of scotch he’d brought to Winter’s Edge specifically for this occasion.

  Christian threw back a long swallow down and then ran a hand through his hair. “For God’s sake, are they torturing her?”

  “Don’t think you won’t hear about it afterward.” Crawford sent him a twisted smile. “Louella reminds me every time we argue.”

  And yet, Christian had seen obvious signs of affection between the duke and his wife. The duchess had birthed Crawford’s heir, but in addition to that, the couple had adopted four orphans within a few months of their marriage.

  A particular harrowing sound echoed from inside the room, and Christian stopped his incessant pacing to stare longingly at the door. “I cannot remain out here. How did you endure it?”

  “I forced my way inside and was scolded heavily for it.”

  Christian turned to stare at the door and then back at his unlikely companion again. “Why the hell am I out here then?” He moved forward and grasped the latch. When it pushed open, however, he was met with a chorus of angry female voices. “Out!”

  Christian closed his eyes and although he pulled the door partially closed, he needed to hear her voice. “Lillian? I would be at your side. May I?” He had not heard her voice amongst the firm commands and would not make himself absent again unless his wife wished it.

  “I need you. Christian? Please?”

  He stepped into the room and rushed to her side, his heart breaking at the sight of her flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and sweat-soaked hair. When she’d informed him earlier that morning that the time had come, she’d been reassuring and calm. She appeared scared now, as he lowered one arm around her and placed his lips on her cheek.

  “I’m here, Luv. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Lady Crawford, most dignified woman, appeared somewhat relieved at his arrival. Her eyes appeared larger than normal when she met his gaze from her position near the window.

  The younger duchess, his sister-in-law, lifted her gaze and glared at him as she dabbed a wet cloth on his wife’s forehead. “Be prepared for a good deal of blood, Warwick. And if you get in the way, be prepared to be thrown out.”

  The midwife tutted. “Husbands belong downstairs.”

  “Don’t listen to them.” Lillian gripped his hand. “Another one is coming.”

  Lillian squeezed her eyes shut and then her entire body tensed beside him.

  “Relax, Your Grace,” the midwife reminded her. “Short breaths.” And then she demonstrated some sort of panting that Lillian mimicked. The longer the pain persisted, the harder the panting became before turning into moans, and eventually, one of the long wailing screams he’d been hearing for hours now.

  Christian could only encourage and compliment her, feeling utterly helpless and absurdly superfluous. When the pain thankfully receded, she relaxed into him and sighed. “I’m so glad you are here.” Her words made him feel slightly better.

  Christian pressed his mouth against her forehead. “You amaze me, do you know that?”

  But she seemed too tired to answer.

  “You are going to be the perfect mother to our perfect little marquess.” All he could think was to praise her efforts, to reassure her. He hated to think of what was to come and yet knew there was no avoiding it.

  “You will be the perfect father.” Her voice was barely audible, but her eyelashes fluttered open and she managed a weak smile.

  The midwife lifted her head just then and stared hard at Lillian. “The baby is ready to come. When you feel the next pain, I want you to push with all your might.”

  Christian hated to see her looking so frightened. But along with the fear on her face, he saw determination. He was coming to know that whenever she had such a look on her face, she was not to be thwarted.

  Willing her all of his strength, all of his love, he squeezed her hand. “You can do this, my love.”

  And then he felt her begin to tense.

  “Push now.” The midwife remained calm despite the tension building in the room.

  “Keep going, Lillian!” coaxed the young duchess who was holding one of his wife’s legs now.

  Christian reached down and supported the other.

  Lillian bore down a second time, veins pulsing, and teeth clenched. Christian barely realized that his own muscles tensed as he watched.

  “I can see the head,” the midwife announced. “Keep pushing
until the pain eases.”

  It seemed as though the pains went on forever and the quiet in between grew shorter as Christian watched, and soothed her, and held her leg up when she seemed to hardly have the strength to do anything but push.

  He did not think she could have any strength left at all, when miracle of miracles, a tiny blood-streaked head appeared between her legs. And then the midwife twisted the baby carefully, his son, before the rest of a squirming and slippery body shot into her arms.

  As though all of her strength had fled, Lillian fell backward with a heavy sigh.

  And when the baby made a fledgling and then a much louder wail, everyone in the room let out a relieved laugh.

  Lillian turned to him anxiously and then flashed her gaze back to the woman holding their baby. “How is he? He is all right?”

  The midwife worked with the cord coming from the baby but she took a moment to smile up at both of them.

  “This child appears healthy and hale. Just a moment and you can count the little ducal fingers and the little ducal toes.” She then wrapped a linen around the baby and handed him toward Christian, who had never felt so terrified or excited or overwhelmed in all his life.

  The midwife and the Duchess of Crawford exchanged suspicious grins.

  “Your perfect little marquess is quite perfect, for certain.” His sister-in-law laughed out loud. “More than perfect, if I say so myself.” She giggled and then pulled the blanket back so that Christian could see the naked and squirming infant.

  He stared for a moment before realizing his mistake.

  The Duchess of Crawford laughed. “Congratulations, Lillian, Warwick. Your perfect little marquess is a girl.”

  “A girl?” Lillian leaned forward.

  With painstaking care, Christian lowered his daughter—his exquisitely beautiful daughter—into his wife’s arms.

  “I’ve never seen anything so wonderful in my life,” Lillian whispered, her fingertips gently touching their daughter’s cheek. “She’s so soft, Christian.”