Cheers to the Duke

by Sally MacKenzie

  The women he’d met on the Marriage Mart had been even worse. He could not think of a single one to whom he’d turn for advice. Hell, most of them would be happy if he’d just ship Thomas off to school. Then they’d have to see the boy only at holidays.

  No, it was worse than that. Most would be happier if Thomas simply vanished, opening the line of succession to their son. Those women wished to be a duchess first and the mother—not the stepmother—of a duke second.

  But not Jo. Jo is different.

  Thomas was now glaring at him. “You must know and you just won’t tell me. You weren’t smiling when I came in. You looked sad. You still look sad.”

  The words were contentious, but the strained, anxious note in his son’s voice made Edward want to gather him close.

  Thomas’s stiff posture warned him off.

  “Miss Jo’s not going to be my mama, is she?”

  Oh, blast. He’d been afraid Thomas had got too attached to Jo, but what could he have done to prevent that? He’d hoped Jo would become Thomas’s mama.

  “I don’t—”

  “It’s because she can’t have babies, isn’t it?”

  Edward’s jaw hit the floor. “W-what?! Where did you get that idea?”

  “Harriet said she heard her mama tell her papa that Miss Jo thought she was b-bare-something.”

  Did no one think before they spoke within children’s hearing?

  “And then Lady Adrianna said that meant she couldn’t have babies even though you were sleeping in her bed.”

  And if he never saw Lady Adrianna again, it would be too soon.

  Thomas was scowling at him, his lower lip sticking out. “Do you not love Miss Jo because she can’t have babies?”

  “Thomas . . .”

  “Will you not love me if I can’t have babies?”

  Edward bit back a surprised laugh. “It’s not quite the same thing—”

  “Yes, it is. I hear Roberts and Mrs. Roberts and Jakes and Ambrose and John Coachman and all the servants talking. I’m supposed to be duke when I grow up. I’m supposed to have babies so there will be another duke someday. Lady Adrianna said it, too. But when I asked Miss Jo, she said that you would love me no matter what. That you knew that if I didn’t marry or have babies, the title would go to someone else—just like it went to you when the old duke and his family died. She said not to worry.” Thomas stopped, took a deep breath. “But I am worried.”

  “Oh, Thomas.” Edward opened his arms then, hoping Thomas would take the invitation.

  He did. The boy made a little noise—a gulp or a gasp or a cry cut off—and threw himself across the settee.

  Edward wrapped his arms around his son, holding him tight. “I do love you, Thomas. Of course, I do. And I will love you no matter what happens in the future. Miss Jo was right about that. She’s very wise.”

  He rubbed Thomas’s back as he had from the time Thomas was little more than a baby. It had always calmed the boy.

  It calmed him now.

  “Do you remember when I became duke?”

  Thomas nodded. “I didn’t want to leave my bedroom and our chestnut tree.” He sighed. “I wish we could go back to our old house. I wish the title had gone to someone else. You’re so busy now, gone so much. I miss you.” He shrugged one thin shoulder. “And there are so many other people here. So many servants. I wish it was just us again.” He looked up. “Us and Miss Jo.”

  Edward’s heart clenched as he hugged Thomas close again. “I wish the same thing, Thomas. I love you—and I love Miss Jo.”

  Thomas sat up straight. “But if you love her, why don’t you marry her?”

  “She has to love me back.”

  Thomas frowned. “Is that what the letter said? That she doesn’t love you?”

  “No. But she didn’t say she loved me, either. I-I don’t know how she feels.”

  Thomas frowned. “Then you should go ask her, Papa.”

  Edward laughed. Trust Thomas to get to the heart of the matter.

  “You’re right. I’ll do that. I’ll leave in the morning.”

  Thomas grinned. “And kiss her, Papa. Everyone says girls like to be kissed.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jo sat at her desk, holding a handkerchief, lightly scented with lavender, to her nose, and berated herself yet again for not being plainer in her note to Edward.

  “I should have spelled it out in so many words, Freddie,” she said through the linen, “but I wanted to tell him in person that I love him and will marry him.”

  She’d wanted to see his eyes light, see his lips turn up in that wide smile that transformed his face from serious to boyish and made her feel as if the rest of the world had dropped away.

  And then she’d wanted to feel his arms go round her, his mouth come down on hers. She’d wanted to fall into bed with him and tell him with her body how much she loved him.

  Also, she’d balked at writing the word love.

  All right, she’d admit it. After “Dearest Edward,” her courage had deserted her completely, darting away as if it were a squirrel Freddie was chasing.

  And, to be honest, it was too much to put on paper. It wasn’t just that she loved him—he knew that. She’d told him so at Darrow. It was that she loved him enough. She loved him enough to change her life for him, to move away from Little Puddledon and the Home, to become his duchess and Thomas’s mother.

  “I’m sure saying it will be easier than writing it.”

  If she ever got to say it. What if Edward took her note to mean she wished to see him only to discuss expanding the Home? What if he decided instead of coming himself, he’d send his man of business?

  She moaned, dropping her head into her hands. And why had she had the daft idea of mentioning Livy? Of course, he must think she meant only to discuss business. He—

  Lud! What if he’s only interested in business?

  Her stomach clenched—and her stomach had been extremely delicate of late.

  What if Edward had discovered that what he’d thought was love was actually only lust? That had been the main reason for leaving the matter unsettled when they left the house party, hadn’t it? To see if time and distance and returning to their real lives cooled their ardor.

  It hadn’t cooled hers, but it might have cooled his.

  Tears began to leak from her eyes, so she used her handkerchief to mop them up. She was so bloody emotional these days.

  Freddie gave her a reproachful look from the other side of the room.

  “I’m sorry I had to block off your usual spot, but I couldn’t have you so close to me. You . . . well, you . . . stink.”

  Freddie whined.

  “Don’t take it personally. Everything stinks now. I barely made it out of the brewhouse yesterday before I spewed my breakfast.” At least she’d managed to dash around to the side of the building and off into bushes so everyone didn’t have to observe the chunks of—

  Ugh. No. Don’t think about it.

  “And today I can’t even go near the brewhouse. The stench fills the air even with the door shut.” She closed her eyes. “And I’m so tired, Freddie. All I want to do is sleep. I must be taking ill.”

  “No. You’re not ill—you’re pregnant.”

  That was, of course, not Freddie’s voice. Jo’s eyes flew open to see Livy standing in the doorway.

  And then Livy strolled into the office—she and her steaming mug of coffee.

  The smell hit Jo like a sledgehammer. She pressed her lips together, willed her stomach to relax—

  It was hopeless. She dove for the chamber pot that she’d put in what was normally Freddie’s place by her feet and cast up her accounts.

  She was surprised she had anything left to disgorge. She stared into . . .

  No, that was a mistake. She looked up at Livy, a smirking, smug-looking Livy, still holding her mug of olfactory torture.

  “Coffee.” Another wave of nausea hit, and Jo clutched the chamber pot to her chest. “Out.”


  Livy laughed and left. When she returned, both the coffee and the mug were gone.

  But not the stench. It was much reduced, but nevertheless detectable.

  “You still smell.”

  Livy shrugged. “It can’t be helped. Your nose will adjust.”

  Jo scowled at her. “How do you know?”

  Though Livy was right. Jo’s stomach was . . . not settled, but it was no longer threatening to heave again.

  She put the chamber pot down and her handkerchief back up to her nose.

  “Because I’ve seen this play before,” Livy said. “I ran an”—she grinned—“amatory service, remember. Pregnancy is one of the risks of doing that sort of business.”

  “I’m not pregnant.”

  And now her nose, recovered from the coffee assault, detected a fainter, but still quite unpleasant odor wafting from the chamber pot. She moaned.

  “Let me empty that for you.” Livy picked up the offending receptacle. “I’ll rinse it out at the pump.”

  “Thank you,” Jo said through her handkerchief as Livy headed for the door.

  Livy laughed. When she came back, the chamber pot was much improved. Not spic-and-span, but clean enough that, as long as Jo kept her distance, her nose—and thus her stomach—didn’t object.

  She was extremely grateful to Livy—but also extremely wary when she saw Livy’s knowing expression.

  “As I said, I’ve had a lot of experience diagnosing pregnancy.” Livy sat in Caro’s chair, and Freddie came over to lean against Livy’s leg. They both looked at Jo.

  Jo felt she was being ganged up on. Livy she might understand, but Freddie? That felt like a betrayal.

  “Whenever I suspected a girl might be increasing, I brought her coffee. Nine times out of ten, if she was indeed breeding, she’d do exactly what you did—puke.”

  “I’m not pregnant. I can’t get pregnant.”

  Livy raised an eloquently skeptical brow. “Theodora tells me you haven’t had any rags for the laundry since you got back from Darrow.”

  Jo flushed. Theirs was a houseful of women. Someone was always having her courses. There would be no reason for Theodora, their main laundress, to make a special note of Jo’s.

  “You’ve been spying on me!”

  Livy scratched Freddie’s ears. She didn’t look the slightest bit abashed. “Yes, I have.”

  Jo had not expected the snake to admit it so cheerfully.

  “Well, that doesn’t mean anything,” Jo said. “My courses aren’t regular—not that it’s any of your business.”

  Livy grinned. “Oh? Would you like me to get another cup of coffee?”

  “No!” Jo’s stomach lurched. “I’m just, ah, coming down with something.”

  Livy snorted. “The something you are coming down with is a baby. But don’t worry—the nausea will go away in a few weeks.”

  “Livy.” It was time to stop beating about the bush. “I know I’m not pregnant. I may not have had my courses, but I saw b-blood.”

  There, I said it. Now Livy will leave me alone.

  “Oh?” Livy stopped grinning. Her gaze sharpened. She looked concerned rather than smug. “When? How much?”

  Jo shifted in her chair. The Home might be full of females, but she had never been one to discuss such personal matters. “Not much.”

  “How much? How many rags? How often did you need to change them?”

  Jo frowned. This was asking for far too much detail. “What are you, a physician now?”

  Livy gave her a speaking look. “Jo, I made my livelihood from swiving, one way or the other. Trust me. When it comes to the signs of pregnancy, I really am an expert.”

  All right, Jo could see Livy’s point—and it was clear she wasn’t getting out of here without telling the woman every embarrassing detail.

  “It wasn’t much,” she said grudgingly, her face hot with embarrassment. “Just a few spots. I only used one rag and likely didn’t need that.”

  Livy rolled her eyes and flopped back in her chair theatrically, as if blown back by Jo’s shocking ignorance.

  “You don’t have to be so dramatic about it,” Jo said, annoyed. “So, you see I am not increasing.”

  Livy rolled her eyes again. “Claptrap!” She leaned forward, pinning Jo to her seat with a sharp look. “Jo, sometimes there is bleeding at the beginning of a pregnancy. When did you notice this?”

  Jo frowned back at her. Livy couldn’t be right . . . could she?

  “I don’t know. Maybe a week or two after I got home. But, as I said, my courses aren’t regular.” Yet when they did come, they weren’t shy about it.

  Uncertainty nipped at her again.

  “They were likely disrupted by the unusual, er, activity I engaged in at Darrow.” Yes, that must be the explanation.

  Livy snorted. “Right. That disruption is called pregnancy.”

  Jo shook her head. She could not believe Livy. She would not get her hopes up only to have them dashed tomorrow or the next day. There had been a time or two during her marriage that she’d fallen into that trap. The first time she’d even told Freddie—

  Oh, God, that had been awful.

  Livy’s expression softened as if she understood some of the storm raging inside Jo. She said, more gently, “All right. We’ll put aside the question of your courses—and your sensitivity to smells—remember the coffee?”

  Jo’s stomach shuddered. She did not want to remember the coffee.

  “There are other clues we can look for.”

  “There are?” Jo blinked—and realized she’d always let her attention wander when women started discussing pregnancy symptoms. It was easier—and less painful—not to listen to something she’d never need to know.

  Livy nodded and raised a finger as if she were going to tick items off a list. “I believe when I came in, you were telling Freddie that you are tired all the time.”

  Freddie barked, as if confirming Livy’s words.

  Jo shifted in her chair. “Er . . .”

  Livy’s right brow cocked up. “Are you so tired that you feel like you can’t move, that you have to drag yourself out of bed?” She nodded at the closed ledger. “So tired you can’t open that and manage to keep the figures straight?”

  “Ahh . . .” Well, yes. Jo had been unusually tired.

  Livy lifted a second finger. “Do your breasts feel larger, fuller than normal? Are they sore? Do they hurt if you accidentally bump them?”

  Jo flushed. “Maybe.”

  Livy held up her third finger. “Do you need to piss all the time?”

  “Livy!”

  Livy was not cowed. “Well, do you?”

  Jo shifted in her chair again. Now that Livy mentioned it . . .

  “Not all the time.”

  Livy grinned and ticked her points off again. “No courses, sensitive to smells, tired, breasts sore, pissing frequently.” She waved her open hand at Jo. “Hallo. You’re pregnant.”

  Could I be?

  “But, Livy, I was married for three years.”

  “Right. To Baron Havenridge.” Livy stroked Freddie’s ears. “A man notorious for his inability to impregnate anyone. The girls used to joke that he might be unpleasant in bed, but at least there’d be no unpleasant surprises afterward—no permanent memento of his visit.”

  “Ohh.” That was what Edward had said. Jo closed her eyes. It was too much. It was all too much.

  She burst into tears.

  Over her muffled sobs, she heard Livy say, “Being very emotional is also a sign of pregnancy.”

  * * *

  Edward followed the woman—Rosamund Lewis, she’d said her name was—along the front of Puddledon Manor. Curtains twitched in every window as he passed and the women of the Home peeked out at him.

  Miss Lewis kept glancing back at him as well, an expression of barely suppressed glee on her face. Did she anticipate some sort of entertainment when she delivered him to Jo’s office?

  Entertainment for her. It was f
ar less likely he would be amused.

  He maintained his most impassive solicitor façade. He couldn’t try for ducal disdain—he’d represented himself as merely Mr. Russell, first when he’d arrived at the village inn and then when he’d introduced himself to Miss Lewis.

  It wasn’t a lie. It was just not the complete truth.

  Not that he thought Bess, the Dancing Duck’s innkeeper, had been taken in by it. She’d given him a searching look when he’d inquired about a room—and then her eyes had lit up as if she’d solved a puzzle.

  And then she’d displayed some of the same suppressed glee as his current guide.

  He wouldn’t be surprised if his entire history was common knowledge here, with Livy in the vicinity. Livy had known him well—very well. And gossip was the lifeblood of any small village.

  “Have you ridden a long way, then, Mr. Russell?” Miss Lewis asked, batting her lashes at him as they turned the corner and started across the yard of crushed stone.

  He was not going to tell this woman—any of the women—more than he had to. “I’ve been on the road several days.”

  It had taken him three days of hard riding to get here. He’d decided to leave his carriage at Grainger. He could travel faster on horseback, and he wouldn’t be advertising his identity to all and sundry—the only carriage he possessed had come with the title. It had the ducal coat of arms emblazoned all over it.

  “Do you have special business with Jo—ah, I mean, Lady Havenridge?”

  “Yes.”

  He hoped his abruptness would stop her from quizzing him further.

  He’d rather have skipped the inn and come directly to the Manor, but he’d not wanted to present himself to Jo in all his travel dirt.

  Not to beat about the bush—in a word, he’d stunk.

  But he suspected that, while he was cleaning up and changing his clothes, Bess had sent someone running ahead to alert the women at the Home that he was coming.

  Well, he more than suspected. He’d seen the young woman coming down the path from the Manor as he was walking up it. She’d given him a saucy, significant look. And he’d seen someone—likely Miss Lewis—watching through a gap in the curtains, tweaking them back into place right before he’d knocked on the front door.

  Had they all been in on Livy’s plot? Because he agreed with Jo—he felt quite, quite certain Livy had had some matchmaking in mind when she’d bundled Jo into Darrow’s traveling carriage for the christening party.