Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  “What good would come of it?” Gertie replied. “Alexander must not know that the child is not his.”

  “How will he not know? You and he have not…”

  Gertie steeled herself. “That can be arranged.”

  Harrietta furrowed her brow in thought. “One could seek a physician to terminate the–”

  “No! I have longed for a child for too long. I could not. But I will not have my child born a bastard. God help me, this child will not suffer from my mistake.”

  And she meant it. The thought of her unborn child and its future gave her the strength to carry on. After all those attempts to produce an heir, after all the different remedies Belinda had insisted on trying, she had begotten herself with child through an affair. She could have laughed in her relief—she was not barren, after all—but for her misery.

  “And you think Alexander can be…seduced?” Harrietta ventured.

  The prospect made Gertie cringe. “It takes but one time…”

  “Oh, Gertie, there must be another way!”

  “I have mulled it day and night. I have prayed for a solution to present itself.”

  “You could petition for a divorce. Vale will see it through Parliament. Pitt owes him a favor.”

  “That would happen only after a crim con suit. And what of the baby? What future will it have if it is born a bastard?”

  Harrietta looked down at her hands.

  “Come,” Gertie said. “I have made you sad, and I do not wish to visit my troubles upon you. We have a number of precious girls who will be delighted to see you.”

  “How deucedly iniquitous this all is!” Harrietta lamented.

  Gertie did not disagree, and alas, the greatest injury would fall upon an innocent babe. At times, she had imagined leaving Alexander and living an illicit life with Phineas, but always her thoughts returned to the unborn child.

  “How we have missed you girls!” Gertie exclaimed as she stood with Harrietta in the Orphan Asylum.

  “And we return bearing gifts!” the Marchioness declared as she lifted a valise. The girls clamored around Harrietta, then gasped as little white gloves trimmed with lace emerged.

  Gertie smiled as their eyes widened into saucers. She felt a tap upon her shoulder and turned to find Mr. Winters at her elbow.

  “Your ladyship, there is a matter that must needs be addressed to you,” he informed her. “If you would come with me into my study…”

  She followed him readily, wondering what he could be alluding to.

  “How is Peggy?” she asked, fearing he meant to reveal some bad news about the babe.

  “Good, good,” he replied. “You will find she has put on more flesh since last you saw her.”

  “How wonderful!” she sighed, but she noted Mr. Winters appeared uncomfortable still.

  He opened the door of his study to allow her entry. “You have a guest, Lady Lowry.”

  She saw him only after she had stepped into the room. Even in the dimness, one could not mistake the form of Phineas Barclay. She turned back to Mr. Winters, but the man had closed the door behind him, leaving her alone with Barclay. Her heart throbbed painfully as if her chest were too small a cavity for it.

  “I had to ask Mr. Winters when he expected you for you would not return my letters,” he explained.

  The traitor, she thought to herself as she glared at the door.

  “I have been visiting my friend at Dunnesford,” she reminded him.

  “You returned over a fortnight ago.”

  His grimness surprised her. His letters, though curt in their request for her audience, had surprised her as well. She had convinced herself that he would want nothing to do with her upon their return to London. Perhaps he had wished to speak of her regarding the copper mining, though the papers had all been signed and the digging had begun.

  “I have been busy,” she answered. “And rather fatigued.”

  His expression eased and he took a step towards her. “Are you well, Gertie?”

  The concern in his voice made the breath catch in her throat. She turned away from him. She was not well. She was terrible. Ever since she had discovered her pregnancy, she had been plagued by sleepless nights. She glanced into Barclay’s searching eyes. The tenderness reflected in those radiant eyes was an arrow through her heart. Suddenly she wanted to tell him everything, to feel his comforting arms about her. But that would not do. It was best to believe the worst where Lord Barclay was concerned.

  “I am well enough,” she replied, her mouth dry. She walked towards the bookcase on the other side of the room from him and pretended to review the book spines. “Did you wish to speak to me of the mine? I understand it is going well?”

  “I wished to know how you fared,” he said.

  Her stomach twisted, but she forced a nonchalant shrug as she turned to him. “Now you know.”

  His gaze narrowed at her. “I see. I was mistaken about our time at the inn, then.”

  She raised her brows. “Your pardon? What is there to mistake?”

  A muscle rippled along his jaw. He stepped towards her.

  “Though I did fear that you would repent our time,” he continued.

  “Nay, I do not repent it,” she said with forced gaiety, “but what more needs to be addressed? We amused ourselves, you and I, but one could hardly expect the affair to continue?”

  He was still advancing towards her, so she turned to leave, but his arm blocked her path, trapping her between the bookcase and his body.

  “Amused ourselves?” he echoed. “Is that how you see our time together?”

  Her heart thumped furiously. “La, sir, how else would one see it? You of all people should understand.”

  “It meant more to me than mere amusement.”

  Gertie shut her eyes. If she looked into his gaze, her armor would crack and she would find herself a crumpled heap at his feet.

  His statement hurt more than anything. It was the last thing she wanted to hear him say. She would have done better had he confessed that he had taken her to bed in error.

  “Gertie…”

  She felt her legs tremble beneath her at the caress of her name.

  He leaned in towards her. “I counted the days until we would meet.”

  Her eyes flew open. “I am a married woman.”

  “That did not stop you at the inn.”

  “Things have changed.”

  He straightened, and she took that opportunity to escape from him. She leaned over the writing desk for support.

  “You have had a change of heart,” he noted.

  She nodded. He grasped both her arms and turned her to him.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “You may—you may disbelieve all you wish. It does not change my situation.”

  His nearness consumed the breathable air about her. She had to put some distance between them.

  “I can change it. What do you wish of me? I will grant it.”

  She shook her head. “You cannot. Nor do I wish you to.”

  “Gertie!”

  For the first time she heard the desperation.

  “I think it best,” she said with a trembling voice, “that you not seek my audience anymore.”

  “Why? I would be the Cicisbeo to you and demand naught from you.”

  “But I do not wish it.”

  His grasp tightened about her arms. Her head was beginning to spin.

  “Gertie, if you knew the depths of my affection–”

  She shook her head violently. “Cease! I wish to hear no more. I wish for you not to trouble me! I wish not to see you!”

  With a cry, she wrenched herself free. She yanked open the door and fled out of the room. Despite the tears clouding her eyes, she made her way out into the yard behind the asylum. Beneath an elm tree, she sobbed as her heart broke in twain.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “PHINEAS? PHINEAS!”

  Phineas looked over his tea at Georgina, who had invited herself ove
r in hopes of coaxing him to attend her on her visit to the milliner.

  “Phineas, you are not yourself,” his sister said, biting into a crumpet. “Robert had said as much but I could hardly believe it. What can possibly ruffle our dear brother?”

  He made no response. His mind still dwelled in the orphan asylum and his last exchange with Gertie. She had stunned him. He who had never been for a loss of words had been rendered speechless. He had expected some resistance from her, but her vehemence had disconcerted him. Still, he was not ready to submit to her professed wish. There had to be a way to win her over, but he was at a loss over how.

  “I require your services,” Georgina continued, “for I insist on being properly dressed if I am to give testimony at the crim con. Rather, I wish to shine beautifully.”

  Phineas put down his tea. Perhaps there was a way to Gertie through Lady Athena…

  Gibbons entered the room. “Lord Barclay, a lady is here to see you.”

  Phineas leaped to his feet. The Countess! At last! She had realized her affection for him. But the woman waiting for him in the hall was not Gertie. Despite the veil covering her face, he could tell from her form it was not whom he desired. Her robe l’anglaise fitted her petite frame too smartly.

  “May we speak in private, Lord Barclay?” the woman asked.

  “I have never denied a woman a request for privacy,” Barclay returned, though he sensed a foreboding tenor to the prospect. He showed her into his study. “May I offer you–”

  She shook her head. “I will not be long.”

  Standing by his writing table, he waited for her to begin. She lifted her veil to reveal young, soft features, a pleasing but not extraordinary countenance with high cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and small lips. He did not recognize her physiognomy, but she revealed herself soon enough.

  “Gertie must not know that I came to see you.”

  He bowed. “You must be the Marchioness of Dunnesford.”

  She appraised him from head to foot and seemed somewhat impressed.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

  She hesitated. “Gertie knows not that I am here, but she told me everything. About you. And her.”

  “Indeed,” he said, unimpressed. He knew the affection Gertie bore the Marchioness, but if the Lady Aubrey were such a good friend, why was she here?

  His tone must have surprised her for she elaborated, “Gertie is my dearest friend. I will not see her harmed.”

  “Ah, the lioness has come to threaten the wolf to keep his distance. I am glad that Gertie—Lady Lowry—has at least one protector.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “You need not have wasted your time, my lady.”

  He made a movement to show her out the door.

  “It pains me to see her in such despair,” she insisted. “And if you care for her as much as I, you will not wish to cause her more grief.”

  He looked at her sharply. “Madam, I would disavow my soul to ease her suffering. But you will be relieved to know that she has already sworn off further association with me.”

  The Marchioness winced. “I know. She told me of her dialogue with you at the orphan asylum. But I think—I suspect you are not the sort of man to give up easily. And you must understand that the more you pursue her, the more she is pained.”

  “I have no intention of making a public spectacle if that is what you fear. If she has entrusted you with her confidence, then there is but the three of us who have any knowledge of what occurred.”

  “That is not what I meant. You do not understand...”

  He raised his brows, feeling his patience wearing thin as the last memory of Gertie brought back the pain of her words.

  “Lady Lowry would have me believe that my presence is loathsome to her,” he said. “You will not convince me where she has failed. Lady Lowry—Gertie has a perturbing affinity for the martyr. I intend to persuade her from it.”

  “You must not!”

  His irritation rose. Though he knew the Marchioness to act out of her love for Gertie, he did not appreciate her meddling. “I think the one who fails to understand is you.”

  She had a tortured look on her face. “Please cease your efforts where Gertie is concerned.”

  “Madam, I think there is no more that needs be discussed.”

  He headed for the door with every intention of having Gibbons escort her out. He could have provided her a set-down for her interference, but only the knowledge of her friendship with Gertie stayed him from making any biting remarks.

  “She is with child.”

  His hand felt heavy upon the handle of the door as the words sunk in.

  “Your child,” Lady Aubrey added.

  With slow deliberation, he turned to face her. She looked ready to cry.

  “Are you certain?” he asked, his voice near a whisper.

  “Certain she is with child or certain it is yours?”

  Needing time to think, he walked away from the door towards the window.

  “She is certain,” she said. “Of both.”

  “Does Alexander know?”

  “He knows nothing. And he will not have reason to believe the child not to be his.”

  The realization began to sink in. No wonder Gertie had rebuffed him with such passion.

  “So you see that it is fruitless to seek her out,” Lady Aubrey stated.

  He put a hand to the back of his neck. The world had shifted beneath his feet. All the thoughts and hopes he had harbored were no longer germane. The Cruelty of Fate.

  “She will not endanger the future of her child.”

  “I know,” he acknowledged. He knew what this child meant to Gertie. He spoke, but his voice reached his ears as if emanating from someone else. “Nor would I ask her to.”

  The Marchioness released an audible sigh. She walked over and put a hand upon his arm.

  “You are a good man. I suspected as much, for Gertie would not have fallen in love with a man who was not.”

  He nearly choked and could not help a grimace as he looked down at the Marchioness. “But not enough to wish to be with me.”

  “You must not think thusly. I wish with all my heart that she could have both you and the child. She deserves so much more happiness than she has had.”

  He took a deep breath, but it only made his chest ache.

  “I can see that you love her.”

  He winced and said with some bitterness. “That does not matter now.”

  “It always matters.”

  A sentimental and womanly statement, he thought dismissively.

  “If it would have made Gertie happy, I would have professed it to the world,” he said. “But as such, it shall remain locked in my bosom.”

  Feeling the weight of sadness, he glanced down at his hands.“I take it that I am not to know this child of mine?” he asked.

  “Alas…” She replaced the veil over her face. “I should depart. If I could…if you should ever require anything of me, Lord Barclay, I would be only too glad to be of service.”

  He grasped her hand before she could leave. “If you find an opportunity, if you could convey—tell Gertie I wish her well. I wish her all the happiness she can find.”

  The Marchioness nodded. She sauntered to the door and left without further word. Phineas stared at the floor, the rug upon it a colorful blur before his eyes. A range of emotions—anger, despair, and sorrow— threatened to assault him. How dare Gertie try to keep this child from him? How dare she sacrifice her own happiness for this child? How dare she allow Alexander to believe the child to be his own?

  The last thought made the hairs on his neck stand on end. But with his outrage came compassion and sympathy for what Gertie endured. As he recalled their last exchange, he realized her pain. He had been too taken aback by her rejection at the time to recognize how much she suffered. The grief hung heavy upon his heart as he thought of her agony, but she had a consolation—a child that she could love. He had nothing.
/>   “Phineas?”

  He looked up to see Georgina standing at the door. He must have looked a sorry sight for she hurried to his side.

  “Phineas, who was that woman? What did she have to say to you?”

  “I had but met her acquaintance today.”

  “And who is she?”

  “I will not reveal her.” He straightened and faced his sister. “Come, did you not to intend to seek my company to the milliner?”

  She eyed him skeptically.

  “One must always look her best in a crim con suit, eh?” he prodded.

  Georgina agreed and they set off for the shops in Mayfair, but it proved a futile distraction. He could not stop thinking of Gertie and how she was now forever lost to him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  GERTIE WATCHED AS the serving maid poured the burgundy into Alexander’s glass. It was one of the finest bottles she could procure, and she expected that Alexander would take to it favorably.

  “The Herrefords have an heir—two, in fact, as Lady Herreford produced twins,” Belinda remarked over dinner.

  Alexander scowled and reached for the wine. Gertie kept her gaze to her soup.

  “And they have been wed but a year,” Belinda added. “I wonder if you should consult a physician, Alexander?”

  It had been the first time the Dowager Lowry had contemplated the possibility that the lack of an offspring might be attributable to her son.

  “He must first need plow the right field,” Sarah muttered as she watched her soup sliding off the spoon.

  Alexander glared at his sister. Sarah responded with a defiant look.

  “I beg your pardon?” Belinda asked.

  “I have no wish to marry Mr. Rowland,” Sarah declared.

  By the look in her sister-in-law’s eyes, Gertie realized what her sister intended to employ.

  “No one else has asked for your hand,” Alexander responded evenly.

  “Because you have discouraged them all!”

  “Mr. Rowland is a good prospect,” Belinda defended.

  Sarah grimaced. “I bear him no affection! I loathe his presence!”

  “He will care for you well,” Alexander said. “I have no wish to discuss this further. The matter is settled.”