by Lavinia Kent
It was everything he wanted and yet nothing. “And so you will be my wife.”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “And there is something more.”
Her hands were shaking, and he reached out and took them with his own.
“I am with child. The baby will be delivered in the late fall or early winter. It must have happened that one time in Aylsham.”
And the baby is mine? He resisted putting the thought to words. He did not question her. He knew the child was his, but the shock of it kept the question echoing through his mind.
He was going to be a father.
And then another thought occurred. “How long have you known? Surely, you have not just realized.”
Her gaze fell from his, and he could feel her hands clench to fists within his grasp.
She spoke very quietly. “I have known since the day before you told me you had decided to marry Miss Thompson.”
“And you didn’t tell me.” It was not a question.
“No.”
He rose to his feet suddenly, dropping her hands. He began to pace the room. “And what were you going to do? Take some potion and be rid of it? Or have you tried that already?”
“No.” She rose to her own feet and walked toward him. “I could never have done that. I planned to go north until the baby was born. I had not decided quite how to proceed after that. I was either going to claim the child as my ward or pass it off as my maid’s. I just don’t know.”
“You would rather have raised a bastard than tell me.”
“I was coming to tell you, but instead, you told me that you were going to marry Miss Thompson.”
“I would never have even thought of marrying her if I had known. You should have told me, regardless of all else.”
“I wanted to, but I was afraid you would act like this. I didn’t want you if you wished to be married to someone else. And all the reasons I did not think we would suit still stand.”
“But you will marry me now—to save yourself?”
“Yes.” Her voice was very small, even though she stood straight. “And the child. I could not bear to have the whole world know him a bastard. It would not be fair.”
“And your other plan would have been?” He could not control the anger in his tone. “You have spoken to me so often of wanting your own choice, of how I should have given Violet and Isabella choices. Where is my choice? What choice did you give me?”
She did not answer, but chewed on her lower lip. He had never seen her look so young and vulnerable. She was normally so in control that he did not even think of her age; now it seemed unavoidable—still, it did not defuse his anger.
“I was wrong.” The words seemed torn from her lips. “I do not say that often, but I will admit it now. I should have told you, consulted with you. You are correct, I was doing exactly what I have accused you of.” She paused, and it seemed her nervousness increased. “But my question remains. Do you still wish to wed me?”
What should he say? He had come here with a plan so firmly embedded in his mind. He would tell her that he would marry Miss Thompson and then wait to see if she would talk him out of it. Now everything had changed.
He was going to be a father. How could he possibly not take her acceptance and let the rest drop?
“I do,” he said.
Her lips twisted in a crooked smile. She looked relieved, but not happy. Her head dropped to her chest, and he could see her attempt to adjust to this new reality.
“However,” he continued, “there is another option.”
Her head jerked back up. “Another option?”
“You may have heard that there were rumors last night concerning myself and Miss Thompson. She approached me later in the evening and demanded that I marry her. If I do this, the rumors will all turn to her. Even those who are now sure that I was with a brunette, and that you were that brunette, will wonder and allow themselves to be persuaded. Why else would I wed her?”
“And the baby?”
He forced the words out between grinding teeth. “You can proceed with your plan. I cannot say that there will not be questions, but I am sure you can maintain some air of respectability for both you and the child.” He could not say my child. That would make it too real, and he was not ready for that—not if he had to let them both go.
“You are really willing to do this?” She sank back in her chair, afraid her legs would give way.
“I would not have said so if I were not.”
“You do not sound pleased with the idea. As of early last evening, Miss Thompson was still your choice for a bride.”
“You know I changed my mind before all this happened.”
“Yes, I do.” She leaned her head back against the chair and stared up at the ceiling. “It is just all so much to take in.”
He came and sat across from her. “Yes, it is.”
“How do you feel about the baby? Do you want it, or is it just another responsibility? You clearly have a very large sense of responsibility and of your own duties in this world.”
“I cannot deny that. I do, however, want the child rather desperately.” His gaze locked with hers, and there could be no doubting the sincerity with which he spoke.
She lowered her head and met his gaze, her eyes searching. “But still you would let us go?”
“If it is what you want. I learned my lesson with Isabella. You cannot force others to be what you want them to be; it can lead only to disaster. I must accept that my sister would never have been driven to do what she did and then to flee, if I had not impelled her.”
“I think I wanted not to have a choice. It is so much easier to let fate decide. I feel like such a fool. I demanded choice, and now I wish I did not have it.”
He leaned toward her. “But you do have it. I cannot decide for you.”
“Yes, then I will marry you.” Her voice was the barest whisper.
She could not believe she had said the words—and not once, but twice that day. There was relief in having it done, however.
“There is one more thing,” he added.
“What?” She could not imagine what else was left besides the details of planning. All things considered, the wedding must be soon—even then there would be talk, but society would soon move to the next scandal once the proprieties had been observed.
He rose again and paced to the window. He looked out for a moment before turning back to her and fixing her with an expression that was hard to read. “I have not told you the whole story about Isabella.”
“I know you have not. There is much I have guessed from what you and Violet have told me and what gossip there has been. I know she disappeared and Foxworthy was killed. The world may not have fully put these two events together, but there must be some connection. And Violet told me of the blackmail. I know that your father made mistakes, mistakes which you have paid for. I do not need to know more.”
“That is much more simple than it was and it leaves out several important pieces. Pieces not even Violet knows of.”
That caught her attention. “What else could there be?”
“You know that Foxworthy was using blackmail to force me to let him wed Isabella.”
“You know I do. We have had many arguments about it.”
“What you don’t know, what nobody knows, is that in the end—when I realized how opposed Isabella was to the match and what steps Violet would take to prevent it—I went to Foxworthy and I told him I could not do it. That I would face the consequences.”
“It still would have been simpler to just give Isabella the choice.” The words were out before she could stop them. Given her own recent behavior, she had no right to judge.
He flashed a look, but then continued, “Foxworthy was not willing to let it go. He demanded that if he could not have Isabella that I give him something else. He knew that his own power over me would diminish if things did not proceed as planned.”
“But what could he do?”
“He had me sign mo
re papers, papers that incriminated me in high crimes. He promised to keep my father’s secrets if I would do this. I thought it would give Isabella a chance to find happiness before the world knew of our disgrace. I would already be ruined if the world knew my father had been engaged in traitorous activities. It did not seem like a large price to pay.”
“But then Foxworthy was killed.”
“And then Isabella murdered Foxworthy.” He let the words hang.
She could only stare at him in confusion. Isabella killed Foxworthy. The very idea was preposterous. She had no words to say.
He saw the confusion on her face and gave more detail. “I told Isabella what Foxworthy had done, explained what he had demanded. I think I hoped that she would relent, would agree to the marriage and save us all.”
“That is not what happened.”
“No, it is possible that it is what she meant to happen. I did not know she had gone to see Foxworthy until later—until I found her standing over his body.”
“But you cannot be sure—”
“I am sure in my heart. If you could have seen how she looked, you would have been sure too. I drove my sister to kill a man. There, I have said the words.”
Clara could see how much it cost him. He had never truly admitted his own wrongdoing, and in those few sentences she could see it all. He was by no means as sure of himself as he pretended.
“If she killed him it was her own doing,” she replied. “Just as I demand that you give her choice, so you must give her the responsibility that goes with it.”
“I do not see it that way and neither does Violet. She can forgive me for much, but not for that. Isabella will always stand between us.”
“But if she is found—”
“If she is found—what? She will still have killed a man. There was some confusion after the event. Foxworthy was stabbed after he was dead, and we know that was not Isabella.”
“Stabbed after he was dead? Perhaps he was not really dead before? Perhaps she did not kill him.”
“He was dead.” He said it with such finality that there was no doubt left in her mind.
“It makes no sense.”
“No, it does not, but it does not change the fact. If Isabella returns, do we cover her crimes? The answer is, of course, yes, but it gives me little comfort. I do not know how I will face her after what I made her do.”
“You did not make her do anything.”
“It is not worth arguing—besides, that is not all I feel guilty about—it is those damn papers.”
She looked at him with some confusion. “Papers?”
“The ones I signed admitting my own treason. Not all Foxworthy’s papers were found with his body. The ones I signed were missing. I know Isabella took some articles from his desk. I can only assume the papers were among them.”
“And so you have hunted Isabella.”
“Yes. I would have searched for her anyway and just as hard, but—”
“—you feel guilty that your motives were not pure. You feel guilty that you believe she killed Foxworthy because of you, and you feel guilty that you sought the papers as well as her.”
“I do. It feels like I have lied to the world in not telling the truth.”
“But who could you have told besides Violet? And I know she would understand—and forgive you. And why do you tell me now?”
“Because I have not found Isabella—or the papers. You know that I have given up—I cannot see how she will ever be found now, but you need to know that those papers are still out there. If they ever do turn up, I could be accused of treason—and as my wife, you have to live with the consequences as well. And if Isabella is found, it is always possible she would hang for murder. Do you really want to ally yourself with such potential scandal?”
She felt steadfast. Then she smiled, not a joyful smile, but one she knew was full of emotion and resolution. “I can manage that. I clearly have a talent for scandal.”
He snorted.
And she laughed, a deep, full laugh that contained only the faintest edge of hysteria.
“We are quite the pair, aren’t we?” she asked as the laugh trailed off. “You know of course that all the reasons we won’t suit are still valid?”
“Of course I do, but they don’t always seem to matter, do they?”
“No, they don’t. I don’t understand how you can be so irritating and still so inviting, but at least our lives won’t be boring. I fear I am bound to you by temptation. I cannot imagine my life without you.”
He came and sat on the ottoman again and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. “Yes, I think the one thing I can promise you is that we won’t be bored.”
He kissed her palm, softly—letting her rest it against his cheek. He leaned forward and let his face lie against hers. She could feel his stubble abrade slightly against her soft skin.
She turned her face to see him and watched as his pupils darkened, listened as his breathing sped.
There was so much in his eyes—all the words that they were not yet ready to say, but knew were true.
Her gaze dropped to his lips, and his breath caught.
Her other hand slipped lower. She felt him tense as her small, curious fingers began their exploration.
No, it would not be dull.
Epilogue
London, July 18, 1821
That blasted man. He had done it again. He had let her have her way.
He had told her the crowds for the king’s coronation would be too great, too loud, too raucous. It would not be at all suitable to bring the children. They were too young to appreciate the spectacle and excitement of the event. They would not remember it. They should be left at home with their nurse.
And then he’d made the arrangements for them all to attend. He’d told her his plans, smiled sweetly, and acted as if it had been his idea all along.
He hadn’t once indicated that she’d spent a full hour explaining why she thought it was important for the children to be there even if they didn’t remember.
Damn that blasted man. If she didn’t love him so much she’d kill him.
There was a small whimper from the crib beside her. Clara leaned over and pulled the thin blanket up over her sleeping daughter. The newborn was curled on her side, a finger lying softly against her mouth.
He’d told her it was too soon for another baby too. And then he’d promptly set about helping her have one—not that he’d seemed to object too much to that part.
What was a woman to do with a man who actually listened, even when he pretended he didn’t—a man who had finally learned to tell her he loved her, who whispered his feelings in the dark recesses of their bed—a man who’d stood with her through scandal and disgrace—a man who complained only gently when the invitations started to arrive again, and she wanted to dance every night—although sometimes he persuaded her to stay home?
The baby kicked the blanket off and whimpered again.
Clara could only smile.
It was impossible to imagine life without baby Isabella. There had never been a doubt about what their daughter would be named. Bella would be Masters’s second chance.
There was a loud cry from the next room, and Clara blew a kiss at the sleeping baby and walked to the door, easing it open.
Little Johnny was not happy. Her eighteen-month-old son sat upright in his bed, his face red from the scream. His eyes met hers in a clash of wills as she entered the room. “It is time to sleep, dearest.”
“No.” His expression said so much more than the single word.
She came and sat on the bed by his side, brushing his hair back from his face. The dark curls were tinged with red, just like his father’s. “You’ve had your dinner and your bath and I’ve read you your story—more than one, in fact. You know it is time to sleep.”
“No.”
“Come now. Lie down and close your eyes.” She ran her fingers through his curls again.
“Want Papa.”
As if
in answer to his words Clara heard the clatter of boots on the stairs up to the nursery. She sighed softly to herself. A proper mother would stop Masters before he entered the room and explain that their son could not have everything he wanted in life, explain that she had already told him his father was out and that he would have to make do with her.
Yes, that was what a proper mother would do.
She leaned over and kissed Johnny’s forehead. “I think I hear Papa now. I’ll tell him you want another story.”
“Yes.”
She heard the boots enter the first room, where their daughter slept. The footsteps paused by the crib, and she could imagine the glowing look on Masters’s face as he stared down at their daughter.
She waited and heard the door ease open again.
“Still awake, are we?” Masters said as he entered. “Don’t you know it’s past your bedtime? Have you been giving your mother a hard time?”
“Papa!” Her son’s voice rang with triumph.
Clara could only shrug as she stood and let Masters take her place on the bed. She handed him the book of stories that had become their son’s favorite. “Only one, mind you. I’ve already read until my throat is hoarse.”
“Of course,” Masters answered. He looked up at her, and she could see that more than the joy of their family was in his eyes. “I’ll be out in a few moments. And Clara, I have news—the very best news.”
She raised a brow in question as she quietly left the room.
She heard the soft rumblings of the two male voices as she sat in the rocker next to her daughter’s crib. The minutes sped by, and she was sure that at least one extra story had been told.
“He’s asleep,” Masters said as he slipped into the room, closing the door behind him.
“You know you shouldn’t read until he’s asleep. Nurse is always telling us that.”
“I know, but it’s a special night.”
“Of course it is. The coronation is tomorrow. I am sure Johnny senses all the excitement in the air.”