The Foreign Secretary’s words faded away as her gaze met Caleb’s, and she motioned with her fingers for him to stop tugging on his cravat.
Both hands casually dropped and clasped in front of him, and at his crooked, rueful, intimate smile, she had to swallow hard to get rid of the boulder suddenly lodged in her throat.
Oh, Cal. I loved you with every breath in my body. Even with the troubles of your mother and my awkwardness and inability to get with child, I thought we were forever.
I’m terrified I’d love you more this time, and you’d leave me again.
And I couldn’t bear it.
I just couldn’t.
Chapter Four
Week Two
“Where are we going, Caleb?”
“You’ll see. Not far now.”
He pinned a smile to his face as the Montclair carriage sped along the cobbled London streets, resisting the urge to drum his fingers on the leather squab or tap his feet, any gesture that might shout to Emma exactly how apprehensive he was right now.
Today had to be perfect. He had planned it with as much care as any military campaign, hiring outside help to ensure it remained a surprise.
Finally, the carriage pulled up to a four-storey townhouse on the corner of Curzon Street. The building was fashioned of pale brown stone with a wide oak front door, large windows and a high-walled garden to the right hand side that curved around the back and disappeared in a mass of thick green foliage.
Opening the door, he stepped out then turned to assist Emma, who stared up at the house with a slight frown marring her creamy forehead.
“You might have mentioned we were going visiting! I would have worn a different gown.”
“We are and we aren’t,” he replied, pondering firing Mac on their return for tying his cravat so damned tightly he could hardly breathe.
She raised an impatient eyebrow. “There is no half-measure when it comes to calling, Caleb. One either arrives at an acquaintance’s house to chat and take tea, or one does not.”
“Indeed, my Lady Disdain…ow. Did you just pinch me?”
“Dear me, no. Must have been an insect. That time of year.”
“Hmmm,” he said, suppressing a smile as he led her up the neatly swept steps to the front door and pushed it open to reveal an empty, sun-drenched foyer.
Emma stilled. “Is this…?”
“Yes,” he said carefully. “It’s Brentwood House. London residence of the Baron and Baroness of Brentwood since the late 1600’s. Needs a damned good clean of course. And a lot of redecorating, my grandfather and uncle were both notorious pinchpennies. But I think it could be, er, quite adequate.”
She gazed around, nodding slowly at the polished wood floor, the high, sculpted plaster ceilings, and impressive bulk of a chandelier hidden beneath a cloth cover.
“Well, take me on a tour, then.”
“With pleasure.”
Cautiously optimistic, he showed her the first two floors, the well-equipped kitchens and servants quarters, library, parlor, music room, formal and more intimate dining rooms. It was hard not to become more and more enthusiastic about the townhouse and its potential, especially when she began asking questions about features and materials.
“And what is on the next two floors?” she said eventually, one hand curving around the carved staircase banister. “Just bedchambers?”
“Yes. Adjoining rooms for the baron and baroness, plus six other guest chambers. And a nursery of course.”
Emma’s fingers clenched hard on the banister as she looked away.
“Of course.”
His gut churned, even as he wanted to kick himself for the slip.
Well done, Montclair. Very clever to remind her of the one thing you failed over and over to give her instead of focusing on the benefits of the townhouse.
“Do you want to see the gardens?” he said gruffly, his tone overloud in the awkward silence.
“Always,” she replied quickly, clearly relieved at the change of topic.
Taking her arm again, they strolled down a near-hidden hallway and opened the double doors at the end. “There are two doors to the gardens, these ones and another set from the music room. I’m sad to say this area has been sadly neglected, it needs a fair amount of expert care and supervision.”
Emma sucked in an audible breath at the view. “But so much potential. The lawns are well sown, those flowerbeds will be beautiful after a thorough weeding, and all those poor trees need is a good pruning…oh, look at the fountain! Does it work?”
“It does, although I’m not sure you’d want to splash in it just yet. Could be anything living under that layer of slime. A man-eating goldfish or a lonely old frog with a penchant for ankle licking.”
“How frightfully rude,” she said with a low, husky laugh. “One should always ask permission first.”
Caleb grinned. “I shall keep that in mind.”
A discreet cough sounded, and he turned his head to see an older gentleman standing nearby.
“Excuse me, sir, but luncheon is served.”
He nodded and turned back to Emma. “Ready to eat?”
“Out here?”
“Yes, they’ve set up just around the corner.”
“A picnic sounds wonderful.”
It was. When they rounded the east wing of the townhouse, a luncheon fit for a king and queen waited. Several rugs were spread on the grass, with fat cushions scattered around a low table. Sparkling silver dishes boasted a selection of meats, baked salmon, fresh bread, sliced summer fruit, apple tarts, and a mixed berry syllabub. A bottle of champagne and jug of lemonade rested in the middle, while a large muslin-covered wicker basket sat nearby. As soon as they made themselves comfortable, a second man settled himself twenty feet away and began playing slow tunes on a violin.
Afterward, they lounged on the cushions, and he almost fell asleep with the rather delightful combination of warm sunshine, full belly, soothing music and Emma so close he could scent her citrus soap.
Until she gasped and sat up.
“Caleb!”
“What?”
“The basket. It moved!”
“Good God. Can’t have baskets doing that, next thing they’ll be marching on the palace. You’d better investigate.”
Emma leaned well forward, then wriggled on her hands and knees the last few feet to reach the basket, giving him a display of curved backside so enticing, he had to forcibly restrain himself from touching her.
“Oh!” she whispered a few seconds later. “Come here, darling, you sweet, adorable, little angel.”
“I’m not really little, but if you insist.”
Giving his comment the snort it deserved, Emma sank back onto her cushion cradling a tiny black and white kitten on her lap. The instant devotion was obviously mutual, the kitten immediately stalking and batting at the ribbons on her dark blue gown’s lace bodice, purring loudly all the while.
“For me?” she said, her eyes huge and glistening in a way that halted another joke. “But your mother hates cats.”
“So she does. What are you going to call him?”
Emma trailed a finger across her lap, laughing as the kitten elegantly hopped from thigh to knee and attempted to pounce. “He’s so alert…Frisky?”
He shot her an appalled look. “Frisky? He’ll be laughed out of kitten club. Come on, he is the pride of his litter. A future lion and king of the species, a thousand years of bloody, primitive history behind him.”
“What say you, sweetheart?” she crooned at her new pet, ignoring his words completely as she scratched behind the kitten’s miniature pointed ears. “Is your name Frisky?”
Damned if the animal didn’t pad back up to her breasts, attach himself and purr louder. Was that a wink? Did the wretched ball of fluff actually grin at him from the supreme
ly enviable position of his wife’s lush cleavage?
Sitting back on his cushion, Caleb coughed irritably.
Clearly a rethink of strategy was required.
Oh, but Caleb fought dirty.
Shifting on the butter-soft leather squab as the carriage made its way back to the Montclair townhouse, Emma narrowed her gaze at the relaxed form of her husband as he sat sprawled on the seat opposite her. In one afternoon, he had offered a beautiful home, her own garden, seduced her with a delicious outdoor picnic and romantic music, and given her the pet she had craved for as long as she could remember.
And this was only week two of their bargain.
“Cal?”
“Mmmm?”
“Why did you get me a kitten?”
He straightened. “Would you have preferred something else?”
“No. Frisky is perfect. When I was a little girl, Mama had a cat and I’ve always wanted one,” she said softly, glancing down at the kitten curled up fast asleep in his basket, no doubt exhausted after an hour of being fed slivers of meat, a saucer of milk and having his tummy rubbed.
“You must miss your mother greatly.”
“Of course, especially because I don’t remember her so well these days. I was five when she died, it was just me and Papa for so long…why a pet now, Caleb?”
“Damnation, I’m trying to apologize. I know…I know that your life while I’ve been away wasn’t nearly what it should’ve been. Not what I promised—”
Caleb broke off, scowling as he gave the end of his intricately arranged cravat a harsh yank.
Sighing heavily, she switched seats and perched beside him, using a fingernail to pick at the hopelessly tight knot. “You could always not wear them.”
“But then you wouldn’t drape yourself over me to undo the mess.”
“I am not draping my…oh,” Emma finished, cheeks heating at the realization she was practically straddling him now in an effort to untie the cravat. His mouth, that heavenly mouth was barely two inches away from hers, and if she turned her cheek just so, she would feel the familiar, delicious scrape of his slightly-stubbled jaw.
Her skin prickled with awareness at his warmth, the scent of sandalwood and shaving soap, and suddenly it was her own clothing that felt entirely too tight, especially when his hands came to rest lightly on her hips.
“I’d hate,” he said roughly, in the voice that rasped across every nerve ending she possessed, “for you to fall while attending to me.”
Had she thought before he fought dirty? This, this was downright filthy.
Bowing her head, she closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against his until he turned his head and kissed her. Not a fierce, hard one, but a gentle brushing of lips wholly seductive in its restraint. Again and again he repeated the action, sometimes adding a tiny flick of his tongue, making her moan.
Her lips tingled, and she smiled.
Until the tingling became like pinpricks, and her head spun.
Dizzily, she pulled back, one hand resting on Caleb’s shoulder to brace herself as perspiration dampened her temples.
“Emma? Are you all right? Wait, what the hell is that on your wrist?”
Through half-closed lids she peered sideways, and her heart sank.
Oh no.
Only two other times in her life had she seen that rash, felt the pinpricks of heat and sweats, which would soon be followed by her stomach purging itself of everything eaten in the past month.
“Strawberries,” she croaked. “I can’t eat them.”
“We didn’t have…oh shit, the syllabub,” he said, somehow pale even with his bronzed tan. Swiftly, he balled up his discarded cravat and used it to dab her face. “I didn’t know. Bloody hell. God, Emma. I…What will happen? Can you breathe?”
Emma gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to curl into a ball and howl as the rash’s burning prickle slowly crawled up her arms, down her front and across her stomach. The light cambric fabric of her gown felt like a sackcloth prison now, constricting and tormenting her painfully sensitive skin.
“Yes. But I will be violently ill soon. Many times. And my skin…bad…”
“Okay. Okay. Shhh, don’t talk anymore, love, look, here we are. I’ll send for the physician, cold cloths, lotions, infusions, whatever you need. Just hold on, please, Emmy. Fuck. It’s my fault. I didn’t know about strawberries. I didn’t know.”
She wanted to pat Caleb’s hand, to soothe the raw, half-wild look in his eyes, but everything hurt now, and when he scooped her up and ran with her up the stairs and into the townhouse, the extra heat from the sunshine and the jolting of her roiling stomach made her whimper instead.
“Caleb! What on earth?” Lady Hugh’s voice, from a distance.
“Strawberries,” he bit out. “Send for a doctor. And cloths, cold water, infusions, hell whatever the housekeeper has.”
“All right, calm down.”
“Do not tell me to calm down. Just get the items. Immediately, Mother!”
Clicking heels swiftly retreated and they were moving again. More stairs, hundreds and hundreds of stairs turning her whimpers into harsh sobs as she writhed in fevered agony, the heated pinpricks now stabbing knives. He held her tightly against his chest and the extra warmth, the pressure of his arms on her body was almost unbearable.
“I’m going to…oh…” she choked out as he burst into a blessedly familiar chamber, dropping to his knees on the carpet next to an empty chamber pot.
For hours she lay on her side and hugged the porcelain to her breasts as she retched, long past caring about the commotion around her as orders were barked, feet scurried and gentle hands sponged her burning face, neck and arms with wonderfully cool water.
Finally, when only soft candlelight lit the room, the bile demon in her stomach eased and she gingerly lifted her head from the cushion some thoughtful person had tucked under her.
“Emmy?”
She blinked at the unexpected sight of Caleb on the carpet next to her, his huge body propped up against the wall, looking about as awful as she felt.
He hadn’t moved, not even during the worst of her illness.
“Yes?” she said hoarsely, her throat dry and aching.
“Let me do the talking, you just nod or shake your head. Is your stomach feeling a little better? Do you want to try moving to the bed?”
Nod.
Very, very carefully, he lifted her from the carpet and carried her to the open bed, sitting her on the edge so he could lift her soiled gown over her head and remove her stays and chemise. Quickly, not meeting her gaze, he took a damp cloth and washed every inch of her, then dressed her in a thin cotton nightgown.
“I have salve for the rash. The physician stopped by, you may not remember, but he’ll be back tomorrow, er, today. We also have barley water if you want to try a few sips. Oh, and don’t worry about Frisky, he has made himself right at home on the daybed. A sprawler, he is. I’ll be lucky to get a quarter.”
Nod.
His shoulders slumped. “I don’t even know what to say. When I think what might have happened…”
“Caleb.”
“An utter debacle,” he said quietly, running a slow hand through his disheveled hair. “New low standard has been set for picnics and husbands.”
The tiniest of smiles tugged at her lips as Emma settled back on linen sheets so smooth and cool it felt like resting on water.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, her eyes closing in an odd kind of peaceful exhaustion. “I think…no, I’m sure, this has been the best worst day of my life.”
“Major Montclair. Major Montclair!”
Inching one eye open, he found himself nearly nose to nose with a portly, red-cheeked gentleman of indeterminate age. Ah yes. The physician, Fenton.
Jolting upright from the shockingly uncomfortable
high-backed chair he’d fallen into one? two? days ago, he gripped the doctor’s soft shoulder.
“Mrs. Montclair? Has something happened to her?”
“No sir. Your wife is resting comfortably and the rash is diminishing. I do believe it will be almost completely gone by the end of the week.”
“Then why did you wake me, man?”
Fenton pursed his lips. “You’re not eating, have spent two nights dozing in a wooden chair and you’re wearing a kitten. It’s not healthy. Here, let me unattach…ouch! Demmed thing bit me!”
Swallowing a laugh, Caleb reached up, gently unhooked the leech-like Frisky from his shoulder perch and set him at the foot of Emma’s bed. “Apologies, Doctor, he’s still in training. And I’m fine. But Mrs. Montclair, she is better? Will this affect her health long term?”
“Your wife is much better. I’m sure it was alarming at the time, but I don’t think she ingested enough berries to do serious damage, and your promptness in sending for me also aided her recovery. And no, there will be no lasting damage. Women are really rather robust, you know. Look at what they manage when with child.”
His jaw clenched. “Indeed. So, er, no issues there?”
Fenton chuckled and patted his arm. “Mrs. Montclair asked the same thing. And I reassured the dear lady she was tip top. Good, strong hips, regular courses and not too thin or excitable. I can’t see a single impediment to a healthy pregnancy. But best get onto it, yes? No more dilly-dallying.”
“Thank you,” Caleb said, forcing a smile. “I’ll send a draft for your expenses.”
“Good day, Major. Now, for heaven’s sake go and have something to eat or you’ll end up ill as well,” said the doctor, picking up his medical satchel and bustling away.
Rubbing a hand over his jaw, Caleb stared at his sleeping wife then turned and padded silently from the chamber, stretching and flexing his cramped limbs as he made his way to the sunny breakfast room. Yet he found himself bypassing the delicious-scented and heavily laden sideboard, instead stopping by the street-facing window as his gut churned.
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