All the air left Drogo’s lungs. His heart halted. His knees crumpled. The wall was all that held him up. He stared at the doctor’s outstretched hand a moment too long before recovering and shaking it fervently, accepting the older man’s all-too-familiar slap on the arm. The physician had overseen the delivery of his half brothers and probably thought himself a part of the family.
Glancing anxiously at the closed door, Drogo let the doctor find his own way out. Heart pounding so hard he thought it would break loose of his chest, he straightened his neckcloth, tugged his cuffs clear of his coat sleeves, and cautiously opened the door.
At sight of him, Ninian broke into a gale of laughter.
Obviously part of the conspiracy, Sarah joined in.
Disgruntled, Drogo glared at them both. Ninian wore only a flimsy nightshift borrowed from Sarah for the occasion. She wore her golden curls in a silken cascade over the linen, but there was nothing childish about the woman sitting up against the pillows. She represented every female seductress ever portrayed in art or literature. She had a knowing gaze that saw straight into a man’s soul, and a seductive full-lipped smile that told him she could provide all his secret desires. At the same time, she had eyes so blue and innocent he could swear she’d never taken him into her bed or spread her legs for him.
He had a momentary vision of those shapely legs spread across his bed and almost passed out from the rush of blood to his groin.
“It seems you’ve accomplished what others could not,” he said dryly, approaching the bed with wariness.
That produced another gale of laughter.
He stood at the bedside, gazing down at the mysterious woman who would become his wife despite her protestations otherwise, and wondered what the hell he’d done. “Am I allowed to hear the jest?”
Still giggling, Ninian bit her lip and shook her head as a signal that she couldn’t speak just yet. Schooling his patience, Drogo sat on the edge of the immense bed. He’d have to wallow across the covers to strangle her, he surmised. It was easier to wait.
Sarah offered her a sip of water, and gratefully, Ninian took it. She hiccupped once, then regained her composure. Drogo thought almost any other woman in the world would be looking at him in terror about now. He knew his wasn’t a pretty visage, one the ladies swooned over, unless it was in fear. His wretched eyebrows and dark coloring were sufficient to classify him as closer to Gypsy than earl. The sharp blade of his nose and the square angles of his jaw, not to mention his blasted height, presented a fearsome appearance. He’d used it quite successfully in terrifying his siblings into behaving.
His intended bride—not a frightened bone in her body—grinned hugely. “That was quite edifying, my lord.”
Drogo shot a glare at Sarah, who hastily stood and brushed out her gown. “I’ll be leaving the two of you alone now to… ahh, discuss the wedding.” She hurried out, closing the door firmly behind her.
Drogo returned his glare to Ninian, intending his look to ask what he would not.
She sighed. “Do you never smile, my lord?”
“You have not yet met my brothers,” he replied grimly. “Smiling is not the general reaction to events in this household.” He waited.
She grimaced. “You really don’t want to hear the reason for our laughter,” she warned. “It will not make you in the least happy.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Relaxing, he leaned back against one hand. “I prefer knowledge to ignorance, however. Let me hear it.”
She almost looked embarrassed. She rearranged the lacy coverlet near her breasts and looked down. “Ummm, your London physician just asked questions.”
Drogo played with that for a moment but couldn’t see the humor. “And?”
“That’s it, my lord. You brought me all the way to London so your physician could ask questions about what you already know for yourself.” At his impatient glare, she shrugged. “He asked if we’d had ‘sexual congress’ and how long ago. He asked for the last date of my…” she struggled for a polite word, “…woman’s time. And so on. He then merrily declared me enceinte and offered his congratulations.”
Temper shooting from nil to explosive in a matter of seconds, Drogo forced his tone into politeness. He didn’t want to terrify her. “He did not examine you?”
“Didn’t touch me,” she replied cheerfully. “It seems that’s not ‘done’ in polite circles.”
“Sarah knew,” Drogo replied through clenched teeth. “He’s her physician.”
Ninian grinned again. “That’s why I agreed to your preposterous suggestion.” Her smile slipped away. “I’m sorry, my lord. Sarah should never have written you. The only way you’ll have any proof that I carry any child at all is to wait a month, until you can see for yourself. And that doesn’t prove the child is yours. What would you prefer I do?”
Her only concern seemed to be for him. That struck Drogo as odd to the extreme, but the puzzle she presented demanded his attention more. He couldn’t believe her wanton enough to have slept with any other man. He accepted that he was the only devil in her bed. But he definitely wanted to ascertain her pregnancy before he committed both of them to an institution that had never fared well for his family. Maybe she wasn’t trying to trick him, but she could be mistaken. She might have some passing malady.
“Then we must wait a month,” he decided reasonably.
Any other woman would be indignant. This one took his delay with indifference. “My only interest is in doing what is best for the child. I think it will be good for her to have a father who acknowledges her and will support her should anything happen to me. Beyond that, I merely ask that I be returned to Wystan as soon as possible.”
She had as odd a notion of parenthood as his parents, it seemed. Drogo didn’t intend to inform her that he kept what was his, and that included her as well as the child. If he’d impregnated a lunatic, so be it. He’d accept the responsibility and the burden.
Maybe in a month’s time she would come to enjoy what the city had to offer and not have any interest in returning to the cold dreariness of the north. It would behoove him to work toward that goal.
He cast an interested gaze to the swelling curves above her bodice. “Would you care to take more chances at conception, as a precaution against disappointment?”
He watched as her nipples tightened and pushed against the thin cloth, until she hastily pulled the covers up to her chin. “Not a chance, my lord. If you can’t trust my word, I’d spend the rest of my life locked up in this room.”
Adjusting the suddenly too-tight press of his breeches, Drogo admitted the truth of that. He’d not only seen too many cases of marital infidelity, but he’d been victim of female treachery one too many times. He preferred the certainty of the stars in the heavens over the vagaries of human nature.
He nodded curtly and rose from the bed. “I’ll have Sarah take you ’round to the dressmakers. You’ll be entertaining for a few months, at least. Spend what you wish.”
He strode out, leaving Ninian staring after his broad back long after he’d departed. Months? Had he said “months”? Surely, she was mistaken. Or it had been a slip of the tongue. The earl had much on his mind and hadn’t paid attention to his words.
She smoothed the soft fabric taut across her slightly rounded belly. It was impossible to tell what was her and what was the infant. She just didn’t doubt its existence in the least—unlike the poor babe’s confused father.
If she’d been impregnated by the devil, he was a fascinating one, at least.
She had to quit thinking like a superstitious, ignorant villager. She was in London now. She sighed and collapsed against the mountain of lacy pillows. Maybe she shouldn’t have refused his offer of another tumble in bed.
But the blasted man thought she lied. She’d have to teach him better than that.
Fifteen
Gut c
hurning in frustration after leaving Ninian’s chamber, Drogo eluded his brothers and bolted the door to his study. As a precaution, he checked the priest’s hole. He wasn’t in a humor to endure any nonsense from Joseph today.
To have the damned doctor grant all his hopes in one minute, and have them dashed by Ninian the next, was too much for his shattered nerves. Ten in the morning, and he needed a brandy.
He didn’t pour one. He couldn’t teach his brothers not to imbibe like drunkards if he did so himself. The mantle of responsibility was a damned nuisance. Just once, he’d like to get drunk, throw a tantrum, or in some way behave as monstrously as the rest of the family.
But then, who would rescue him when he got thrown in Old Bailey? Despite their generous allowances, not a one of them would have a farthing saved to bail him out.
Ignoring the mountain of ledgers from his various estates and enterprises—ledgers on which he’d cut his first mathematical teeth—Drogo picked up the sheet of calculations he’d begun in Wystan. If he was right, he could very well have discovered a new planet. That accomplishment was surely greater than producing a child. Anyone could produce a child. His father had proved that.
Sighing in exasperation at the path of his thoughts, Drogo whittled at his pen nib. He didn’t want a wife, didn’t need a wife, but something very human in him would like to have a son, even if he didn’t need one.
So, there was his weakness. Everyone was entitled to at least one. He wanted Ninian to be breeding. He wanted to watch his child grow, dandle a babe on his knee, teach his son to ride and search the night skies for stars. He wanted to show all of London that he could produce an heir and a spare, just as his father had.
Pride goeth before a fall, he muttered, applying his attention to his calculations.
A discreet knock at the door interrupted his concentration only minutes later.
Drogo considered ignoring it, except he knew none of his brothers would rap discreetly. They’d pound and yell. It had to be Jarvis, who would never disturb him for anything less than a crisis involving spurting jugulars.
The angry voice approaching down the hallway decided the matter. One of the dolts must have experimented with flying and broke his fall on a vegetable cart. It would be easier if they’d just get drunk and gamble like normal people. Ives males had never been known for normality.
Dropping his pen in the stand, Drogo unbolted the door. A florid, dapper gentleman shoved past Jarvis, shouting something incomprehensible about “daughters” and “responsibility.” Jarvis, straight-faced, merely bowed and shut the door, leaving Drogo trapped with a raving lunatic. Lunatics seemed to be popular these days. He wondered if it was an epidemic.
Since he had no daughters and couldn’t remember dallying irresponsibly lately, Drogo merely took his chair and waited for the old fellow to rant it out. Of a decade-old fashion, his caller’s clothes had seen better days, now that he observed more closely. Although impeccably pressed and cleaned, the frock coat’s gold buttons had gone missing at the top, and his neckcloth linen was thin enough to read through. A gentleman, but one fallen on hard times.
“If you do not do right by her, I’ll call you out, sir!” the gentleman shouted. “She’s my only daughter, and I’ll not see her ruined by an unprincipled rake!”
Unprincipled rake? Drogo considered that unexpected and rather dashing image of himself. Perhaps the man referred to one of his brothers. Admittedly, he wasn’t a monk, but these days he limited his attentions to courtesans and widows and other would-be countesses. He wasn’t much inclined toward virgin… Ninian.
With a nasty taste in his mouth to add to the churning in his gut, Drogo rose from his chair. “Might I have the pleasure of your name, sir?” he asked icily, hoping for a madman, but preparing for the worst.
The stout gentleman drew himself to his full height—a good head shorter than Drogo’s. “Viscount Siddons, sir, father of the child you’ve molested and hidden away in your house of horrors. I demand satisfaction, sir. I demand it, I say!”
Dumfounded at both the accusation and the knowledge that the little midwife had a father among the ton, Drogo sought a conciliatory reply. After all, he had done just as the viscount said, although calling this old tomb a house of horrors was pushing it a little far.
Before a sufficient reply came to mind, the study door silently slid open. In astonishment, Drogo watched as Ninian wafted in, just as if he’d called for her.
“Hello, Father.” Self-consciously, she pulled at the billowing skirt Sarah had apparently dressed her in.
The pale yellow didn’t suit her, Drogo decided, but the expanse of the panniers was very effective in distancing her from either of the room’s occupants. She scarcely looked at him and didn’t bother approaching her father with more than words.
The viscount looked stupefied at the vision of loveliness addressing him. Embarrassed, he stuttered a bit before remembering his purpose. He swung to face Drogo. “This is an outrage! You will marry her at once, I say.”
Drogo detected a hint of amusement in Ninian’s tone as she interrupted the tirade.
“How are you, Father? You look well. In case you’re wondering, I am quite fine.”
“I can see that,” the old man said testily, returning his gaze to her. “Decked out in all the finery he’s bought you. Well, no daughter of mine—”
“Grandmother died last winter,” Ninian interrupted again, obviously pursuing her own goals. “I wrote and told you, and you didn’t reply.”
“The old witch left you plenty enough to live on, and you’ve got wealthier than me to call on, if she didn’t.” The viscount huffed and glared. “It’s not as if you ever expressed any interest in living with your poor old father.”
Drogo saw the sadness behind her smile, even if her father didn’t. Perhaps he knew nothing of the mysterious little witch, but he’d learned a little about her. She had a heart, and it broke as easily as anyone else’s.
“I had no interest in living in London,” she corrected mildly. “And no interest in asking grandmother to support me without giving her anything in return.”
The viscount harrumphed and reddened slightly, then swung back to face Drogo. “No matter, any of this. You’ve ruined her, and you’ll pay the price.”
Like a candle flame, Ninian brightened the darkness her father cast. Amusement again laced her voice. Never one hasty to speak, Drogo let her have her moment.
“No, he won’t, Father. Grandmother’s trust is mine. Even should we marry, Lord Ives cannot give it to you.”
That was the first Drogo had heard of this. He wasn’t certain he approved of a woman possessing her own funds—especially one with as befuddled a mind as hers. He wasn’t even certain it would pass a court test, but he had blunt enough of his own. He didn’t need her pennies. Let her flaunt them in her father’s face if she wished. “I think, perhaps, my dear, your father merely wishes to ascertain that marriage is what I had in mind when I brought you here.” Diplomacy seemed the best tactic.
She threw him a look of annoyance with nothing befuddled about it. “Not especially. My father is always short of funds, although I suppose I can give him credit for not actually trying to sell me.”
“Ninian!” the viscount shouted, outraged all over again.
“Marriage among the aristocracy is a form of monetary exchange,” Drogo clarified for her, pacifying the old man’s temper. Ninian looked more amused than irritated at his generous interpretation. “Perhaps, my dear, if you’ll excuse us, I can assure your father that I am an honorable man.”
“It should be interesting to know how much I’m worth, my lord. Just remember while you’re haggling that I can only bear daughters, and I have no intention of marrying.” Placidly, as if she’d only quoted the price of a cow, she slipped away.
Drogo sank into his chair again. The viscount wiped his brow with a wide handkerchief
. The faint scent of roses and pine lingered between them, along with the image of golden curls and female mockery. Drogo thought he had a better definition of “witch” now. The blasted woman could read minds.
“I wish you well of her, my lord,” the viscount said heavily, sinking into a leather chair without invitation. “Her mother was a delight, a pure delight. The most beautiful woman, with the sweetest nature, you’ve ever met. But those harridans she calls family…” He shivered in remembrance.
“Ninian is an exceptional young woman.” Drogo thought it wise to defend the potential mother of his child, even if she was as mad as her father. He also thought it wise to find out more. “She mentioned aunts…?”
Muttering, the viscount shoved his handkerchief back in his pocket and cursed as the pocket corner tore. “Persephone—my wife—was the youngest, so they didn’t mind if she married a mere viscount,” he explained disparagingly. “But Stella and Hermione…” He rolled his eyes. “Stella is the Duchess of Mainwaring. Hermione is the Marchioness of Hampton. And in case you’re wondering, they both thoughtfully married widowers who already had heirs. They’ve got half a dozen girls or more between them, last I counted. All the babes my wife lost were girls too.” He looked chagrined. “Couldn’t be less than honest about that.”
A marchioness and a duchess! Drogo collapsed against his chair back and groaned mentally, all thoughts of keeping Ninian as mistress exploding like David’s temper. He’d bedded a simpleton in peasant’s clothes and acquired a family more powerful than his own. The little matters of an all-female family or even lunacy or witchcraft scarcely compared in importance to a duchess and a marchioness. His family’s reputation was precarious, at its best. The condemnation of the upper echelons of society could easily destroy his mother and any chance his brothers had to make a place of their own in the world.
“What the hell was she doing living like a peasant in Wystan?” he demanded, for lack of anything more rational to say as he struggled with a world turned upside down.
Merely Magic Page 14