Higgins turned his back for a moment to return Cyrus’s will to its designated box; several just like it lined the room’s many shelves. Lucien’s gaze swerved to Serena.
He watched her swallow. She did that when she was nervous. Her hands trembled, and her breathing was altogether too shallow. Her exquisite profile bespoke tension. Her face was so taut, Lucien felt certain that if he touched her cheek, she would shatter as surely as glass.
“Look at me.” He whispered the demand.
She bit her lower lip, a sign of anxiety, and Lucien felt another jolt of pure alarm that catapulted him from his numbing shock. She turned wide, smoky eyes on him in a face much too pale.
Her expression confirmed he was going to be a father again. Lucien wasn’t sure whether he should be furious, elated—or scared as hell.
He opened his mouth, to say what, he wasn’t sure. Then he remembered the solicitor’s presence and closed it again.
Higgins spoke, drawing Serena’s gaze from Lucien’s. “If you have no objections, Lord Daneridge, I must confer with Her Grace about some of the remaining estate matters requiring privacy.”
Lucien tapped his foot angrily against the wooden floor. He did have objections, damn it. He and Her Grace were long overdue for a confrontation. Now, more than ever, he needed to understand the facts behind her half-truths at the Raddingtons’ ball.
His gaze pinned Serena to her chair. He watched as her nervous tongue darted out to wet her lips. At that, a bolt of desire scorched him, and the taut string in Lucien’s gut snapped. He leaped from his chair with a curse. Hadn’t he learned anything? His lust for Serena had lured him into this predicament in the first place.
But the fact remained, he wanted—needed—answers from her, and soon. He wanted to hear the truth come from her luscious mouth, every last damn word of it.
As he stalked past Serena’s chair, he whispered in her ear, “I will call on you tomorrow morning. Without fail. Be ready.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The following morning, Lucien left the carriage parked before Grosvenor Chapel, waved away an inquiring footman, and climbed the grassy knoll. Taking the last hesitant steps, he halted at the gray stone marking Chelsea’s final resting place. He stood unmoving, watching the dawning sun inch into the foggy sky and cast a murky light over his daughter’s grave. Despite his searing anguish and the disbelief of the first days of her death, he had chosen this very spot for her because she had been so fond of sunrises.
Lucien knelt at the edge of the dirt-covered mound, strewn with yesterday’s flowers. The familiar wave of grief crashed against his heart. He closed his eyes.
Thoughts whirling, he retrieved the old bouquet of white carnations and replaced it with a fresh one, as he did daily, this time leaving baby pink roses—their silky petals the color of Chelsea’s cheeks.
A flash of her tiny crimson-covered body, helpless and crumpled beneath the team and carriage wheels of a sobbing stranger, taunted him. He should have been there to save her from the accident, instead of identifying her after the worst had happened. After it was too late.
I am with child, Serena’s voice crowded into his head, demanding attention. With a savage curse, he pivoted away.
Throwing his head back, he stared up at the muted London sky. “Why?” his half-bewildered, half-accusing whisper asked of the God he had renounced on this spot just two months past. “You gave me a child once, and my neglect caused her death. Why are You giving me this chance again?”
No answer rained down from the heavens, not that he really expected one. As usual, he was on his own.
Scowling, he dropped his gaze to the cold earth. His mind filtered through treasured images of Chelsea as she had played a stranded princess in a tower, as she had carried a rag doll he had bought for her at a country fair, as she stroked the pet frog she had named Herman upon capturing it in the garden.
He was still haunted by each of those memories every day.
Now there would be another babe. How could he survive fatherhood again when Chelsea had been gone just five months?
He raked a stiff hand through his hair, wondering if he was ready for fatherhood again. What if he failed this time, too?
For a moment, everything about him was still, as quiet and motionless as the graveyard’s inhabitants. Then, from out of nowhere . . . a gentle wisp of wind skittered through the air, ruffling his hair and the bouquet at his feet. A bird’s sweet song tinkled in the air.
A sign that life would, and must, go on.
A gentle wave of tranquility suffused him. As if God had imparted the wisdom, Lucien’s questions now had answers, a wealth of explanations where none had existed before.
He had to be ready for fatherhood again; God had given him no choice. Serena and the baby would need his protection. And if this birth was a test, it was also a gift. And a responsibility he would live up to with the best of his ability.
He would make damn certain he didn’t fail at fatherhood twice.
Lucien rose, yet a strain of fear still resided in his heart. This child would never be his in the eyes of the law, and he would have to provide and care for the babe with the alternative means available to him—an added challenge, no doubt.
But more than anything else, the fear stemmed from the Earl of Marsden, Alastair Boyce. The man was plainly furious with his late uncle’s will.
Lucien’s long, fitful strides took him down the length of Chelsea’s grave. Alastair had most likely had his uncle disposed of in the hopes of obtaining the Warrington fortune. So what was to stop him from targeting Serena? Not a damn thing. He had no choice but to keep his eyes on Marsden—and Serena as well.
Yet to do that, and become a real part of this new child’s life, he had one option. And he didn’t like it.
But that child was his, damn it. He wanted that babe, needed it to redeem himself in his own eyes, perhaps even make himself whole again. Not to mention that both mother and child were in danger.
He really had no other choice.
His decision made, the pain he had weathered since Serena’s startling announcement lifted. For the first time in almost a month, his lips turned up in a semblance of a smile.
“Poppet,” he said to Chelsea. “Daddy promises to make you proud.”
A warm breeze whispered across Lucien’s skin, the kind which lingered on summer days he had spent outdoors with Chelsea, slicing a ray of hope through the chilly morning air.
Fatherhood would be better the second time. He would do anything and everything to make certain of that.
****
Lucien arrived home from the graveyard. While trying to capture his whirling thoughts and process them, he slowly handed his hat, cloak, and gloves to Holford.
“My lord,” the butler said somewhat loudly, making Lucien aware that Holford had probably said it two or three times to get his attention.
“What is it?”
“Lord Niles is in your library.”
Lucien withdrew his watch from his waistcoat and stared at it with a frown. “At nine o’clock in the morning?”
“Indeed. He’s ranting about his boredom.”
Despite his grim situation, the corners of Lucien’s mouth lifted into a wry smile. “Thank you.”
Lucien pushed the library door open and found Niles slouched on a settee, reading the morning paper.
“That can’t possibly be interesting enough to hold your attention,” Lucien called across the room.
Niles’s head snapped up. “It isn’t. I’ve never known this town to be so dull. Even my mistress is tedious.”
“You’ll seek another soon, I’m sure.”
Niles shrugged. “So where were you this morning? At the graveyard?”
“Indeed. I had a great deal of thinking to do.” He paused. “Warrington’s will was read yesterday.”
“Ah, that’s right. How is the duchess holding up?”
Lucien weighed the question before answering. “Better than I would under the
circumstances, I think. I do not envy her. She is clearly grieving Warrington’s demise, as odd as that seems. But she is a strong woman and will deal with her grief.”
“In time, yes.”
“Warrington’s heir is the Earl of Marsden. Do you know him?” At Niles’s grimace and nod, Lucien continued. “Serena is convinced he paid to have her husband murdered.”
“Really? What do you think?”
He recalled the vivid palm print on Alastair’s cheek, and Serena’s aura of suppressed rage. His mind replayed Alastair’s taunts and veiled threats. His guts twisted with anger. “It’s very likely. He’s a greedy bastard.”
“Do you think he will try to kill the duchess?”
“I’ve no doubt. Especially now.”
Intrigued, Niles raised his brows. “What do you mean? Did Warrington leave her something the Earl of Marsden wanted?”
“His entire fortune,” Lucien answered. “All four hundred thousand pounds of it.”
At that, Niles’s eyes widened until they threatened to pop from their sockets. “And what did he leave Marsden?”
“Nothing but entailed estates, and not a farthing for their upkeep.”
Niles let loose a low whistle. “Mad, was he?”
“Enraged. I sent two men to watch her house, just in case Marsden decided to try something.” He shrugged. “It required no genius to see he was furious, especially after he called Serena a whore and accused her of bewitching her husband.”
Shaking his head, Niles sank down on the settee again. “Did you call him out?”
“The thought occurred to me,” Lucien admitted. “But it would have raised both suspicion and scandal if I had.”
“True,” Niles conceded.
“There another reason for Marsden’s anger.”
“Indeed?” From Niles’s curious expression, Lucien could tell he had his friend’s undivided attention. “Do tell.”
Lucien hesitated before answering. Striding to his desk, he poured a glass of port and tossed it back, letting the liquid slide down his throat in one long swallow. Slamming the empty glass on the desk, he turned back to Niles, grateful for the one friend he knew would keep his secrets.
“Serena is pregnant.”
Niles’s jaw dropped to his chest. “And you think the child is yours?”
“I know it is. Her virginity, the timing . . . No other possibility exists.” Holding his cane tighter, Lucien crossed the room and stopped before his friend. “Both she and the baby are my responsibility.”
Niles nodded in agreement. “What do you mean to do now?”
Lucien’s thumb tapped nervously against his cane, his jaw tight. “I’ve decided to marry her.”
Niles’s mouth fell open in shock. “Marry her? You?”
Lucien wasn’t sure what kind of husband he would make. Damn it, he had no desire to be married again—ever. Ravenna had seen to that. But his desires were not the issue. His child and its mother were. Period. They clearly needed his protection.
“Yes.”
“Have you asked her already?”
He shook his head. “It isn’t a question. She will assent, no matter what I have to do.”
****
An hour later, Serena paced the length of a Merman sofa along one of the drawing room’s walls, awaiting Lucien’s arrival. Where was the man? Not that she looked forward to this, or any other, confrontation. On the contrary, this meeting was one she wanted, more than anything, to have behind her.
Lying to Lucien was going to be anything but easy. He seemed not just to sense, but to know when her words were less than honest. No doubt, something in her face gave her away. But no more could she allow herself that weakness. She had already convinced Mr. Higgins and Alastair of her impending state of motherhood. Now, she also had to convince Lucien she was truly with child. An unpleasant task indeed, but the Warrington lineage and fortune, and possibly her life, depended upon her singular ability to lie until she could determine for herself if she truly was enceinte.
She didn’t dare trust anyone, not even Lucien, with the truth behind her ploy. If she told him everything, he most likely would refuse to corroborate her scheme, since he appeared so opposed to any kind of deception.
Her idea was underhanded. Her conscience made her well aware of that fact. Deception was not something she felt at all comfortable with. Indeed, guilt already plagued her, but she had chosen her path yesterday at Mr. Higgins’s office, and now she had to walk it to the end.
With a deep breath, Serena eyed her surroundings, seeking calm in the midst of the nervous tumble of her thoughts. She had chosen the most formal drawing room for this confrontation because of its size. She could direct Lucien to sit in an elbow chair across the room. Keeping the man as far away from her as physically possible was key.
The room was also intimidating. Nothing within lent it any air of intimacy, particularly not the looming religious painting above the fireplace and the marble molding hovering above the double doors. Surely Lucien would not dream of mentioning intimacies, nor starting any, here.
Lastly, the decor was neoclassical, a leftover from the late Georgian period, and Cyrus’s favorite. Serena remembered the number of times she had approached him about modernizing this room, only to be turned away with a resounding no. Now she was glad. Greeting Lucien in a room so reminiscent of her husband would give her strength to keep on the course she felt sure Cyrus had intended her to follow.
At the sound of two sets of footsteps echoing in the hallway beyond, one too bold to be a servant’s, Serena ceased her frantic pacing and raced across the room to one of the pale yellow brocade sofas. She seated herself on the edge just in time for the butler’s knock.
Her heart pounding in her ears, she bade the servant to show Lord Daneridge in.
She met Lucien’s intent green-eyed gaze the moment he crossed the threshold. He hadn’t slept well, if at all; dark smudges and a conspicuous puffiness beneath his eyes told her that, though he was still more handsome than God should allow. His limp was more pronounced this morning, as if the joint pained him. The ruthless grip he exerted on his cane reminded her that, despite his injury, he still possessed tenfold her own strength.
She swallowed, praying her nervousness didn’t show. Her butler quietly shut the door, sequestering them away from prying eyes and ears. Serena’s anxious pulse raced at the thought.
“Good morning, my lord. Won’t you sit down?” she asked, indicating the chair furthest from her, across the imperious room.
With a scowl, he accepted the seat, fitting broad shoulders stiffly against the pale yellow backing. His dark green coat eclipsed the delicate shade of the chair’s upholstery.
“Would you take tea? The servants can bring us a tray in no time at all,” she assured, forcing a glib note into her voice.
“No, thank you. I came here to talk about—”
“The reading of Cyrus’s will, of course.” When Lucien’s expression turned icier, Serena rushed on. “I hope you weren’t too surprised by Alastair’s behavior. I’ve grown quite accustomed to his outbursts.”
“Your late husband’s nephew, nasty as he is, isn’t the issue, either.” The boom of his voice carried across the high-ceilinged room, and probably into the hall.
Lucien rose from his seat. His angry stride brought him to her side within moments. To Serena’s shock, he sat beside her, a mere foot away. “I refuse to shout across the room at you.”
She tried to scoot to the far end of the sofa. He curled his fingers about her arm to stay her.
“I came to talk about your little announcement.” His gaze cornered and trapped hers, refusing to let go as he spoke again. “Are you truly with child?”
Her gaze locked with his. “Yes.”
“Am I correct in assuming the child is mine?”
She hesitated, but lying to him would gain her nothing but more of his contempt. “Yes. I’ve been . . . intimate with no man but you.”
Fierce satisfaction cros
sed his face before he blanked it. “Forgive my indelicacy,” he said, though nothing in his tone sounded apologetic in the least, “but I would like to ask you a few questions so I may be as certain as you about the matter.”
“Questions?” She wrung her hands. Mercy, what would he ask? Was she equipped to give the appropriate answers?
“How late is your monthly?” he demanded.
Serena’s eyes widened in shock; her mouth dropped open. She felt the hot flush of red race up her face, heating every inch of skin with embarrassment. “How indelicate! That question is most crude and inappropriate. I will not answer it.”
His grip about her wrist tightened. “The question is most appropriate, and you will damn well answer it this very moment. How late are you?”
She directed her mortified gaze to her lap. “Nearly six weeks.”
His exhalation was long and controlled. “Does this sort of lapse happen frequently?”
Serena blinked several times, trying to absorb her shock. How could he ask such personal questions? And how had he come about such intimate knowledge of the workings of a woman’s body?
“Answer me,” he growled at her hesitation.
Impossibly, the temperature of her cheeks heated a few more degrees. “I am usually quite regular.”
Serena wished the couch would swallow her up. Her face felt a hundred degrees. Unfortunately, nothing in Lucien’s manner indicated he was finished questioning her.
“Any part of you more tender than normal?”
Just this morning, she had awakened with aching breasts, the likes of which she had never experienced. Lucien’s gaze drifted to her chest and fixed on the swells rising above her dress. She began to tingle.
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