Marry in Scarlet

by Anne Gracie

  “It’s going just fine. M’lady is doing well. Babies can take a long time to come, especially first babies. My sister was just the same with her first, and the midwife says everything is going just as it should. She’d send for the doctor if she was worried. Truly, there’s nothing to worry about, sir.” Milly had been with Emm since before her marriage and was very protective, so her assurance was somewhat comforting. Somewhat.

  The footman returned with the hot water and a maid carrying a stack of towels, and then, with an apologetic look, Milly withdrew, shutting the door behind her.

  An hour later Burton brought up a plate of sandwiches, but only Finn and Aunt Dottie ate any. Time crawled past.

  Then a scream shattered the silence. Cal leapt to his feet, swearing, and pounded on the door. There was another scream, and he pounded harder.

  Then there came a wavering, high-pitched wail that grew in strength.

  Cal stilled, and turned a white face to George and Aunt Dottie. “Is that . . . ?”

  “A baby, yes.”

  He turned back and pounded on the door again. Aunt Agatha yanked it open. “You have a son. The Ashendon Heir has been born.”

  “How is Emm?” He tried to push past her, but she stopped him.

  “Your wife is tired, naturally, but perfectly well. We are just tidying things up. You may come in and see her when she is ready to be seen.” She gave him a searching look. “Did you hear me, Ashendon, you have a son, a healthy baby boy. An heir.”

  Cal nodded distractedly. “How long before I can see her?”

  “As long as it takes.” And she shut the door in his face.

  Cal turned away, staggered to a chair and collapsed into it. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “Thank God, thank God.” And then a few minutes later. “Never again.”

  Aunt Dottie laughed. “Men, always so dramatic. Now, since Emmaline is well and you have a healthy baby boy, I think we should celebrate, yes?” She rang for Burton and ordered champagne.

  In a short while the door was opened and Cal was admitted. George and Aunt Dottie waited impatiently.

  A short time later Aunt Agatha opened the door again. “You may both come in for a few minutes only. Emmaline is naturally very tired, but she has done very well, very well indeed. A healthy baby boy. The Ashendon Heir.”

  They entered, and found Cal sitting on the bed beside Emm, his arm around her, her head resting on his chest and a white bundle in her arms. She looked exhausted but strangely serene.

  “How are you?” George whispered. She didn’t know why she was whispering, but it somehow seemed appropriate. She glanced at the white bundle. All she could see was a tuft of dark hair.

  Emm smiled. “We’re both well. Tired, but”—she glanced up at Cal—“very happy.”

  His arm tightened around her.

  “Have you decided on his name?” Aunt Dottie asked.

  Emm glanced at Call and nodded. She smoothed her hand gently over the tuft of hair. “Meet Bertrand Calbourne George Rutherford.” The bundle stirred and made a little murmuring noise.

  “George?” George repeated. “You mean—?”

  “Yes, named after you. Well, you’re going to be his godmother, aren’t you?” Emm said, smiling. Cal nodded.

  George couldn’t say a thing. There was a lump in her throat, and tears blurred her eyes. She nodded. A baby, named after her . . .

  “Now that’s enough,” Aunt Agatha said crisply. “Emmaline and the baby need to sleep. Off you go.” She started to shoo them all out like chickens, but Cal refused to budge.

  “Thank you, Aunt Agatha,” he said firmly. “I shall see to my family now.”

  “You surely aren’t—”

  “Yes, thank you for your help, Aunt Agatha,” Emm said softly, “but I’d like to be alone now with my husband and our baby.”

  “Come along, Aggie,” Aunt Dottie said to her sister. “There is champagne waiting downstairs. A new Ashendon heir has been born and we need to celebrate his safe arrival.”

  Aunt Agatha blinked, hesitated, then nodded, and they all filed out of the room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.

  —JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY

  The following morning, George and Cal went riding as usual. They didn’t talk much. They rarely did, but this time they were both lost in their own thoughts. Cal was probably still thinking about the baby, George thought, but she didn’t ask. They were both still a bit stunned—particularly Cal.

  They rode hard and fast and she felt the better for releasing the tension and thought Cal probably did as well.

  After breakfast, which Cal took upstairs with his wife and baby, he headed out on some business. Aunt Dottie was still asleep. George, feeling strangely restless, filled in some time by writing letters to Rose and Lily telling them only that Emm had safely been delivered of a healthy baby boy. She wondered when they would come to London—certainly for her wedding but perhaps sooner, to see the baby.

  She missed them. Strange how after years of living by herself, with only Martha and Finn for company, she now missed having a family around her. She left the letters on the hall table for Cal to frank and a footman to post.

  She hesitated, then went upstairs and knocked softly on Emm’s door—not loud enough to wake her, but if she was awake . . .

  Emm’s maid, Milly, opened the door. “Hush, she’s asleep,” she whispered.

  “I won’t wake her. I just want to see the baby,” George whispered back.

  Milly nodded, and George tiptoed in. Emm was sleeping peacefully in the big bed she shared with Cal. Beside her stood a high cradle made of carved and turned rosewood. In it lay a small white bundle.

  George peered in. She’d never had much to do with babies, never seen one so young as this close up.

  Bertrand Calbourne George Rutherford, Lord Bertrand, heir to the Earl of Ashendon. Such a big name for a little creature. More of him was visible this time. He was as ugly as a new-hatched baby bird, bald, with a fluff of dark hair sticking up like a crest. His face was red, crumpled and squashed looking, his eyes a dark blue. They stared at her fuzzily, as if trying to focus, to make sense of the big, strange creature looking down at him.

  “Hello, baby,” she whispered. “Baby Bertie. I’m your cousin, George.” A cousin. She’d never had a cousin before, and the idea caught at her throat. And he was named partly after her. This strange little baby bird was family.

  A tiny pink fist emerged from the white wrappings and waved aimlessly around. George stared at it fascinated. Five miniature pink perfect fingernails. The baby opened his fist and waved a fat little starfish hand at her.

  “You should stay tucked in,” she whispered, and with some vague idea that babies needed to be warmly wrapped all the time, she tucked his waving hand back in. Her hand looked so big against the tiny perfect hand.

  “Ohh.” A soft little hand closed around a finger and held on tight.

  She couldn’t move. She stood staring down at him, this tiny bundle of humanity, so new and fragile, clinging to her finger with such determination and strength. A swell of emotion rose in her, and for a moment she thought she might cry.

  A movement behind her caused her to look around. It was Emm, sleepily sitting up.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake—” George began.

  “I was only dozing,” Emm assured her. She looked into the cradle and her face softened.

  “He’s holding on to my finger,” George said, which was a stupid thing to say because it was obvious. “I went to tuck his little hand back in.”

  Emm laughed softly. “I’ll have to learn to swaddle him better, because every time I do it, he always manages to wriggle at least one hand out.” The two of them gazed in silence at
the little bundle of determination.

  “Well, what do you think of my son?” Emm said at last.

  George looked down at the ugly little baby bird so firmly attached to her finger and nodded. “He’s beautiful,” she said. And she meant it.

  The little face screwed up and grew redder. A wail came from him, then another a little louder.

  “What did I do?” George said anxiously. He was still gripping her finger.

  Emm laughed softly. “Nothing. He’s just hungry, that’s all. Pass him over, will you, George.” She sat up in bed, and Milly hastened to arrange pillows behind her.

  George stared at the baby. “What, me? What if I . . .” What if she dropped him?

  Emm, smiling, just held out her hands. George took a deep breath and lifted the angry little bundle from the cradle. He was so tiny and light, but the noise that he could produce—he was yelling by now. She passed him to Emm, who had opened the front of her nightdress.

  George blinked, not quite sure where to look. “You’re going to feed him?”

  Emm smiled and held the baby to her breast. The sudden silence was shocking, broken only by the sound of vigorous sucking.

  “I thought . . .”

  “You thought I’d have a wet nurse?”

  “Yes. Aunt Agatha said . . .” Aunt Agatha had been very firm about it.

  “It’s not at all fashionable, I know, but I asked the midwife and she said she thought it was better for both mother and baby if I feed him, at least for a while. She said if I don’t want to continue, she’d find me a good and reliable wet nurse. But”—Emm gazed tenderly down at her infant son so energetically suckling—“for most of my adult life I never imagined I’d even have a baby, and now I do, I don’t want to miss out on anything. I won’t hand Bertie here over for some other woman to feed, not at the beginning, anyway.”

  George had fed orphaned baby lambs, and a litter of kits once, but had never given any thought to the feeding of babies. It seemed very . . . personal. “What does it feel like?”

  “The sensation is . . . indescribable,” Emm said after a while. “A little strange but very, very right.” After a while she gently lifted the baby off her nipple, and just as he began to wail, she swapped him to the other breast and he was abruptly silent, except for contented little feeding noises.

  Emm looked so serene, so happy, so . . . right.

  As both Emm and the baby grew sleepier, George left them to it. Deep in thought she closed the door quietly behind her. Finn, who Milly had kept firmly excluded from the baby’s room, padded up behind George and gave her a pointed nudge.

  “All right, boy, we’ll go for a walk.” She grabbed a lead and headed for the front door.

  The bell jangled as she was bounding down the last few steps. Burton opened the door, glanced back at George and said, “Yes, your grace, Lady Georgiana is at home.”

  George skidded to a halt. The duke. She’d forgotten all about him.

  * * *

  * * *

  Hart had passed a restless night. Lady Georgiana’s accusation, that he was as bad, as scheming and contriving as his mother, had cut deep. He’d been angry at first, and his initial reaction had been to reject it totally—she was talking nonsense; he was an honorable man.

  All his adult life he’d prided himself on not being like his mother, on being so much better than she. He’d always seen himself as an honorable man, too honorable to stoop to her low stratagems.

  But Georgiana Rutherford had seen right through him and put her finger squarely on the truth: he was not so different from his mother as he thought.

  The realization flayed him. Shamed him.

  A line from a speech he’d once been made to memorize kept echoing in his mind. For Brutus is an honorable man.

  Now he stood on her doorstep, waiting to see whether she’d reject him or not. He deserved to be rejected, he knew, but . . .

  All night he’d tossed and turned, self-disgust, shame and uncertainty warring within him—none of which he’d ever experienced in his life. It was deeply unsettling.

  But through the confusion, through the turmoil of his thoughts, one thought grew stronger and clearer: he wanted Lady Georgiana.

  Logic told him he could find women more beautiful than she, more assured, more sophisticated, more tractable, more suited to be a duchess—and a damned lot less trouble.

  But he wanted her. More than that, he wanted her.

  Not one woman in a million—no man either—would have had the courage to confront him about his scheming behavior. Especially since it would be so strongly to her disadvantage.

  Though he wasn’t sure she’d see it that way.

  He cleared his throat. “Lady Georgiana.”

  “Your grace.” She stared at Hart as if he’d dropped from the sky. Her dog pulled forward to sniff his boots, his tail wagging gently. Did she not expect to see him again?

  “I said I would call this morning.” Though it hadn’t been a firm arrangement. What had she said before she marched away? Call on me tomorrow or send a notice to the papers, I don’t care! Had she expected him to simply cancel the betrothal and inform the papers? If she had, she surely couldn’t have thought of the consequences to herself.

  She shrugged. “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “You forgot?” He couldn’t believe it. How could she forget something as important as whether or not their very public betrothal was to be canceled?

  “Emm—my aunt—had the baby last night.”

  “Oh. I see. Er, congratulations. Is . . .” He groped to recall what people usually said in this situation. “Was it a boy or a girl?” An heir was the thing.

  She gave him a cool look. “My aunt is recovering nicely, thank you, and the baby is a healthy boy.” She glanced down at her dog. “I was just going to take Finn for a short walk. Can you wait?”

  Hart glanced down at the dog. “I will accompany you. We can talk on the way.”

  She nodded and they crossed the road and entered the park. “It’s just a short walk,” she repeated. “We’ve already ridden this morning and he had a good run then.”

  They strolled along, making desultory conversation—the weather, the approach of summer, dogs—while the dog followed up fascinating smells. Passers-by eyed them curiously. Hart could see the speculation in their eyes. Impertinence. He gave a cool nod to those he knew, sufficient to be polite but with a clear intention not to engage in conversation.

  Lady George didn’t look at anyone; she kept her gaze on her dog. Was she reluctant to be seen with him? Was that what she was going to tell him? That she wanted to be released? Or was it a simple—and understandable—reluctance to face any more gossips?

  Hart was in a fever of impatience. He wanted to get to the point of his visit, but it was impossible to have any kind of significant conversation while they waited for a dog to finish christening trees.

  Lady Georgiana seemed in a world of her own, thinking deeply about something—was she deciding whether or not to marry him, or was it something else? Did he even figure in her thoughts? He couldn’t tell.

  He’d thought of nothing else but her all night. She’d forgotten he was coming.

  It was a lowering reflection.

  Finally they returned to Ashendon House. Lady Georgiana led him to the drawing room, ordering tea on the way in. The dog came too.

  Hart tamped down on his impatience while the butler brought in tea and cakes and a dish of what looked like rusks. Lady Georgiana poured it out, handed him his cup and held out a plate of small iced cakes.

  “No, thank you.” He set his cup on a side table, untouched.

  “Would you prefer biscuits? Cook baked some ginger nuts yesterd—”

  “Nothing to eat, thank you. Lady Georgiana, have you given our situation any thought?”

  She fed her dog a rusk. He waite
d, his temper rising.

  “I have given it some thought, yes,” she said eventually.

  “Because you do realize that if we break off the betrothal, you will be the one to be blamed. You have already endured unpleasantness from some of the harpies in the ton, and this will likely be even worse. You will be called a jilt. Or worse.”

  She gave him a thoughtful look. “No, I didn’t even consider it.”

  That surprised him. “Well, it’s true, and before you make any hasty decision—”

  “I will honor our betrothal.”

  “—you should at least talk to your—” His brows snapped together. “What did you say?”

  “I said, I will honor our betrothal.”

  “You will?” The degree of relief he felt at her words shocked him. To cover his reaction he picked up his tea cup and took a gulp of tea. It was hot and scalded his mouth but he swallowed the pain. He stared at her for a long moment. “Why?”

  He could have bitten back the word as soon as he’d uttered it. What did it matter why she’d agreed to continue the betrothal? What sort of a fool was he to stir up the argument again? All that mattered was that she was still going to marry him.

  That she’d agreed—finally—to be his. Freely agreed. Of her own free will.

  “Why?” she repeated. She seemed to ponder the question a while, then she shrugged. “I suppose I’m more used to the idea now. I always knew that you’d deliberately tried to entrap me, and even now that I know your mother obtained my promise on a false premise . . . I have said publicly that I will marry you, and I won’t go back on that. Besides . . .”

  He waited. “Besides?” he prompted after a minute.

  She lifted her chin, looking a little self-conscious. “I’ve decided I want a baby.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Later that day, George and Aunt Dottie went back to the House of Chance to finalize the order for her wedding dress. They’d shown the designs to Emm, and because Aunt Agatha haunted Ashendon House these days—supervising the care and feeding of The Heir—rather, railing against Emm’s feeding him—to no effect—Aunt Agatha also gave her very decided opinion.