by Sharon Page
Cerise had helped him cope with his blindness, but nothing would make it easier to accept. Not when he knew he would probably never see his sister again or see his little niece or nephew at all. Until he’d fallen in love with Rosalind, babies had been something he hoped to avoid. Now the knowledge that he’d never see an infant’s smile, not even his own baby’s toothless giggle, if he had a baby—hell, it leveled him.
“Are you listening, Devon?” Caro said. “I said the person to blame for all of this is Phillip! If my husband had not fallen in love with someone else, I would not be here, trying to learn how to win him back. If he did not have a roving eye—”
“You loved him,” he pointed out.
“I still do. But one-sided love is not enough. It’s even worse.”
Cerise’s voice, lush, lovely, infused with gentle firmness, fell into his blue-gray void. “You must calm yourself, Lady Cavendish. It is true the fault is your husband’s, but it would be best if you were to go home with your brother.”
“I’m not going anywhere with my annoying brother. Even if I do, I will come back—”
“You will not!” he barked. “Do you have any idea of the shock to find that you had left my house and no one knew exactly where you were? In your condition? I managed to trace you to here, no easy task when I’m blind. Then I discover you are learning things you have no right to know, from my mistress, and the entire taproom is discussing it.”
“Well, then, stop shouting,” Caroline snapped. “Every taproom in England must be able to hear you. I don’t see that I’ve done anything so very shocking. I am a married woman. I was expected to go to balls and watch that ferret of a woman, Lady Pomroy, throw herself all over my husband. And the worst I was allowed to do, according to Society, was give her the cut direct, when she is the most awful little whore—”
“Caroline!” Hades, his temple throbbed.
“Your Grace.” The cool voice belonged to Cerise. She sounded oddly distant and icy. And rather condescending, though she and Caroline were the ones at fault here. Cerise had told him she should not be anywhere near his sister. Hades, because of propriety, his mistress had been forced to leave his house, condemning him to sleepless nights filled with nightmares. And thanks to propriety, he had been left missing her intensely, aching for the sound of her voice, wanting her touch, hungering for her.
“I do not think it is very wise to shout at Lady Cavendish,” Cerise went on, making him feel like a disobedient schoolboy. “The person to blame in this is me.”
He turned to her. Or at least to where he thought she was. She did not sound contrite. She sounded … furious. “That’s not true,” he groaned. “But you should have sent her home at once.”
“Perhaps. Though was it really so wrong to offer some help and advice? While there may be rumors that I am your mistress, everyone at this inn was supposed to believe I am a widow and friend of your family. Unfortunately, your visits, and your reaction now, will have caused the gossip.”
“So I’m in the wrong?” He could not believe this. How did his sister and his mistress manage to make him feel like the villain? “You were the one to insist on leaving my house to avoid gossip and protect my sister. You should have considered that today.” He did sound like an idiot. She was correct: His visits, his need to be with her, had done the damage to his story. He had best keep his mouth shut and just get his sister home.
But Caro cried, “She did! Of course she did, you great lummox! I insisted on staying. I—”
His sister stopped shouting. A weak, girlish voice whispered, “Oh, dear.” Who in blazes was that? Had one of the maids come in? That little timid squeak sounded like neither of the two women he was now arguing with.
“What is wrong, Your Ladyship?” Cerise was the one to speak, her beautiful voice filled with concern. Footsteps hastened past him, and he heard a low feminine cry of distress. What had happened? Damn the blindness. He tried to follow the frantic female voices.
“I’m all … wet. What—what does it mean? Could it be … blood?”
“I’m sure it is not,” Cerise said, but he was stunned by the word. Blood.
“I haven’t had any pain since before, yet now my skirts are soaked.…” The horror in Caro’s voice pierced his heart. “Have I done something wrong? Am I going to lose my baby?”
“Shh,” Cerise soothed, while his heart slammed against his chest with the force of a cannon blast. “Come, stand up with me. That should stop the flow—does it?”
“What is it?” he said into the void. “What’s wrong?”
“You are right.” Caro sounded relieved. “It did stop.”
His heart was so tight with fear it was amazing it could still pump blood. “What stopped?”
“What I suspect has happened, Your Ladyship,” Cerise said to his sister, as though he wasn’t even in the room, “is that your water has broken.”
Christ. No wonder she was ignoring him. Devon knew almost nothing about the business of birth, but he’d been at war, and there had been babies born in the camps, among the camp followers and officers’ wives. Water breaking meant a child was on the way. What exactly had to be done? Should he get Caro home? Get a midwife? He felt like his head was going to blow off.
Then Caro gave an anguished cry that rooted him to the floor. “Goodness! Oh!”
“What is it?” he barked, panicked. He had to help her, but he felt … damned helpless.
“It is all right, Your Grace. It’s simply a labor pain.” Cerise’s answer had him flushing scarlet and seeing red—a strange thing for a blind man. How could she be so blasted calm? Then he got over his frustration at feeling lost and useless. Thank heaven she was calm. Snapping back to his senses, he realized she was giving precise instructions to Caro. She briskly told his sister to bend over, hold the arm of the chair, and arch her back like a cat.
“Is this child coming now?” he asked.
“Oh, heavens,” Caro moaned.
“Normally a first child does not come quickly,” Cerise said. Then she urged, “Keep breathing in a rhythm.”
Devon breathed like that, too, until Cerise said, “When I press against your back, does it help?”
“Oh, yes,” Caro whispered, and it was obvious how grateful she was.
He stopped taking measured breaths, but his chest seemed to clamp around his heart as Cerise said, “There are times when a first child does come with haste. I have seen that before—where everyone assumed it would take hours and then the baby was born in mere minutes. Once Lady Cavendish’s pains begin to come more quickly, that will mean labor is advancing. Now, Your Ladyship, each time the pain begins, arch against my hands and I will press. Remember to breathe slowly.”
“Can I get her home?”
“Possibly,” Cerise answered, but Caro gasped, “No! I don’t want to move.”
“I think we need a midwife or a physician, Your Grace.”
Where was the local midwife? He turned, unsure where the door was, furious that he had to fumble clumsily for it in the midst of an emergency. But once he got out into the hall, he bellowed until one of the maids hurried forth. “Lady Cavendish is laboring with her child. Fetch a midwife at once.”
Behind him, he heard Caro moan through a contraction, then tell Cerise, “If I don’t survive the birth, I’ve written a letter so my baby will know who I was and how much I loved him or her.”
His stomach turned upside down. Why would she plan for her death? What did she know?
“You are going to be fine,” Cerise said, her voice quiet, firm, and calm. “Soon you are going to have a lovely baby. Then you can read that letter to your child yourself. It’s going to be hard work—I won’t lie to you about that, Your Ladyship. But you are strong and determined, and everything is going to go well.”
It was amazing: She couldn’t know that, but all she had to do was say it and he believed it. Cerise was a remarkable woman. She could push away fear, she could fight nightmares, she could make a battle-hardened ma
n listen to the soft sounds of the rain and a panicked, laboring woman relax enough to giggle.
Vaguely, he wondered how she knew so much about birthing, but then she gave him orders. “Request blankets and water, Your Grace. Some sweet tea for Her Ladyship, if you please.”
“Immediately,” he called back, and he shouted until another maid came to do his bidding.
He had been sent to the taproom, and his sister had been laboring for eight hours.
But even when the midwife had arrived, Caro insisted Cerise stay at her side. Devon understood why. After just a few days, he had grown to rely upon Cerise.
He had bought so many rounds for the room, every man in the place spoke with a slurred voice. He’d been tempted to join them, to drown his worries in multiple tankards of ale, but Cerise’s warnings about drink had welled up and stopped him. So he was as stone-cold sober as a statue, with no idea what was happening. He was a duke yet considered useless in a birthing room.
The truth was, he would be useless. If Cerise had not been there to take charge, he likely would have done more harm than good. On the battlefield, he had held men’s guts in place to try to save lives. In the makeshift hospital tents, he had been an assistant while limbs were cut off. But he was thankful he wasn’t in the parlor, witness to his sister’s pain.
He’d heard muffled cries of agony. He’d overheard the midwife’s bustling and Cerise’s voice soothing his sister. Why did this business take so long? Cerise had said laboring could last days. If he didn’t think he could survive days and nights of this, how would Caro?
“Your Grace.” It was Cerise’s rich voice, and it tumbled on him like sunlight after a long, cold night spent huddled on a battlefield. He’d been too lost in worry to hear her. The entire tap was silent, as though every man waited for the news.
“Lady Cavendish has had her baby. A perfect, very healthy, and remarkably strong little …”
He groaned as she drew out the suspense.
“Boy!” she exclaimed, and her voice glowed with happiness and delight.
Cheers resounded. Male voices shouted congratulations. Devon knew his duty: Though he felt almost wobbly with relief, he stood and raised his untouched tankard. “To the good health of my sister, Lady Cavendish, and her newborn son.” As the shouts of joy resumed he ordered another round and let Cerise lead him out of the tap. “Is my sister all right? What can I do for her? It took so long.”
“It wasn’t long at all, and both your sister and your nephew are doing fine.”
He felt his brows jerk to the ceiling. Not long? But with his throat aching, he murmured, “Thank you, Cerise. If you hadn’t been here to help …”
“The labor went very well. And Lady Cavendish is so delighted with her beautiful son, she has almost forgotten the pain, I promise you.” She laughed, and the lovely sound entranced him. “It seems to be nature’s way. It’s terribly painful, but when the baby gives that first cry, the mother is crying and laughing with happiness.”
She moved to tug him to go, but he pulled her close to him. So close he could hear her quick breaths and notice she smelled sweaty. “To hell with propriety, angel. Come home with Caro and me. Come back and be with me. I need you. It’s where you belong.”
A note by express messenger could mean only one thing: That thug Taylor had finally found Anne. Sebastian leapt up from his chair in his library and snatched the letter from his footman’s hand as the servant stammered, “L-Lady Julia de Mournay is awaiting you in the drawing room.”
“Tell her I will be down shortly,” he snapped. He swiftly unfolded the note and read:
I’ve found her, My Lord. Annie hid for a few days with an old friend of hers, a courtesan by the name of Kat Tate. Had to get my hands a bit dirty, but I got some information from the whore. Annie went off to a duke’s hunting house to act as his private tart. I’m on my way to get her. Should return with her in a few days. Have my money ready, My Lord. You’ll have her in your hands soon. Mick Taylor.
His hands shook. Shook so hard, Sebastian crumpled the note. Anne would rather be a duke’s whore than his wife. The thought filled him with white-hot fury. And a duke … hell and damnation, a duke held power. Was it possible this man could keep Anne from him?
No, Sebastian would get her. Taylor was instructed to haul Anne back to him. With a special license, he would marry her at once and then begin to punish her. Already he had envisioned many ways to teach her obedience. Some of the painful discipline would take place in their bedroom. Soon he would break her rebellious spirit and make her obey.
But he did not want to make love to her. He did not desire that any longer. He’d thought he could endure bedding her for the money. But he was so filled with hate now, he yearned to wrap his hands around her throat and throttle her. However, he could not do that—not when he needed the money Anne would one day inherit from Lady Julia.
He would have to content himself with her punishment.
Sebastian folded the letter and thrust it into a pocket of his coat. He hastened to the drawing room and found Lady Julia pacing in front of the window. She stopped and gazed at him with haggard pain. “Has there been any word?”
He did not want the woman to know that Anne was ruined. What if Lady Julia changed her mind and refused to leave her money to the tart? Sebastian forced his lips to curve in a kindly smile. “Indeed there has. It appears Anne left London and has taken refuge with a friend in the country. I have a man on the way to retrieve her.”
Lady Julia smiled in relief. “You have been so very good, Norbrook. So very devoted in our search for Anne.”
“I am determined to find her.” Since it was the truth, it came out with complete earnestness. “She will be home soon.”
“Thank you,” Lady Julia whispered. “You are closer to me than either of my sons-in-law. You are a good and noble gentleman. If Anne was gone, I would make you my heir, Norbrook, for you have become like family to me.”
Sebastian clasped both Lady Julia’s hands, then lifted one to his lips and kissed the gloved fingers. “You have become like family to me as well, dearer to me than any lady has ever been.” Excitement shot through him. He must slather on the flattery and convince the old crone to make him her heir. If he could encourage her to do it, he would not even have to marry Anne.
If he were an heir, he could hurt Anne in whatever way he wished and still get the money. He could wrap his hands around Anne’s pretty neck and know the delight of squeezing the life out of her. Or he could think of a different way to kill her—a torturous, painful one. A way that would ensure he could bestow the ultimate punishment upon her, yet not get caught.
Chapter Fourteen
T PROVED SIMPLE to find the nursery—Devon just followed the warbling sound of the baby’s cry. It had been three days since Caro gave birth, and in that time Cerise had transformed his bachelor house. She had employed nursemaids, and had overseen the preparation of the nursery for its tiny inhabitant. It had to be because she was once a governess, but mistresses were usually more interested in gowns and pleasures, not in taking charge of wailing babies.
He could hear her shushing his crying nephew, no doubt because Caro was sleeping downstairs. By all accounts the birth had been astonishingly fast for a first child—a mere eight hours. Easy, the midwife had called the process. But eight hours of pushing, laboring, grunting, crying with pain didn’t sound easy.
The loveliest sound reached him, and he stopped and listened. In the same lush, gentle voice Cerise used to read to him, she sang a lullaby for his nephew.
But when he reached the door, she stopped. “Oh! Your Grace! Here, let me bring your nephew to you.”
With his sister here, Cerise called him Your Grace again or used his title. He sighed. “I didn’t mean to make you stop singing. I hate to deprive the wee thing of the pleasure.” Indeed, the little lad began to squawk again.
“He has an enormous belly at the moment, from his feeding. I don’t think he will settle until he gets
rid of the air inside him.”
He knew his sister had eschewed a wet nurse, instead feeding the baby herself. “How do you know so much about this, Cerise? Do you have children?”
“Oh, no. None of my own, but I lived in rooms surrounded by women, and my mother helped on several births. The whole thing was both fascinating and terrifying to me, so I watched and learned. I was always afraid of hurting a newborn, and it amazed me how confident women would be with tiny babies after they’d had several children. They would even keep a baby at the breast while they cooked a meal or tended chores.”
He heard the awe in her voice, and the regret. “Do you imagine children of your own someday?”
“I—I don’t know. Before, I never wanted it to happen and I learned precautions. Ways to avoid getting with child. But I …”
It occurred to him that he hadn’t thought of it either, though in their contract, when he’d instructed her what to write, he’d given the standard provisions for a child, the ones he used in agreements with his previous mistresses. Was she using any of those precautions? Her hesitation made him suspect she hadn’t. “If you were to become pregnant with my child, I would take care of you, Cerise. As I promised.”
“Do you have children?” she asked curiously.
“No. I was always careful.” His grandfather, the libertine duke, had taught him it proved a man’s prowess to get his mistresses pregnant. As long as a gentleman ensured his bastards were cared for, Grandfather had advised him, it didn’t matter how many he begot and it proved his manhood. His father had believed a man should be responsible and should not father children with any woman other than his wife. After listening to hours of lectures by his father, even though he never would have admitted his father was right, he’d taken care not to get his lovers pregnant.
But he hadn’t taken care with Cerise, had he? The blindness, the nightmares, had made him forget. As she came to him and warned she was about to put the baby in his arms, Devon realized she could be already enceinte.