The Bridegroom and the Baby

by Marcy Stewart

  THE BRIDEGROOM AND THE BABY

  Marcy Stewart

  Chapter 1

  “Here’s to marriage,” said the viscount, Ethan Ambrose, and downed his brandy with a shudder. Slamming the glass to the bar, he signaled the tavern keeper with a scowl and a peremptory wave. “Another one, Jack, exactly like the last!”

  “Hear, hear!” encouraged the shorter of the viscount’s two companions, George Redding, who also raised his glass.

  Moving slowly, the sad-eyed tavern keeper brought the required bottle and poured, serving milord first, then the stout fellow with the receding hairline to his left. When he reached the third gentleman, Scott Brandt, the young man shook his head.

  “Someone needs a clear head to guide the way home,” he said, by way of explanation.

  “Yes, and I’m the one to do it,” declared Lord Ambrose.

  “Not tonight, you’re not,” Brandt said darkly.

  Golden eyebrows slanted downward as the viscount weaved closer to the speaker. He was not accustomed to drowning himself to such an extent or hadn’t been until recently. Of late he had discovered this path led to forgetfulness and the cessation of pain, at least for a time. Tonight, he needed to numb his memory more than ever. Therefore, he could not like the scolding tone in his friend’s voice. Did he fancy himself to be his nursemaid?

  “Are you implying that I’m foxed?”

  “Did you hear me say so?” Brandt sent the tavern keeper a warning look, and the owner nodded slightly. “Jack’s wanting to close, my lord.”

  “Is he?” Lord Ambrose turned unsteadily and examined the room in surprise. The whitewashed walls, stained with years of soot and grime, the crude supporting timbers, even the familiar cobwebs in the corners were shadowed in gloom. That, he thought sluggishly and with a sudden desire to laugh, was undoubtedly because none of the candles on the tables were lit. Aside from themselves, the room was empty. Perhaps he should think of going.

  No.

  “I’m getting married,” he said, swinging back to the bar and jiggling his glass. “Calls for a celebration.”

  “There won’t be any reason to celebrate if you don’t please Miss Murrow’s parents.”

  “What’s not to please?” The viscount extended his arms expansively, a man waiting to be measured by his tailor. Feeling the room sway, he quickly clutched the bar.

  “Ho, the vanities!” shouted George with a laugh.

  “No vanity,” Lord Ambrose said in injured tones, leaning against the scarred wooden surface of the bar. “I meant only that I walk, I talk, I breathe, I’m male. What else could Miss Madeleine Murrow require?”

  “Don’t forget the title,” George added.

  Brandt lowered a disapproving look. “This is no way to speak of the lady who may become the viscountess.”

  Knowing his friend was correct did nothing to ease the viscount’s mood. After all, Scott had the advantage of freedom, unlike himself, who must stoop to marketing his title to the wealthiest heiress he could find for the sake of his ancestral home. How tasteless it all seemed; how diminished it made him feel, especially when he considered the kind of woman his potential wife must be to accept such a liaison. He had never believed himself to be a dewy-eyed romantic, nor had he given much thought to marriage in the past; yet it didn’t seem too much to ask that he have at least a fondness for his betrothed. He had only met Miss Murrow briefly; he didn’t know anything about her, excepting she was rich.

  And that was all that mattered, in the end; he must keep his promise.

  “What do you know of how I should speak?” he grumbled. “You’ve never set eyes on her.”

  “And you’ve only met her the one time. How clear an impression can be made during a weekend in the country?”

  “Not much of one, apparently,” Ethan answered, drawing watery circles with his glass on the wood. “I was impressed with her brownness. Brown hair, brown eyes, olive-brown skin that declares too much time outdoors.” He swung his head in Scott’s direction. “Just like you, old fellow.”

  George crowed. “Give over, Ethan! Tell me she don’t look like Scotty, please!”

  “Not that bad, perhaps, but then she doesn’t have his sparkling personality, either.”

  “Scotty? Sparkling?” George slammed his fists on the bar, his round cheeks twisted in merriment. “What have you done, Ethan? If she’s the antidote you say, why ever are you going through with it?”

  The viscount became motionless. “Can it be you don’t know?”

  “He knows,” Scott said in a quiet voice, and tugged at the viscount’s arm. “Come, my lord. Let’s be off, now.”

  Ethan shrugged away Brandt’s hand and lifted his glass. “Another, Jack.” In the doing, he caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar. Raw grief sliced through him, so hurtful he wanted to cry aloud.

  Would the wound never heal?

  When the tavern-keeper acceded to his demand, the viscount raised his glass to his image.

  “To Lucan,” he said.

  His friends followed the line of his vision, their faces sobering. As one, they signaled for Jack to fill their glasses and joined the viscount in toasting the mirror, echoing solemnly, “To Lucan.”

  * * *

  At that moment, Miss Madeleine Murrow was staring into the cold darkness through the windows of her father’s coach-and-four with growing distress. Antonia Murrow, her mother, lay in a half-reclining position on the bench opposite herself and her father, Thomas; even with two pillows beneath her head and a blanket around her shoulders, she appeared dreadfully uncomfortable, and Madeleine could not bear to see her pale suffering any longer.

  Her mother moved then, her skirts rustling as she searched for a better position. A soft, unwilling groan came from her throat. Madeleine’s gaze swerved from her mother to her father.

  “Papa, please, can we not stop?”

  “What would you have us do, child? Sleep beneath a tree?”

  She heard the impatience in his voice and knew it for what it was. He felt guilty for not stopping earlier as her mother had suggested. No, he had said, they were through Wilts; it was only a few miles more to Somersetshire, the village of Brillham, and Lord Ambrose’s estate. Antonia would be much more comfortable there than in a flea-infested inn. But he had not taken into account the possibility they might throw a wheel, or that one of the horses could go lame. Or that their driver would fall ill, as was the case. Every mile or two Lindon would draw the horses to a halt and run for the woods. Something he ate, he’d explained after the first stop, his face pasty-looking as he called up to his master.

  She had asked her father if he could not drive the coach. “We’d still have to stop for Lindon,” he had said. “Unless you think we should leave him on the side of the road.”

  Her father had meant it for the best, extending their journey. Sometimes she wished it wasn’t so easy for her to understand how others felt and thought. She wished she could get angry occasionally and stamp her foot like headstrong heroines in novels.

  Bettina, her sister and dearest friend, had been like that. She had had no difficulty becoming angry, because her decisions were made at the drop of an eyelash, and truly, she never understood anything. How her eyes would flash, her cheeks flush crimson, and the tart words fall off her tongue! The gentlemen had loved her for her fire and her spirit.

  Poor Bettina.

  Warm tears came to Madeleine’s eyes. She blinked them away before either of her parents noticed.

  “Let’s see if I cannot help you rest easier, my dear,” Thomas said, addressing his wife. He slipped to the other seat, carefully pulling her into his lap. “Better?”

  “Much,” Antonia said with a weak smile.


  In the darkness of the coach, Madeleine gazed at her parents, her eyes becoming moist again. She lifted her head and pretended to be fascinated by the carriage’s satin ceiling. Her mother must not suspect her heart’s heaviness—that she was dreading, rather than looking forward to, this sojourn at Lord Ambrose’s estate.

  Recalling their meeting two months ago at the Tates’ red brick manse in Hampshire, she stifled a sigh. Lord Tate, during one of his many walks with her father, had happily supplied the history of the young viscount. Although not a man to invest overmuch importance to the peerage, her father had nevertheless been impressed with Ambrose’s impeccable bloodlines. Her mother, softhearted lady that she was, thought the viscount handsome and interesting-looking.

  Madeleine believed him to be the coldest creature she had ever met.

  Perhaps he would prove to be otherwise, but she hardly cared one way or the other. She harbored no illusions that love and romance awaited her at Westhall, but she hoped marriage did. It was the only gift she could offer her mother and offer it she would—before it was too late.

  * * *

  “Let go,” said the viscount, and jerked free of Scott’s supporting arm. “D’you think I’m a child? I can very well walk by myself.”

  His companion stood aside, bowed, and swept one arm outward as if to say, proceed. Lord Ambrose nodded once and straightened his waistcoat. The gesture was meant to fortify his dignity as well, since Scott seemed to doubt it so much.

  Perhaps they had closed the doors of the Yellow Talon two hours later than usual. And what if he did drink deeper than normal? That didn’t mean he couldn’t handle his liquor. He had stayed on his horse, hadn’t he, all the way to George’s house and now his own?

  Ethan watched the groom lead their horses toward the stable and felt a shiver of admiration for his black, Viking; what a proud piece of horseflesh he was, dancing and tossing his mane like a debutante at her first ball. The Ambrose stable once held many such fine beasts. He might have lost all but the nags, but at least he’d kept Viking. Truth was, he’d sooner sacrifice the house than lose him.

  Scott was still bent in his mock bow, looking impatient. Ethan stepped boldly toward the front doors of his home. After three paces, he felt his knees buckle. Brandt, blast him, had his arms out before total disaster occurred. The viscount glared at him. Scott glared back, his face only inches away.

  Ethan began to laugh.

  He was still laughing when Burns opened the door, shards of disapproval in his small, hard eyes. The viscount continued to laugh as butler and friend dragged him up the stairs. He tried to help, but his legs would not step high enough, and that struck him as even more amusing.

  When they reached the first-floor landing, his two assistants propped him against the wall to catch their breath.

  Ethan began to slide downward and gasped helplessly as they lunged to stop him. Gads, if Lucan could see him now—his legs were limp as cloth!

  Quick as a lightning bolt, his merriment dissolved.

  He lowered his eyes. From here he could see through the balustrade to the entrance hall. The front door stood open; Burns must have been too busy helping him to close it. With interest, he registered the sound of heavy wheels crunching on gravel.

  Scott’s expression sharpened like a hunter coming to point. “Is that a carriage?”

  “So it would seem,” Burns said in his death-toll’s voice, each syllable dragging as if pulling a ball and chain.

  They behaved so gravely. What could be serious about company arriving?

  “Who—who’s there?” Ethan sang the words, pretending to be frightened. Laughter sputtered back to life.

  “Quickly!” Scott shouldered his weight, as did Burns, both men dragging him down the corridor to his bedchamber. Ethan couldn’t help noticing his boots were making waves in the threadbare runner. That, too, was funny.

  “Brutes,” he said, when they pitched him onto his bed. A sack of potatoes would receive gentler treatment. He struggled upward. “Should greet my guests.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Scott turned to Burns. “Do what you must, man, to see to them. I’ll take care of him.”

  One might think Brandt were the master and not himself, Ethan reflected as he watched the butler walk from the room. “I am the viscount,” he declared. “I will ...” He could not remember what he was going to say. Oh, yes. “I will see to my guests.”

  “Quiet, idiot.” Brandt pulled at Ethan’s coat, throwing it into a heap on the floor. When he began to unbutton his waistcoat, Lord Ambrose slapped his hands away and sat up.

  “You ... are being too familiar.” How he could make himself laugh! “I will do this myself.”

  “Hurry up, then, and pray to God that’s not your future wife and her family downstairs. If they see you like this ... are you certain you can get yourself into bed and stay there?”

  His friend looked worried enough for the two of them. Ethan waved him onward. “Make yourself easy. I’ll be perfectly fine.”

  “I’d best go down and see how Burns is handling things, then. If it is the Murrow family, I’ll tell them you’re ill.”

  Scott closed the door when he left. Ethan felt suddenly cut off, and rebellion crossed his mind. He would go downstairs. It was his house, after all; at least for the present. He scowled; he plucked at his waistcoat for an indefinite length of time. He could not remember if he was supposed to button or unbutton.

  A wave of dryness passed over him, and he began to perspire. Scott would not lie to the Murrows; he was ill. Ethan reached for the bedside table and the chamber pot hidden within. As he did, he lost his balance and tumbled to the floor, the empty vessel rolling madly to crash and shatter against the wall.

  * * *

  “What was that?” Madeleine asked.

  Mr. Brandt sent her a gracious smile. “What was what, Miss Murrow?”

  “That noise. It sounded like a thump, then glass breaking.”

  “A ... thump?” His gaze drifted from one corner of the entrance hall to the other, as if expecting to find a noise in the massive, faded tapestry hanging from the gallery or perhaps in the suit of armor guarding the stairs.

  “Yes. I believe it came from the first floor.”

  He appeared to be at a loss. There was no need to look to her parents for confirmation; the butler had already ushered them into the library, where he was hastily building a fire. Only she had lagged, awed by the proportions and austerity of this narrow but extraordinarily high hall. The arch soared to the roofline and was crisscrossed with wooden beams, like a miniature cathedral.

  The slender gentleman at her side had politely remained with her as she stared. Now, it was he who held her attention, and she gazed at him with undisguised curiosity. He could not have missed hearing that sound, unless he was deaf, which he certainly was not; he had introduced himself and conversed with them too prettily for that. Why did he pretend?

  “I only mention it in case Lord Ambrose might have broken something or—need help,” she said.

  A guarded look came into his eyes. “How kind of you to worry so.”

  “You said he was ill,” she reminded him.

  “Yes, of course. If he needs anything, he will let us know.”

  Somewhat mystified, she gave him a small smile. There was no use discussing the sound further; it mattered little, anyway. Still, she studied him covertly as they walked to join her parents. He owned a compelling attractiveness, she thought; golden eyes, lean features, and brown hair too shaggy for fashion; she wondered if he’d allowed a Brutus cut to grow long. She liked his tan jacket in a soft wool that begged to be stroked, although she would never dare do such a thing.

  Who was he? Why was he here? She could not wait to find out, although she must be discreet in her inquiries. Her father was forever saying her curiosity put others on the defensive, and she supposed he was right. If only she didn’t find people so compelling.

  Bettina had never understood this compul
sion of hers, either, although even she would have been interested in Mr. Brandt. Handsome gentlemen never failed to interest her sister. What Bettina never fathomed, however, was how Madeleine could experience an equal desire to know about the lives of the cook, the nursemaid, or the vicar’s elderly father.

  And now the butler was claiming her notice. In a voice as deep as faraway thunder, he apologized for the lack of a proper welcome and said he would fetch refreshment as soon as he awoke the chambermaid to lay fresh linens on the beds. She detected a veiled reproof in all of this, as did her father, for he immediately gestured dismissively.

  “Never mind that,” he said. “I’m at fault for arriving before you expected.” Madeleine knew this to be a politeness, for whenever guests were scheduled to visit their home, preparations were completed far in advance; an early arrival was cause for further celebration, not excuses. “My wife is very tired. If her bed could be prepared at once, I would be grateful.” He turned to Antonia, who was lying on the settee by the fire. “Or do I misspeak, my love? Do you require something to eat? Madeleine?”

  Both ladies demurred, although Madeleine wished desperately for a cup of tea and warm bread, at least. She dared not delay the butler a moment longer than necessary, though, for apparently servants were at a premium at Westhall.

  As Burns walked ponderously from the room to do her father’s bidding and Mr. Brandt made polite conversation, she gazed about, finding confirmation of her observation everywhere she looked. Ashes lay thick on the hearth; the bookshelves, or what she could see of them, were dusty and the volumes in unattractive disarray; and the Jacobean furniture had gone too long without the benefits of polishing, the surfaces of tables scratched and dry.

  Evidently household economy did not extend only to servants, for the furnishings themselves were out-of-date and faded. The crimson settee upon which her mother lay, for an example, looked as hard and uncomfortable as a bed of bricks; the chair in which she herself sat possessed an alarming tendency to dip in the middle.

  But none of this came as a surprise. She knew why Lord Ambrose had extended his invitation—that it had nothing to do with her, but everything to do with her father’s wealth.