The Bridegroom and the Baby

by Marcy Stewart

  Indignation rose, but she struggled to keep it from her voice. “I grieve for your loss, Lord Ambrose, and I’m sorry if I seemed intrusive in my questions. I would not have you relive hurtful memories for the world.”

  That should make him see how a well-behaved adult acted. But truth was, her tongue longed to form a vicious retort. He was not the only person to be victimized by the brutal, careless acts of others.

  Rather than soothe, her words apparently served to enflame him.

  “No? Then you would be the first.” He strode to the center of the room and glared at the portrait. “Neither on that day nor in all the time afterward has anyone stepped forth to say, ‘I think I did it; I was firing in his direction,’ or, ‘I stumbled and my weapon discharged.’ How does that strike you as to reliving painful memories? Every time I gaze into the faces of the men who were present at the shoot I relive that day, and they are my neighbors; they dwell all around me, do you understand? I cannot see any of them without thinking, Are you the one who took my brother from me?”

  He was not enraged with her, she realized then; he was simply angry, and she could understand why. Her own ire dissolving, she said gently, “But ... you would not seek revenge, surely; not for an accident ...”

  He shot her a look of disbelief. “Do you think no penalty should be extracted for a criminal act of this magnitude?”

  “I only meant that it would be difficult for anyone to confess to such a deed. He would lose the respect of everyone, and to what end?”

  “A man of honor would do so.”

  “Yes, but perhaps no one believes he is guilty. My father has spoken of such shoots; after attending one he refused to go to another. He calls them ‘madness in the guise of games,’ with everyone firing at once.”

  “Not if they are well run. Westhall’s were.”

  The edge in his tone had eased, and she imagined a beast returning to its lair. His rage might be hidden, but it was still present.

  “Lord Ambrose ... knowing the identity of your brother’s killer ... would that make his death easier?”

  He whirled upon her. “No, but at least it would silence the tongues of those who whisper it abroad that I murdered him to gain the blasted title!”

  Her hand flew to her cheek in horror. “No, my lord! Surely no one says so horrendous a thing!”

  “Oh, do they not? Don’t be naive, Miss Murrow. Open your eyes and learn the hearts of men.”

  Hot tears rose to her eyes. “But ... can they not see how well you loved him?”

  His gaze flew to hers. So much tearing sorrow dwelled in his expression, and something that made her heart beat faster. His lips parted as if he meant to speak but could not find the words. At that moment Mr. Brandt re-entered the room, and she felt strangely let down at his timing.

  “Burns says luncheon is prepared,” he said in a cheerful voice, and then, glancing from one to the other, looked hesitant. “Ethan?”

  Chapter 4

  Several evenings after the Murrows’ arrival, Lord Ambrose was dressing for dinner when he heard a knock at his door. It was Burns with a message from the vicar’s family; they would be a few moments late and begged that he proceed without them.

  The viscount had invited Reverend Abbott and his family to dinner, as well as the Reddings, to meet the Murrows. He was dreading it, for he and William Redding wasted no love on each other. However, he could hardly invite the children without the parent, and the children were his best friends and neighbors.

  Thanking Burns for the message, Ethan closed the door and returned to the task of buttoning his waistcoat.

  During the past days, he had had no opportunity to explore the parentage of his small charge. Of a necessity, entertaining the Murrows became his primary occupation, and it was an increasingly pleasant one, especially when he had the opportunity to speak with Miss Murrow alone—an opportunity that came all too rarely thanks to the vigilance of her father. As Scott had said, the man was protective.

  The possibility of a wedding began to seem less and less a sacrifice, and more an event to anticipate. A tenuous relationship was flowering between Miss Murrow and himself, spawned, he believed, from their moments together in the study. Since then, they had not spoken so deeply to one another, but the experience forged a bridge between them, or so he believed. The way she had looked and talked with him, the understanding in her eyes, surpassed that of many of his closest friends. Perhaps only those who shared the kind of losses they had could truly feel empathy for each other.

  Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he dared to ask: Was it possible he could find peace? He did not request happiness in this life; that begged too much for a man severed in half. But peace? Could he not find it with the tranquil, understated beauty visiting beneath his roof?

  Only one thing struck him as a potential obstacle; no, two. First and foremost, Thomas Murrow, who was no one’s fool. He might have been as pliable in Lord Tate’s matchmaking hands as Lord Ambrose himself, but he was not precisely salivating to be rid of his daughter. He was a careful man, and the questions he asked about the baby were increasing daily. His favorite theme seemed to be: Had he heard from his cousin yet?

  Naturally, it did not help that Mrs. Murrow was so struck with the child that she must hold it for what seemed hours at a time, thereby bringing Dorrie to her husband’s constant attention. Since the lady could not easily venture back and forth from the nursery, the babe must be brought down to her, which in turn meant Miss Murrow had to pet and play with it as well—and she had become quite the imp about involving him—teasingly taking the child, then saying she must leave the room for only a moment and would Lord Ambrose hold Dorrie until she returned? She had done this on at least three occasions, so he knew it was purposeful. He could not imagine what her intent was in this, unless she enjoyed seeing the startled look he never seemed able to hide.

  As he brushed his hair, his lips curved upward. It seemed to him—and he didn’t believe it was imagination—that the baby preferred him above all others. However, this might not be an advantage, given the circumstances. His smile faded.

  The second obstacle was Madeleine’s curiosity. He knew it signaled an intelligent, active mind. That was a trait he sought in a wife. But not if it led her to discover the truth—or what might be the truth—about the child. She threw almost as many questions at him as did her father, only her inquiries were for details about his cousin and her husband and their mutual history. What was his cousin like? Had they played together as children? How did she meet her husband, and did Lord Ambrose find him amiable? He found himself sinking deeper and deeper into lies, and more than once she caught him contradicting himself.

  Dorrie Hall Burnside could not have arrived at a less opportune time. Especially since everyone seemed obsessed with her.

  He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Twenty minutes before his guests were due to arrive. Time enough to interview the greengrocer’s daughter, who had finally made her appearance that morning. Burns had discovered little about her illness; only that her sickness had been quick. No other family members had succumbed to it. The viscount’s suspicions were fully aroused.

  Pulling on his father’s heavy garnet ring, he paused. This did not belong on his finger. Not his.

  He felt the draw of the mirror and, without wishing to, raised his eyes. What hell was this, to see his brother’s face every time he looked at his reflection?

  He placed his palm on the glass. Here we are, Lucan. Hand touching hand, and yours as cold as death.

  His gaze slid toward the decanter on his bureau. He moistened his lips.

  No. Busy yourself. No oblivion tonight.

  Without looking into the mirror again, he walked swiftly from the room.

  * * *

  Madeleine was scratching through her jewelry case looking for her favorite emerald necklace when she heard a knock at the door, then her father’s voice. She bid him enter.

  “Well, aren’t you the lovely one?” he
remarked.

  “Thank you, Papa,” she answered a trifle wearily. He always said that, so a compliment from him bore little meaning. “Am I late?”

  “No, we have ample time. I only this moment saw the viscount on his way down the servants’ stair.” He brought a side chair closer to the vanity and sat. “For what are you looking? May I help?”

  “I can’t find my emerald.”

  “Oh-oh. Your mother has borrowed it. Did Zinnia not ask you first?”

  Madeleine abandoned her search and plucked a sapphire pin from its velvet case. “No, but that’s all right; I was probably in the library. This butterfly brooch will look just as well on cream, don’t you think?”

  “Anything looks well on you, child.”

  She forced a smile. He could not know how she disliked his perfunctory encouragements. From her childhood, he had seemed to think it his duty to make her feel beautiful. It was compensation for the birth of Bettina, she knew. Her younger sister’s striking coloring and vibrant personality had won instant admiration wherever she went, even as a small girl. Papa seemed to think Madeleine would suffer jealousy or hurt by the inevitable comparisons, but she never had. She was as much an admirer of Bettina as anyone and had loved her fiercely.

  That did not hide her sister’s faults from her eyes, however. She had tried to counsel Bettina when no one else would, and to little effect. Madeleine believed her father interpreted her frustrations with her sister as envy. Thus, she viewed his compliments as meaningless.

  “Are you looking forward to meeting the viscount’s friends tonight?” she asked, hoping to stop further flatteries.

  “Very much. I trust the dinner will give us a wider perspective on our host’s character.”

  Madeleine’s fingers stilled for an instant, then she calmly finished pinning the brooch to her gown. “Do you have doubts in that regard?”

  “Well, young lady, that’s why I came to see you alone, without your mother, for I know you hope to please her above all things. Have you formed an initial impression about Lord Ambrose?”

  Had she formed an initial impression? Ethan Ambrose was the most enigmatic man she had ever met. He changed from one moment to the next. He could be arrogant and condescending with the butler, and sometimes Mr. Brandt. (She had yet to discover why that gentleman lived here; at times he seemed to be a servant, at others, a guest.) He spoke familiarly to the maid, as if she were an old dog to be kicked about, although it must be admitted Betsy appeared to bring this treatment upon herself as well as enjoy it. To Madeleine and her family, he occasionally seemed too eager to please; and it was that Lord Ambrose she felt the most disillusioned with, for she knew the reason smacked of desperation, not affection.

  And of course, there was the stinging memory of his behavior on that first night.

  Overshadowing all of these was the grieving twin she had found beneath the portrait.

  She felt as if she had not discovered the true man yet. But she was intrigued. More than intrigued.

  Since her feelings involved doubts, she dared not share them with her father. He would order the horses and coach before she had spoken the last word.

  “I think it is too early to say.”

  “You always were careful with your thoughts.”

  He eased back and crossed one leg over the other. As she wound a lace-edged ribbon through her curls, she slid a curious glance at him. His familiar features, plain but beloved to her, looked worried. His nose was redder than usual; a sure indication of concern.

  “What’s wrong, Papa?”

  Running fingers through his gray-streaked hair, he breathed in deeply, then exhaled. “The viscount troubles me.”

  Her heart began to pound. “In what way?”

  “I begin to wonder if he’s a proper choice for you.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I know what you thought, child. You want to please both your parents because that’s the kind of daughter you are. I’ve always known it, and you have always made me proud.”

  She allowed the tip of the ribbon to slip from her fingers and faced him. This was not the sort of thing he usually said, and she feared the softness in his voice would make her misty if he did not stop.

  “Papa, you—”

  “Hush, child; allow me to finish. I know you fear for your mother’s health, as do I. We have both watched her pining away for Bettina these past years until her strength is little more than a bird’s. And, as you well know, she has lately voiced a desire for grandchildren before she dies. She is not a manipulative woman, Madeleine; you realize she is too kind for that. But Antonia does want you settled before ...”

  She had seldom seen tears in her father’s eyes. Groaning inside, she reached for his hand and clasped it between both of her own.

  With his unfettered hand, Thomas pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped his eyes, “Sorry, child. All that aside, you cannot sacrifice your future happiness simply to soothe your mother. She would not wish it. Therefore, you must form your judgment without consideration of what you do to fulfill her dreams. Do you understand?”

  “I do, but what has happened to change your opinion of Lord Ambrose?”

  “No one thing stands out; only a compilation of discrepancies.”

  “Such as ...?”

  “That baby, for an example—”

  “Oh, but I think it is famous of him to care for his cousin’s child. How many bachelors would do so?”

  “Precisely.”

  “But ... his action speaks in his favor, does it not? He behaves wonderfully with the infant.”

  “Yes, but does it not seem unusual to you that he would take in a child when his house is filled with guests who may or may not become his family? This is not the time to invite upset.”

  She felt her lips move into a stubborn line. “Even more to his advantage, Papa. That proves his kindness, surely.”

  “Yes, but this relative of his. What woman would abandon her newborn to a cousin she barely knows? For that must be the case; you asked him if they had spent time together as children and he said no.”

  “Well ... perhaps they wrote one another ...”

  “You are running after windmills, child. Why did the woman not stay at home with her infant? That would have been the best solution by far. And most telling of all ... why have we heard no word from her? Any normal mother would be frantic to know how her babe fares!”

  Madeleine stared at him for several seconds before saying, “Do you believe the viscount is lying?”

  Her father held her eyes and shrugged deeply. “What do you think?”

  “If he is ... to what purpose?”

  “Ah, my dear. There’s the rub.”

  Slowly, Madeleine turned back to the mirror. Perhaps with a well-placed question or two, she would be able to discover the truth. But not tonight. Tonight, she would discover what kind of friends the viscount had. One could often learn much about a person from the company he kept.

  * * *

  “You like infants, Annie?” Lord Ambrose asked.

  “Oh, yes, milord, do I ever!”

  Ethan smiled. After a brief trip to the kitchen, he had discovered the greengrocer’s daughter in the attic, taking a turn at rocking the babe while Janice nursed her son in the adjoining bedroom. He could not imagine a more appropriate place to find Annie Farlanger than in the nursery, holding her daughter.

  She gazed down at the child, her grin making red balls of her cheeks. Like the infant, her eyes were blue, her hair light—more yellow than the child’s, but those things could happen. Ethan set his own chair rocking and tried to control his excitement.

  “Dorrie seems to have taken a special liking to you.”

  She blushed furiously. “Oh, no, milord. She likes everyone. She’s a pleasant child, she is.”

  “She is indeed. Her mother must be very proud.”

  The girl gave him an uncomfortable look. “I guess you would know more about that than such as I.”

>   “What do you mean by that?” he asked sharply.

  “Nothing!” Her skin blotched. “Only as she’s your cousin, not mine, milord!”

  “Oh.” He laughed lightly. “Of course. I beg your pardon.”

  “That’s all right, I guess.”

  She glanced at the door with longing in her eyes. He supposed he was making her nervous. She should be nervous and more, abandoning her own child and naming him the father. A person like that was capable of anything. He stilled his chair, ready to catch her should she bolt.

  “Do you ever wish you had your own baby, Annie?”

  This surprised a giggle from her, and the blush returned. “Sure, but only if I was wed. Every girl I ever knowed wants a baby.”

  His gaze narrowed. “But what if you weren’t wed?”

  “What?”

  “What if you had a baby without marriage. What would you do then?”

  The color completely drained from her face. “But that wouldn’t happen. I’m a good Christian girl. I go to chapel every week. And Da would flay me alive!”

  “Come now, Annie. This happens in the best of families. You meet someone who attracts you. He tells you how pretty you are—”

  “Nobody tells me I’m pretty,” she said in a whisper. “People’s always saying I’m fat.”

  “Many men prefer women with flesh on their bones. And you are an attractive woman.”

  “I am?” She began to tremble. Dorrie whimpered in response.

  “Of course,” he said heartily. “And after hearing this man’s sweet words, you find yourself falling in love—”

  “Aye.” Her eyes were very wide and frightened.

  “—and the next thing you know ...” Lord Ambrose nodded significantly toward Dorrie, never taking his gaze from Annie’s.

  Slowly, she looked at the child. When she returned her eyes to his, they were awash in tears. He felt a stab of triumph, until she began to shake her head.