The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  She had a father and a mother. She belonged to them and they belonged to her.

  The wave of nausea came again. Resting a limp wrist on her closed eyes, she rode it out.

  "Can I git ye anything else, Lady Jericho?" The girl hovered, eager, wanting to be of use.

  "Yes. I want... my mother."

  "Yes, mTady." The girl curtsied and flew from the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

  My mother. How good it felt to say that. How beautifully and wonderfully good. Fighting queasiness, she strove to think of something else besides her stomach. She let her mind drift over the events of the past two weeks. For a moment, as the memory of the duke of Blackpool came back, her heart pounded. She thrust the memory away. The duke of Blackpool was dead. He couldn't hurt her. Not ever again. And he couldn't hurt Mother, either.

  Nor could Fox Hazlitt. He was dead, too. Not by Mother's hand, thank God; Angelina's nature was too delicate to bear such a thing. Angelina had wounded Hazlitt severely. But she hadn't killed him. It had been Lord Lark and Leonardo d'Orias who'd gone back that night and finished him with a sword thrust.

  Her thoughts drifted back. After she'd fainted in Dove's arms in Blackpool marsh, she'd come to in Lord Aubrey's strong arms. Woozy with blood loss, she'd fainted again, but not before she'd glimpsed his worried smile and heard him murmur, "Daughter."

  When next she regained consciousness, she'd found herself in bed in Nordham Hall, a worried Lord Aubrey holding her right hand, a fretting Angelina holding her left. She'd smiled and had drifted down into a peaceful sleep that had seemed to last days.

  People had flocked to Nordham Hall during her recuperation. Mrs. Phipps had come at once. Lady de Mont, Leonardo d'Orias, Lord Lark and Lord Raven had come. John had come. Marguerite had come—but not to visit Jericho. To visit her sister, Angelina.

  Dove had come to Nordham Hall several times, but her father had refused him entry. In a livid temper, Lord Aubrey had sent his beloved nephew packing. He was furious with Dove. He put the blame for everything that had happened to her squarely on Dove. He'd threatened to horsewhip Dove if he ever came near her again.

  Jericho had been heartbroken. But she'd also gloried in having a father, a father who told "his daughter" exactly what she could and could not do. Told her? Not "told." Ordered, commanded, exhorted, counseled, preached, advised. Lord Aubrey had crammed twenty years of fathering into the past two weeks, and though Jericho was certain she was being fathered to death and would drop dead any day, she adored him for it.

  The door was flung inward. Jericho opened her eyes. Angelina came rushing in, silk nightrobe rustling, her dark lovely hair still disheveled from sleep. "Darling, what is it? The girl says you're ill. What's wrong? Is it your leg? Your cut?"

  Jericho shook her head on the pillow. "My leg is fine, Mother. It's only a touch of indigestion."

  "Indigestion!" Picking up the skirts of her silk robe, she rushed across the room, stepped up on the bed stair and settled herself on the bed. She put a cool hand on Jericho's brow, testing. How wonderful it was to be mothered.

  "There's no fever, darling."

  "I know. Please don't worry. The queasiness will pass in an hour or two. I won't miss your wedding."

  Two vertical worry lines formed in the center of Angelina's smooth lovely brow. " 'Pass'? What do you mean, darling, 'it will pass in an hour or two'?"

  "The queasiness passed yesterday morning. And the morning before. And the morning before that."

  The vertical lines vanished. Angelina's lovely dark eyebrows shot upward and her eyes widened. "Has there been anything else? Faintness, perhaps? Dizzy spells? Aversion to certain foods?"

  Jericho lifted her head in surprise.

  "How—how did you know?"

  "Oh, my goodness." Angelina took a deep breath. "Jericho. This is important. When did you last have your woman's flow?"

  Startled, Jericho rose up on one elbow. A dim awareness of what it was began to stir in her, filtering in, stealing in. She felt vaguely scared, alarmed.

  "I've lost track of it. So much has happened in the past two months. The London fire. Blackpool Castle. But I must have had it last month or the month before—" It hit her like a lightning bolt. She looked at Angelina with scared eyes, then quickly looked away, her face heating in shame.

  Just then, a loud demanding knock sounded at the door. Lord Aubrey poked his head in. His hair was disheveled, too, and he was still tying the velvet cord of his robe. "Have you sent for the physician, Angelina?" he demanded. "If my daughter's sick, I want a physician. I want one at once."

  Angelina got up and swept to the door in a rustle of silk, placed her small, firm palms on Lord Aubrey's broad chest and backed him out of the room. "She doesn't need a physician, Aubrey." She looked like a slender lily pushing a tree.

  When her mother returned and sat on the bed, Jericho couldn't meet her eyes. She was too ashamed, too filled with guilt. But Angelina calmly reached out, took Jericho's hands and held them firmly but gendy in her silken lap.

  "Jericho," she said sternly. "It is high time you and I had a long—and completely honest—talk about Dove."

  Jericho's parents were wed at noon in the tiny Catholic chapel on the third floor of Nordham Hall. Because they wished it so, the ceremony was private. But Jericho couldn't have been more thrilled if it had been a rich splendid ceremony in Westminster Abbey. How wonderful her parents were, as they said their vows before the priest. Kneeling in a handsome silk suit, his broad soldierly back straight and proud, her father spoke his vows in a strong sure voice and his eyes never once left Angelina's.

  Angelina? She repeated her vows with happy pride. Garbed in rose silk and Flemish lace, she had never looked lovelier. Watching her mother, Jericho remembered their morning talk.

  It had been a frank, intimate talk. Jericho had poured out her heart, and Angelina had listened tenderly. They talked of Marguerite. In Angelina's opinion, Marguerite was fond of Dove, but not deeply in love with him. It was also her opinion Dove was not in love with Marguerite. It was willfulness that made him want her.

  "Tell him about the baby, darling."

  "No." Jericho had shaken her head, stubborn, adamant. She didn't want Dove to wed her out of necessity, because he'd gotten her with child. If he wed her and not Marguerite, she wanted it to be for only one reason—love.

  They'd talked for a long time and Angelina had given Jericho stern advice. Its wisdom had pierced her to the core:

  "You are not a bondslave. You are the daughter of a duke, the daughter of a duchess. And Dove had best learn that. If you ever again permit Dove to treat you like a bondslave, you will be a bondslave in his eyes forever. Even if he marries you."

  They'd talked so long and so lovingly that all sense of time had fled until Lord Aubrey, dressed in his wedding clothes and plainly provoked, stuck his head in the door with a querulous complaint.

  "Isn't anyone here interested in a wedding?"

  As the priest pronounced the benediction, Jericho glanced up from her wool-gathering. Pronounced man and wife, her parents rose from their knees and kissed. Then they turned, radiant with joy, and Jericho flew into their arms. They kissed and hugged. She and Angelina shed a few happy tears, and even Lord Aubrey's eyes grew suspiciously moist.

  Then, arms around each other, a staunch family of three, they were heading down the corridor to a private wedding dinner in Angelina's withdrawing chamber when a manservant came hurrying up to Lord Aubrey.

  "Your Grace? Lord Dove is downstairs in the entry hall. He requests your permission to speak with Lady Jericho."

  Jericho's heart jumped. She threw a scared, hopeful look at Angelina. Lord Aubrey's happy mood died. His temper flared.

  "Oh, does he! Well, you may tell my nephew to leave this house at once. Tell him I refuse to allow my daughter—"

  Jericho didn't wait to hear more. Giving her father a quick apologetic kiss on the cheek, she broke away and ran, scared to linger a moment longer. If she lingere
d and heard him forbid her, she would be obliged to obey. She picked up her skirts and flew.

  "Jericho," he called after her in annoyance.

  Angelina watched her beautiful daughter go, then sighed and turned to cope with Aubrey.

  "What is she doing!" he demanded.

  "I would guess she is running so that she cannot hear you forbid her. She doesn't want to disobey you, Aubrey. But she wants very much to see the man she loves."

  "You mean Dove?"

  "Who else?"

  His temper flared afresh. "I'll horsewhip him. I warned him to stay away from her. By Judas—" Riled, he took an angiy step in that direction, but Angelina caught his silk sleeve.

  "Aubrey. Dove can no more stay away from Jericho than—than you could stay away from me when we were young."

  The truth of it arrested him for a moment. He glanced at her in startled chagrin, but flared again. "I won't have Dove toying with my daughter!"

  "Nor will I," Angelina agreed firmly. "Nor will Jericho allow it anymore. We had a very long, very serious talk today. About something extremely important."

  His curiosity piqued, he lost his angry color and frowned down at her. "About what?"

  "Now darling, be calm. She is with child. By Dove."

  "With child," Aubrey thundered.

  "Hush, my love, please. Hush, hush, the servants ..."

  Aubrey took a raw gulp of air, his color growing as red as his hair. "I'll kill him. I won't horsewhip him, Angelina, I'll kill him."

  "No, you will not." Angelina took a firm grip on his arm and tugged him along in the opposite direction. "You dote on Dove. You know you do. You love him best of all your nephews."

  He jerked around, and Angelina had to recapture his arm.

  "That fornicating puppy! If he's quickened my daughter, by God, he's going to marry her. I'll make him marry her, or I'll have his head on a platter. The betrothal to Marguerite will have to be broken, Angelina. No matter the cost. By God!" Heated, he swung around again. A soldier, he needed action. Angelina understood that, and clung to his arm like an anchor. She tugged him back in the opposite direction, tugging him along. It was like tugging a granite boulder.

  "And what would that accomplish? Think, my love. What would you gain? Would you have our daughter suffer humiliation, knowing Dove was forced to marry her?"

  Flushing in anger, he had no answer but a soldier's answer.

  "By God, he'll have her whether he wants her or not!"

  "Aubrey. Listen to me. Listen. Think of our daughter."

  "I am thinking of her. I won't have my daughter treated like a common wench. I should've kicked his backside all over the Thames after the London fire. No doubt he slept with her then. And with a bride-to-be waiting for him at Arleigh Castle. By Judas, I'll kill him!"

  As he wheeled around again, determined to deal with Dove, Angelina leaped in front of him and calmly rested her palms on his hot heaving chest. His vivid blue eyes were so angry they shot sparks. She tugged at his silk lapels.

  "Aubrey. Listen to me. Jericho is a woman. A woman needs to know her husband married her out of affection and not simply because he got her with child. Jericho wants Dove to wed her for love. For love, Aubrey, love. In the end, love is the only important reason. Love, Aubrey ..."

  Agitated, his soldier's mind set, he ground his jaw. But at least he listened. The outrage in his flushed face lessened.

  "Aubrey. Our daughter is a brave intelligent young woman. Let her handle this. Please?" she begged softly. "Please, Aubrey?"

  A muscle in his jaw convulsed uncertainly. When the anger in his face softened to uncertain irritation, she knew she'd won and drew a breath of relief. He sent a final, fierce look down the corridor, but made no move to follow it.

  Relieved, she slipped her hands under his silk lapels.

  "Now, my love. This is our wedding day. On our wedding day, can you not think of anything more interesting to do than scold your beloved daughter and horsewhip the nephew you adore?"

  For a moment he said nothing. Then, the corners of his handsome mouth twitched. A faint glimmer of humor twinkled in his eyes.

  "I think I can," he murmured. "I think I can . . ."

  "And what might that be, my lord?"

  "Wench." Scooping her up in his arms, he kissed her soundly and carried her down the corridor, straight to his bedchamber.

  Nordham Hall's square center staircase descended to the entry hall in a series of broad landings and short flights of stairs. Jericho flew down the first flight with scared eager steps, her jade green gown brushing the bannister, silk rustling. Descending to the next landing, she reined herself in. Dear life, she wasn't eleven years old!

  Descending to still another landing, she remembered Angelina's wise advice, and she slowed down. She wasn't a bondslave. She was the daughter of a duke, the daughter of a duchess. She needn't lay her heart at any man's feet. Not even Dove's.

  Scared at the enormity of the thought, but determined to preserve her self-respect, she held her head high and forced herself to descend the final flight of stairs at a slow, leisurely pace.

  Waiting downstairs in the oak-paneled entry hall, Dove paced and stewed. He'd been stewing and pacing for the past two weeks. Ever since Blackpool marsh. He'd asked himself questions by the cartload, And all of the answers had come out the same: Jericho.

  When he heard steps on the staircase, he eagerly swung around. For one startled instant, he didn't recognize her. For what he glimpsed coming down the stairs was a regal beauty—a young woman so stunning she might've belonged to Queen Catherine's court. He picked his chin up off the floor and gaped some more.

  She—Jericho!—came drifting down the stairs with leisurely indifference. As if it didn't matter that he was waiting! Stunned afresh, he gaped at what she wore. Silk and a low cut bodice. Bosom, for God's sake! When he could tear his eyes away from her creamy, freckled breasts, he hastily gave her a once-over. She wore her hair in a new way, combed back and tumbling richly to her bare shoulders. Her rich red hair exquisitely framed all of that—that—that bosom.

  Dove felt suddenly unsure of himself. Hell, he'd come to tell her he'd decided to marry her. He'd come to tell her he was going to get down off his high horse and wed her. He'd come to tell her he'd decided to give her what she'd always wanted: himself, legally shackled to her in matrimony.

  Suddenly, that approach didn't seem wise. As she stepped down into the entry hall in a rustle of silk, he marshalled what was left of his scattered wits. Bosom, for God's sake!

  "Hello, Dove," she said calmly. Calmly. Wasn't she excited to see him? The grubworm he used to know in New Amsterdam had come running like a rabid squirrel every time he stepped in his door. He felt flustered. A new feeling. He didn't like it.

  "I want to talk to you, Jericho. In private."

  "Certainly. The winter parlor?"

  He stared at her, stunned, as she went past him in a drift of rippling silk. "Certainly. The winter parlor?" What the hell sort of response was that? She reminded him of Marguerite! Had her hips always twitched that way when she walked? With so damned much confidence?

  As he leaped after her, an unwelcome thought jarred. Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe suitors were swarming to Nordham Hall like bees to a honey pot. Aubrey was rich, Angelina was rich. Jericho was an heiress.

  Hell! She hadn't gone and fallen in love with one of those goddamned fortune seekers, had she? For the first time in his life, he felt unsure of himself. He hated the feeling. It made him cranky. The more confidently her high heels clicked in the corridor, the crankier he got.

  * * *

  Confidence? Jericho wasn't feeling a shred of it. Inside, her heart was pounding like a child's. Why had he come? Did he love her? Why wasn't he at Arleigh Castle with Marguerite?

  Scared to hope, she clipped briskly into the winter parlor. Intuition, a sixth sense, told her this would be a crucial visit. It would be, and Angelina was right. If she let Dove treat her like a doormat, she would be a do
ormat for him the rest of her life.

  Briskly, she went to the warm crackling fire, turned and linked her shaking hands behind her back, out of sight. Dove followed her in and banged the door shut. Her heart sank. He was going to be cranky. Well, she thought, rallying, talking to her baby, your father is not the only person in the world who can be cranky. / can be cranky too.

  In his lightning-quick way, Dove swept the parlor with a glance. Ignoring the changes in the room, he swung toward her. He was in a vile temper, but trying to hide it. She knew Dove, knew every one of his temperamental signs. She waited warily.

  "So, Jericho! It seems we are cousins." A cranky pleasantry.

  "So it seems, Dove."

  "We are of equal rank now."

  Equal rank? If she let him get away with this, if she let him take an inch he would grab a mile.

  "Not quite. You are the son of an earl and a countess, but I am the daughter of a duke and a duchess. I fear I outrank you, Dove." Had she said that? Dear life!

  Dove flushed bright red. Standing balanced on one hip, his bright golden hair sweeping his shoulders, he tapped a toe and winged a tentative look out the tall parlor windows, out at the bleak November countryside.

  "I don't need this, Jericho," he snapped. Wheeling, he headed for the door.

  Jericho panicked. "But it doesn't matter, Dove," she of- fered quickly. "Rank doesn't matter. Rank doesn't matter at all. Truly, Dove, it doesn't matter at all. Truly, Dove, truly."

  He rested a hand on the doorlatch and sent her a withering look. "You're quite sure I needn't bow? Kiss your hand and call you Lady Jericho?"

  Flustered, she stumbled all over her tongue, eager to make amends. "Dove? I'm so glad to see you. I'm so happy to see you. Truly, I am. I've thought about you every minute of every day. I wanted to see you so badly. I wanted to thank you for saving me in Blackpool marsh. I wanted to tell you how brave you were, facing those monstrous dogs. I know what it cost you to do that. I know how frightened you must've been, but you came anyway, you came to save me." She ran out of breath. "Dove? How are you? How are you, how have you been?"