by Sylvia Day
Sarah shook her head.
Jo stood and held out her hand and the little girl took it as trustingly as—well, as a child.
* * *
A short time later, after Michael fetched two cushions from a nearby room for Sarah’s chair, the little girl was seated beside Jo, chattering away, her hands and face smeared with strawberry jam.
“Won’t you have a bit of egg to go with your, er, jam?” Jo asked, lifting a forkful and moving it back and forth, the way Mimi had done to entice her to eat when she was little.
The door flew open, banging against the wall and making both Jo and Sarah jolt in their chairs.
Victoria stood in the doorway, looking magnificent in a dressing gown of shocking scarlet silk, her unbound hair flowing to her waist, her blue eyes flashing as they took in Jo and her daughter.
“Mama, look!” Sarah held up her doll, whose face was also jam stained. “Auntie Jo gave Thally an’ me jam.”
A young maid, who’d been hidden behind Victoria, sidled around her. “Come with me, Lady Sarah; you’ve got a breakfast waiting upstairs.”
Sarah’s face became instantly mulish. “No.”
“Sarah!” her mother ordered, making Sarah, Jo, Michael, and the young maid all start. “Go with Lucy. Now.”
Sarah slid from the chair, sullenness in every line of her body and every movement. She stopped halfway between the breakfast table and the anxiously waiting maid and turned back to Jo.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she said with the dignity of a duchess, and then took the maid’s hand and disappeared into the corridor.
“You—” Victoria pointed at Michael. “Out.”
He glanced at Jo before moving even a muscle, and she gave him a reassuring smile and nodded.
The door hadn’t even closed behind him before Victoria began. “If you think you can poison my daughter against me—as you’ve done with Beau—you’ll find you are sorely mistaken. And, as for Beau and what we share with each other—” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “If you believe it is over, that he has shifted his affection, his desire, from me to you—” She gave a snort that would have done a racehorse proud. “Well, then you are more naïve and foolish than I thought you five years ago. And if—”
For the next three minutes and forty-five seconds—Jo knew that because she watched the large clock behind Victoria’s shoulder—her sister-in-law vented her not inconsiderable fury.
Jo could see she was winding down—her breathing slowing and her magnificent bosom no longer heaving—when Victoria demanded, “Have you nothing to say for yourself? Or will you just sit there like a bump on a log?”
“First, I wasn’t trying to steal your daughter’s affections,” Jo said coolly, having to look up several inches to meet the statuesque woman’s furious gaze. “I’m not sure it is even possible to steal a child’s love for a parent. What did you want me to do when she wandered into the room, crying? Toss her into the street? Sarah was scared and lost and looking for her nurse. Again.”
Victoria’s mouth tightened into a pucker at the not-so-subtle reminder, the action causing her to bear more than a passing resemblance to the back end of a pug.
“And as for the rest of your . . . tirade, I will only say this. We are not dogs and Beau is not a pork chop.”
Victoria’s mouth opened.
“I refuse to tussle over him as if he is an inanimate object with no will of his own. He chose to marry me and he is my husband. If you are angry about that, you will have to manage your anger in some other fashion than ranting at me like a fishwife in my own house. Let me remind you, Victoria, that you once had his affections and threw them away. You are a very lovely woman—quite the loveliest I’ve ever seen, as a matter of fact. You would be even more attractive if you did not use your beauty like a club and bludgeon everyone with it to get whatever you want.”
“You mean the way you’ve always wielded your money?” Victoria demanded, her smile triumphant at delivering such a solid hit. “Do you think a man like Beau would have married a woman like you if she weren’t wealthy?”
“No,” Jo said, almost laughing at Victoria’s stunned expression at her honest—and disarming—admission. “But that is neither here nor there, now, is it?” she asked gently, actually feeling sympathy for this unhappy woman, who’d certainly let the best man she would ever encounter slip through her fingers. “He is my husband, Victoria. And you cannot change that with this sort of behavior. You only end up shaming yourself with your dog-in-the-manger ways—”
“I will not be insulted by such as you!” Victoria’s face was an unattractive brick red, and her chin was wobbling in a way that threatened, for once, the arrival of genuine tears. She pivoted on her heel and stormed from the room, leaving the door swinging open in her wake.
Good Lord! Jo dropped into her chair, her heart pounding as if she’d been running. But then she noticed that the tight feeling she had in her chest whenever she saw the other woman—or, indeed, even thought about her—had eased considerably.
She stared sightlessly at her half-eaten plate of food, trembling in the aftermath of such an outpouring of emotion. She had, at long last, stood up to Victoria. And it had not been as terrifying as she’d always feared.
No doubt it was her marriage to Beau that was responsible for emboldening her—or at least partially. But Jo wanted to think it was also that she was five years older and wiser and could see what was truly important in life.
Victoria had been right about one thing—Jo had not only used her money as a shield to hide behind but also blamed many of her problems on it that Season. Any man who’d shown any interest in her—and there had been several—she’d despised as a soulless fortune hunter.
Didn’t Victoria have to contend with something similar? Did she always wonder if it was only her beautiful face and body a man wanted, rather than the person inside it?
Jo wasn’t foolish enough to think this was the last time she’d have such an encounter with the tempestuous woman. But at least she no longer felt like an insignificant, ugly, powerless insect, as she had five years ago.
Stowers appeared in the doorway and hovered, the majestic butler’s posture uncharacteristically hesitant.
“Please, come in.” Jo smiled. “Ah, my coffee.”
When he set the steaming pot on the table, Jo saw there was a letter on the tray.
Her chest tightened before she even saw the direction on it.
“This just came for you, Your Grace.”
It was her father’s butler’s handwriting and she snatched it from the footman’s hands.
“Thank you, Stowers,” she murmured. In her haste, she tore the letter in half as she opened it, and had to hold a piece in each hand to read it.
Your Grace,
Mr. Loman spent an extremely difficult evening and it was questionable whether he would live to see this morning.
Jo gasped and surged to her feet. “Oh, Father!”
“Your Grace?” Stowers’s voice came from far away.
The doctor was with him throughout the night and I feel morally bound to tell you that he cannot live out the day. If you wish to see him, you must come now.
Respectfully,
Fanning
Jo ran from the room, colliding with a footman carrying a bowl of apples.
She didn’t stop but darted up the stairs toward her bedchamber.
“Josephine?”
It was Beau, and his voice was coming from the foyer.
She hesitated a second but then charged ahead, even faster. If he knew what message she had, he’d keep her from leaving. He’d given his word as a gentleman.
Jo sped past a startled maid and yanked open her door.
Mimi, who was sitting by the fire mending, let out a surprised squeak.
“He’s dying, Mimi. I’m going to see him and nobody can stop me.” She grabbed the first cloak her hand landed on, a black velvet opera cape.
“Oh, Miss Jo, not that. It’s freezing ou
t there and you’ll catch your death,” Mimi said, flying past her to grab a wool, fur-lined cape, which she tossed to Jo. “Don’t you go anywhere, Miss Jo! I’m fetching your hat and gloves,” she yelled from inside the dressing room.
Jo hooked the clasp shut just as her door opened.
Beau paused in the doorway, his brow creased with concern. “What is going on, Josephine? Why didn’t you answer me?”
She turned away and he strode toward her, lifting her chin. “Is this about your father?”
She jerked her chin out of his hand. “You can’t stop me. I will fight you; I will bite and claw and kick and—”
“Miss Josephine!” Mimi was standing stunned with the fur hat and gloves in her hands. “That is not the—”
“I will take you,” Beau said. “Come along.”
Jo stared up at him. “Is this some sort of trap?”
Mimi squeaked at her rude question.
But Beau was calm and quiet. “No, Josephine, it is not. Are you coming? Because the carriage has just gone back to the mews and we might be in time to catch it before the grooms unharness.”
He held out his hand and Jo gave him a tremulous smile and put her hand in his.
CHAPTER 12
Beau stared at his wife, who looked ready to come apart at the seams.
For the first time in his life he was breaking his word. But he was doing it for her. He simply could not bear to watch her suffering, and for such a pointless, foolish reason.
He saw that she was shivering. “Make room,” he said, shifting across to sit down beside her. She gave him a glassy-eyed glance as he slipped an arm around her. “The sun is out and you are in furs, but it is chilly. Let me warm you.”
She hesitated only a moment before all the stiffness went out of her body and she melted against him. Beau closed his eyes as he pulled her closer, her small body and the unidentifiable sweet and spicy aroma that seemed to hover around her already familiar to him. And, yes, already quite precious.
Less than a week ago Beau would have scoffed if anyone had told him that not only would he come to like such an awkward little person—with whom he’d bickered from the start and had nothing in common—but also that she would actually begin to worm her way into his heart.
Was this the beginning of friendship? Affection? Love? He didn’t know, nor did he need to have a name for it. All that mattered was that she was his wife and had become important to him—important enough to go back on a matter of honor. Because dishonor was more palatable to him than her pain.
Beau had known her so short a time, but already he saw her differently than he had only a few days earlier. Yes, she was small and delicate, but she was also fierce and passionate and strong. And there was something about her keen intelligence that transformed her rather average appearance into that of a woman who was compelling and beautiful in her intensity.
Yes, whatever man was lucky enough to earn her love, he would have it for a lifetime.
She murmured something against the heavy wool of his greatcoat.
“What was that, my dear? I couldn’t hear you.”
“Thank you,” she said in a voice husky with anguish.
He squeezed her tightly to him, ashamed he’d held on to his foolish pride so long. God save him if Loman was gone before they got there.
* * *
“Papa?”
Jo sank to her knees beside the bed, her heart threatening to explode in her chest. She looked up at Doctor Philpot, who hovered near the end of the bed. “Is he—”
“He is alive, Miss, er, Your Grace. But he has rarely been conscious these past three days. He is in a great deal of pain so I have given him all the relief I have to offer.”
Jo knew what he meant; she could smell the sickly sweet odor of the poppy.
“Can he hear me?” she asked, unable to take her eyes from her father’s skin, which was like gray tissue paper, his chest moving so little she had to squint to detect any breathing.
“I don’t know, Your Grace,” the doctor admitted.
Jo took her father’s hand, which was as fragile and light as a dried-up leaf. “Papa,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?” A hot tear slid down her cheek, followed by another and another.
Beau’s warm, strong hand landed on her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Leave us, Doctor. We will summon you if you are needed.”
Poor old Doctor Philpot’s eyes widened, whether at Beau’s arrogant command or simply being addressed by a duke Jo couldn’t have said.
“Yes—yes, of course, Your Grace.”
The door shut behind him and Beau said, “Here, Josephine.”
She stood to find he’d pushed the chair right up to the bed.
“Thank you,” she said, not having to release her father’s hand to sit.
He soundlessly brought a second chair and set it beside hers, and then he took her free hand and held it with both of his. He did not speak, but his very presence—like a fierce guard dog—gave her comfort.
“Papa,” she whispered without much hope. “Can you hear me?” She choked on a sob and Beau raised her hand to his lips.
“Do you think he can hear me, Beau?” she asked without turning.
“Yes.”
Jo turned at his simple, certain answer. “You do?”
“Yes, I do. I think he is deriving comfort from you right now. I think he feels you holding his hand. I think he is glad we disobeyed his wishes and you are with him. But I think he is tired, Josephine. Too tired and too weary to express the depth of his love for you. Talk to him. Just because he doesn’t answer, it doesn’t mean he is not listening.”
Jo turned back to her father’s shell of a body and stared at his wasted face.
“You made me so angry keeping me away, Papa, but I know why you did it—because you love me.” Her vision wavered and she couldn’t blink away the tears—they were coming too fast and there were too many.
“You loved me more than anyone will ever love me, Papa,” she said, her words garbled and broken. “And I will miss you so much. So much. So—”
Jo dropped her forehead to their joined hands and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. Because it was.
EPILOGUE
Yorkshire, Five Months Later
“Help! Beau—I need help!” Josephine shrieked in between peals of laughter as the three mastiff pups Beau had given her for her birthday chewed on her bare toes.
“Coming, Your Grace,” Beau called out, carefully reeling in his line.
Once he was finished, he balanced the rod between two high-up branches in a nearby tree—a place where it wouldn’t attract teething puppies and meet the same fate as his last fishing rod.
Beau approached the blanket where his lounging wife lay and the puppies scattered and then regrouped to attack his boots.
He gestured to his formerly glossy boots and cut her a martyred look. “You see what I suffer for your sake?”
She chuckled and Beau reached up and took his crop from the branch where he’d hung it—his third crop before he’d learned his lesson. He looked sternly at the three hounds and pointed to a spot not on the blanket and then tapped the leather upper of his boot with the crop, thwap thwap thwap.
They were young, but they were clever enough and eager to please and they all three sat, their tails wagging their bottoms, their tongues lolling.
“Good boys,” he praised, and then snapped his fingers and all three dogs curled into furry brown balls, sighed and squirmed, and then dropped into sleep like the infants they were. Beau cut his wife a smug smile and raised his eyebrows in a did you see that? gesture.
“Good boy,” Josephine said, her lips curved into a wicked smile. She patted the blanket beside her. “Now sit.”
Beau smirked and then flopped down beside her. “Do I get a treat?”
She snorted. “I hope this is not how you plan to train our children—with a crop and snapping fingers.”
“Why not?” he murmured, tapping her hip with t
he whip he still held. “It worked training you.”
She gasped. “You beast!”
Beau gave her a hard kiss, inhaling her intoxicating scent. “You smell so good I could eat you,” he said, licking her throat and then nipping her earlobe. “I think I will.”
She yelped and gave a breathy laugh as he continued to lave and nibble.
“Bad boy, no chewing.”
Beau growled against her damp skin and then tossed aside the crop, slipped his arm around her swelling middle, and carefully lifted her so that she was straddling him as he rolled onto his back.
“Mmm.” She shifted and wiggled, rubbing a most interesting part of her body on a very interested part of his.
“Wicked, teasing strumpet,” he muttered, pulsing his hips hard enough that he lifted her gently up and down, grinding his stiffening ridge against her soft heat. She heaved a contented sigh and then closed her eyes, a dreamy, sensual smile on her face.
Beau laid his hands on her small, rounded stomach, which he could not seem to stop touching, and she purred while he stroked her body instantly pliant.
At four months’ pregnant she was as eager for him in the bedroom as he was for her. Of course he exercised more care with her now—ignoring her objections that she was not fragile—and he was teaching her there were other, less strenuous but equally rewarding, ways to pleasure each other.
“I suppose this is yet another day that I won’t get the fish dinner you promised,” she groused, her eyes sensual slits as she smiled down at him. “Sometimes I wonder if you actually come here to fish at all.”
Beau ignored her accusation, his attention shifting from her belly to the hem of her skirt, which he began lifting.
“Oh,” she said, her eyes opening wider. “Did I tell you Rexford is going to order the plow that one of Papa’s manufactories makes?”
Beau smiled. Rexford—his steward—and Josephine got on like a house on fire. “No, is he? I wondered what you two were doing together out in the corn shed so often.”
“Tsk, you shouldn’t mock,” she chided. “You’ll see—I shall increase our yield threefold.”