Rock Hard Baby Daddy: A Billionaire Cowboy Romance

by Rye Hart

  Lord Richard requested Cressida’s hand in marriage just as he intended and the two were married in three months’ time. They had a momentous ceremony which ended with the beautiful couple being whisked away into the sunset, on a carriage led by El Diablo.

  The End

  The Blind Eyes of Love

  Chapter One

  “There you go, sir, right down this way, mind your step or you’ll be down in the dirt and that’s no way for those fine white breeches of yours to end up now, is it? Down one more, there you go, and then more—oh, have a care, sir, that step is a bit tipsy, like. There we go, ‘tis all right now. Just a bit more.” The sturdy grip of the innkeeper’s wife steering him out of the inn was both reassuring and annoying. “Now up you go, into the post-chaise, that’s right, sir, up—yes, that’s it!” she crowed as if he had done something quite remarkable by hoisting himself into the post-chaise after she had directed him to the opening. “Now, mind, my Harold will go along with you to get you to Laverly Hall, sir, and he’ll come back after you’re safely home.”

  Dennison St. John, Duke of Laverly, fumbled for his purse. “Please take this for your pains, and your Harold’s, too,” he said, drawing out a coin.

  “Not to hear of it, sir. You kept Bonaparte out of England, and that’s good enough for us,” the woman said.

  She sounded sincere. More likely, she pitied him, to have gone off to war in full manhood and to return home sightless. It would doubtless be a tale she’d regale others with in the tavern; the poor Duke, not a soldier any longer, just a blind man who’d given his eyes at Waterloo for the glory of England .

  “I insist,” he said, his tone firm and cold.

  “Can’t do it, sir,” she said. “I told you, you’ve given us enough.”

  Laverly put his purse back in his coat. He would give payment to her husband. Perhaps the good Harold would be more willing to be paid for his pains.

  He could hear Harold entering the carriage and the seat creaking as he sat down opposite Laverly. Then the post-chaise took off. Harold, who smelled, not unpleasantly, of ale, cleared his throat.

  “Good to be heading home, sir,” he said.

  Laverly kept his gaze, such as it was, on the window, as the landscape he couldn’t see passed.

  “Reckon you’ve had enough of Europe,” Harold tried again.

  “Europe,” Laverly said, “has had enough of me.”

  “Right, yes, of course. Did you see him, sir? I mean, before? Did you see Bonaparte?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I was in hospital when he was taken.”

  “Pity. You’d have wanted to see that,” Harold said.

  “Not really. Bonaparte isn’t worth the effort.”

  “No, course not,” Harold said hurriedly, as if aware that he was on unwelcome territory but unsure of how to deliver himself from it. “Still, I reckon it’s like seeing a monster when you’re a little ‘un. You’re that frightened of him, , but then it turns out to be only the shadow of the bedpost or some such thing, when you wake up.”

  The bedrooms at Laverly Hall were grand; he remembered that much, although he’d been away for years, serving with Wellington. His family wealth, his mother’s style, and his father’s pride of heritage had guaranteed that Laverly Hall did justice to its architectural ancestry. The estate had been long inhabited by Laverlys when the Yorks and Lancasters were fighting one another. Now, centuries later, it was the one constant remaining in his life. At least in his own home, with the family servants around him, he could take account of his life and decide his next step. He would not venture out into society until he had mastered himself. Blindness was not death; that was what the doctor had told him. Of course, the doctor could say that, he had his bloody sight. But at Laverly Hall, Laverly knew that he could restore himself. The family paintings in the hall that celebrated the Laverly who’d married a Spanish princess, the Lavelry who had taken the cross to Jerusalem, the Laverly who had served Queen Elizabeth; they were part of his inheritance, even if only in portrait form. He could no longer see them, but he remembered where they were, each and every one. He recalled his father, when guests came to stay, showing them the gallery of Laverlys and reciting the biography of each one’s renown. For one did not merit a portrait merely because one was a Laverly. No, one was expected to have done something of note.

  What was there for him to do? He’d served with Wellington, fought with honor, earned his medals. Was that enough to garner a portrait? A fine showing he’d make in his scarlet coat and white breeches, polished boots, saber in hand, the unruly black hair that defined a Corinthian’s style, and of course the famous Laverly jade eyes--and dark spectacles. Just what was needed to polish off the dashing figure of a Hussar, that final proof of his sacrifice for King and country.

  Laverly realized that he must have spoken out loud because Harold cleared his throat and Lavelry could hear him shift his weight in the seat as if he were uncertain whether to get up or stay seated.

  “We’ll be there shortly, sir,” Harold said encouragingly.

  Yes. Home. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until the days after the artillery explosion when he’d awakened in the field hospital, his eyes bandaged and his surroundings strange to him in a way that the barracks never had been. His wounds were healed, the doctor had said dispassionately. It was true that he couldn’t see, but there had been damage and they’d feared scarring, but he had nothing to fear there.

  As if a scar would be worse than this, Laverly thought savagely, his anger roiling through him anew at their stupidity. To be blind, when he was not yet thirty, when he had not married nor fathered a child, was a cruel prank worthy of the Greek Furies or an uncaring God. In his present state of mind, he could see little difference between the two.

  “Almost there now, sir,” Harold said as if he were a talking timepiece. “Will your servants be expecting you?”

  They would not. Laverly had told no one that he was coming home. Explanations were too unwieldy; he had dictated a letter to be sent to Glesson, the butler, explaining that he had been wounded and would be mustered out and returning home before the harvest was over. That was as much as he would let the nurse write, even when she begged him to allow her to provide more detail. He refused. One didn’t provide one’s itinerary for servants, he had told her haughtily. But that wasn’t the reason for his reticence. He would be returning home to a staff that had known him since he was a wild youth; now they would seem him chastened. They would most likely feel it was his comeuppance. And he would not be able to tell who pitied him, who was amused, who mocked, because they would be able to see him and he, with his useless, sightless, ruined eyes, could see nothing. To be so humbled when one was an officer, a gentleman, the scion of a noble line, was to be less than a servant, it was to be nothing at all.

  “I’ll wager they’ve missed you, sir,” Harold offered. “We don’t hear much from Laverly Hall; quiet, it’s been, since Her Ladyship passed on. A house in mourning.”

  His father had died four years ago. His mother had been gone a year. A sister had died in childbirth three years ago, her child taken with her. There were cousins, and if he should die without an heir, there would doubtless be someone who would be more than willing to inherit the title, the lands, the estate, and the gold. But he didn’t intend to die without an heir. Dammit, he didn’t need sight to do that!

  “Yes,” he said simply, feeling obligated to acknowledge Harold’s efforts to make the journey a pleasant one, even if his attempts simply conjured forth the ghosts of Laverly Hall and the fact that the living Laverly was not a whole man any longer.

  The post-chaise stopped. The postilion and coachman dismounted, and Harold got out of the vehicle. Impatient, Laverly got up from his seat. He could hear the two men talking in low voices as if they didn’t want him to hear. He banged on the door of the post-chaise to indicate his desire to descend and obviously, since he couldn’t see the bloody ground, he would require some assistance.


  “Sir, did you say no one knows you’re back?” the coachman asked.

  “Said as much. No, I didn’t announce my homecoming. I expect they’re inside. Be so good as to carry my trunks to the door, if you please. One of the footmen will take them from there.”

  “Sir, it don’t look as though anyone’s about,” Harold said uneasily.

  “Of course they are, where would they be? Knock on the door,” he ordered sourly.

  “I did sir,” said another voice, belonging to the postilion. “Nobody come to the door, sir.”

  Laverly swore. “Is there some village festival to which they’ve gone?” he suggested.

  “Sir,” Harold said, “it don’t look like anyone’s been about for some time. The grass is overgrown, and no one’s trimmed anything since last spring, I’m figuring. No lights are on inside. And the fine house looks poorly done by.”

  “What the devil do you mean, it looks poorly done by?” Laverly raised the hilt of his sword and hammered the door with it. They’d hear that, even if they had turned in for an early night.

  Silence returned his barrage of knocks. Laverly waited, then commenced knocking again.

  “Sir, I don’t think anyone is---“

  “Dammit, they’ll rouse or I’ll know the reason why!” Laverly bellowed, giving up on his sword and applying his fists to the hard oaken door.

  “Sir,” Harold said. “I’ll find a window and see what’s inside.”

  Laverly turned the doorknob. It opened without resistance.

  “Careful sir, it’s near dark. I don’t—“Harold muffled an oath as he tripped over something in the entranceway.

  The house was cold. It bore a musty, unused odor as if nothing fresh, neither human nor floral, had been inside its walls for too long.

  “Those blackguards,” Harold said in a long, exhaling breath of disbelief.

  “What is it?” Laverly asked, keeping his voice level with effort. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the French coming at him, it wasn’t swords or guns.

  “Sir, it looks to me like your house might have been robbed,” Harold said.

  “Robbed? Well I’m not surprised if the servants were so witless as to leave the door unlocked.”

  “Take my arm, sir, and we’ll head in a ways, and I’ll tell you what I see and you can tell me what it signifies,” Harold said.

  What it signified was that someone was going to get sacked, Laverly thought, but he said nothing to Harold, who linked his arm with Laverly while the postilion followed them.

  They went through the house that way, Harold describing what he saw, and Laverly realizing what was not there by the slim evidence that met Harold’s eyes of what remained. Room by room they walked, Harold’s amiability changing to grimness as he described furniture that was devoid of adornment, windows minus draperies, fireplaces forgotten, the ashes of a long-ago flame now cold. Now and again, there was the sound of a rustling that hinted at other inhabitants who had moved in to take advantage of a residence where humans would not disturb them.

  Laverly felt panic and rage at war within him. This was his home, the home of the titled Laverlys who had lived here for more generations than the Hanovers had ruled England. Vulgar, rough hands with no sense of beauty had violated the timeless elegance of this structure which had stood for centuries as a symbol of what England stood for, as a testament to the standards which the Laverlys and others of their class maintained. Warring with his anger was fear. With no servants, how could he manage? How could he heat water for his bath, or procure food for his meals? He had no valet; how would he shave himself, or comb his hair or don his clothes? He had never lived without the assistance of those who were paid to wait on him, except for his sojourn in the hospital when he had been bathed, fed, and cared for following his injuries, but that was not an attendance that he cared to recall.

  “Sir, why not come back to the inn with us,” Harold coaxed. “We’ll set this right come morning, we’ll find someone to work here, and my wife’ll get someone to clean and we’ll have Laverly Hall set to rights in no time.. But it’s getting on for dark, sir, and beggin’ your pardon, this isn’t a good time for you to be here this way. You’ll need to eat and---“

  “I shall stay here tonight and every night,” Laverly said firmly, and with the authority his title had always afforded him. “This is my home.”

  “Yes, I know that sir, but you can see—“

  The Duke barked out a laugh. “No, my good man, I can’t see. That is precisely the problem.”

  In the end, because he would not relent, the two men, calling on the coachman for assistance, put the drawing room to rights. There was no food, but Harold said he would send provisions over first thing in the morning and his Lucy would send over fresh bread that she’d made herself. Lucy baked bread fit for quality, Harold assured Laverly, who was not hungry and didn’t give a damn what the woman baked. They cleared the drawing room so that he could maneuver around without obstacles. The postilion got a fire going, although he said apologetically that he’d put it out before they left for safety reasons, but they’d get blankets so that His Lordship could sleep.

  Come morning, Harold said optimistically, they’d get this straightened out. He refused the gold piece that Laverly tried to force on him, but the postilion wasn’t so reluctant; when Harold went to fetch water in a pitcher so that His Lordship could drink, and a chamber pot so that he could attend to the calls of nature, Laverly pressed a coin into the postilion’s hand for him and for the coachmen; the coins disappeared with a furtive thank you.

  “Reckon you’ll be all right, sir. I checked all around and I don’t see no windows broken. All the same, I’d sleep with that sword by me side if I was you. Never know-”

  It was sound advice from a man who seemed to believe the worst of his fellow humans, and Laverly assured Harold that he intended to do just that.

  “We’ll be back in the morning, sir. Things always look better in the morning,” Harold said as the three men prepared to leave.

  Perhaps they did, Laverly thought, when one could see in the morning. But as that would not be the case, he did not expect to detect an improvement when the sun rose. However, he did not share his view with the good-natured Harold who seemed genuinely troubled at the prospect of leaving him. But Laverly insisted, accepting Harold’s promise which had by now taken on the semblance of a holy vow, that he would be back come morning and they’d get it all set to rights.

  He also insisted on walking the two men to the door as if they were guests and he the host. They were no such thing, certainly, but he felt that he owed them some kind of recognition for their efforts. He stood in the doorway until he heard the post-chaise leave, and then he closed the door.

  Chapter Two

  The cold did not particularly bother him; years of military life had hardened him to the absence of such niceties as heat. He had not eaten but he was not particularly hungry; an army did not eat according to civilian hours. The chaise upon which he spread out was much more comfortable than accommodations in the field. But as he laid down, having removed his jacket and boots, he felt engulfed by a sense of despair that was in some ways more powerful than what he had experienced when the bandages were removed from his eyes and he could see no more than very vague, misshapen outlines.

  Somewhere in his thoughts, he had conceived of home as a refuge. He had not been blind at home; he had been a young man with a young man’s interests and pursuits. Every horse, every fox hunt, every Lord’s daughter he’d courted and every village wench he’d dallied with, had testified that he had been a whole man. That he was not, in his perception, whole any longer made those recollections all the more precious. To have his home abandoned, with no staff to tend to the property or to his own needs, was a bitter violation of his heritage. He was Dennison St. John of Laverly Hall, and when he’d left to take up his commission five years ago, Laverly Hall had been elegant and spacious, with furnishings that were an artful blend of family heirlooms and the Duch
ess of Laverly’s exquisite eye for taste. The servants had been an integral part of the running of the household. How many times had he bribed a footman to wait up and open the door for him so that his family would not hear him returning late at night—or early in the morning—from an adventure which involved a willing girl or a scrape of recklessness?

  The house had never been this silent. Not being able to see made the darkness an affliction of the soul as much as an impediment to the eyes. He felt entombed in this room that had been filled with conversation and laughter during his growing-up years. His father had been a reserved man, his mother vivacious, but their marriage had proved to be a mix of personalities that suited one another. He remembered the deaths of his parents; their passing had not been so long ago. He had expected the Hall to retain their memory for him. Now the house was cold and vacant and he was attempting to fall asleep on the chaise in the drawing room. And he couldn’t see a bloody thing. Sleep was elusive, although he tried to divert his thoughts so that slumber could come. Finally, after much readjusting of his body to attempt to get comfortable on the chaise, he fell into a fitful sleep.

  He was awake before morning. He could sense the difference between light and dark, although he couldn’t actually tell the hours. Laverly rose from the makeshift bed and washed himself in the basin that had been left out for him, the chilled water bracing. He didn’t dare to shave himself yet, but as he rubbed his hand along his jaw, he realized that learning to tend to his toilet was of paramount importance in the absence of a valet. He opened one of his trunks; his clothing had been packed for him but according to his instructions. Not that it mattered in the least any more what clothing he wore, but he had no intention of appearing clownishly attired in an ill-suited matching of trousers and shirt. There was no use in attempting a fashionable coif so he merely combed his hair to rid it of the tangles from sleep.