She held up two slender fingers. “Second, I’d have to be addled to entertain the idea of marrying an absolute stranger.
“And third,” up shot another finger, “I’m not sick. Not unless you consider being in the family way an illness.”
Chapter 10
God above!
Angelina clamped her teeth together until they ached.
Why had she told Lord Bretheridge that? Was she insane? Did pregnancy cause one’s tongue to flap like laundry in the wind?
If only she could stuff the words back into her mouth. Then stitch her loose lips shut.
Stupid ninny.
His lordship sat there, legs crossed, his forearms resting casually on the chair, speculation in his flinty eyes. He leisurely took her measure.
The knowledge rankled. The silence in the room grew thicker by the second. Why didn’t he say something?
She checked the French Empire mantle clock—scarcely past four-thirty. If his lordship would leave, she’d retreat to her room. She needed to rest before dinner. Her head and stomach swirled sickeningly.
A bird pecked the window behind her, and Angelina jumped. A spotted woodpecker perched on a branch. It struck the window again.
“Not too terribly bright, is it?” Lord Bretheridge flicked his long fingers toward the bird hopping along the branch. “It thinks its reflection is another woodpecker. Our winged friend is protecting his territory.”
Why was he blathering on about birds? She’d just blurted she was with child. She expected him to sprint from the room as fast as his long, entirely too muscled legs carried him.
The marquis’s scrutiny sank to her abdomen. “You’re not very far along.”
Now he wanted to discuss her increasing? Such things were not mentioned in mixed company, and never, ever with a male acquaintance.
And Dear God, what if I carry twins?
The thought never occurred to her before today. She wanted to wallop Lord Bretheridge for planting that worrisome seed in her mind.
Why hadn’t Uncle Ambrose banished her to some remote corner of Scotland until the babe arrived? And his preposterous plan to force Lord Bretheridge to marry her?
His lordship probably thought her a willing accomplice in her uncle’s underhanded calculating.
If only the floor would open right this second and swallow her, obliterating her existence.
God, what did I do to deserve this? I loved a man. Was that so wrong?
Lord Bretheridge unfolded his tall frame, rising from the chair and yawning behind his hand. “Pardon me. I’ve not enjoyed much sleep of late.”
He eyed her belly again.
Boorish lout.
Her gown’s draping hid the evidence of her increasing.
Did he try to determine if she really carried a child?
She covered her stomach with both hands in a protective gesture. “The baby is due in December.”
Brilliant. Volunteer the sordid details, why don’t you?
Chagrin heated Angelina from bosom to hairline. Likely, she glowed as pink as the roses on the fireplace mantel. She pivoted to stare out the window. She would get used to this kind of censure, wouldn’t she?
Never.
“When did you say you arrived in England?” Though gently asked, the question wasn’t idle.
Turning her head, she scrunched her eyebrows. “The first part of May. May the second, I believe. Why?”
“You don’t think it’s rather convenient you arrive in England, enceinte, and my father is ruined by a wager he lost to your uncle a mere two weeks later?” A stony glint entered the marquis’s eyes, deepening their color to dark, green agate.
He raked his fingers through his hair again. “Why is Waterford blackmailing me into marrying you?”
Did he accuse her of something?
Angelina faced him fully, gripping the chair for support. She scooted a glance to the door. Saunders might be listening. He’d report every word to Uncle Ambrose.
Aiming for nonchalance, she shrugged, but kept her voice lowered. “How could it be anything except coincidence?”
His lordship stalked to her chair, his stormy eyes mere slits. Towering above her, his nostrils flared as waves of fury poured off him.
“What aren’t you telling me, Mrs. Thorne?”
Yes, accusation most definitely rang in his tone. And blatant hostility. She’d become the adversary.
The self-righteous prig.
“Lord Bretheridge, you need to leave.”
Lifting her chin a notch, Angelina met his infuriated regard.
She wouldn’t let this man, to whom she owed nothing and to whom she had no obligation, accuse her of wrongdoing. She’d had quite enough of men running roughshod over her. First Papa, then the vermin she thought she married, and now Uncle Ambrose, whose saneness she seriously questioned.
This brazen oaf could take his infernal allegations and, and choke on them. Enraged and trembling, Angelina pointed to the door.
“Leave. Now!”
He could see himself out.
She would never make it that far without her composure crumbling or her knees failing her. Swallowing, she raised a hand to her forehead, forcing her eyes to focus on the infuriated man before her. She needed to lie down.
“Will you please leave?”
His lordship shook his head forcefully, several strands of chestnut hair falling onto his high forehead. Glaring at her, he made a rude sound in his throat. “No. Not until you tell me everything. What are you hiding?”
“Of all the unmitigated gall. You’re making demands of me in my uncle’s home? Who do you think you are?” Angelina balled her fists. She itched to slap him. If she were a man, she’d call him out.
His insulting perusal traveled the length of her person once more, hovering an instant too long on her bosom. “Precisely what is your role in Waterford’s extortion plot?”
“I knew nothing of my uncle’s deviousness until,” she sliced a glance to the clock once more, “ten minutes ago.”
An unpleasant jeer contorted the marquis’s handsome mouth. He planted his hands on his lean hips.
“What a fine arrangement for you. An American carrying someone else’s child, foisted off on an English marquis. Quite the merry widow you’d be, wouldn’t you?”
“No, you’re wrong.” Angelina stared at him, this vengeful, hateful man. Where had the kind stranger at the stream gone? Or even the considerate lord who had come for tea?
“I’m Scots, not American, and I—”
Lord Bretheridge stared at her stomach again.
She protectively covered the slight mound with her hands.
His eyes widened with sudden comprehension.
Her instincts screamed he’d stumbled upon the truth.
His gaze careened to hers.
“You’ve never been married, have you?” He laughed harshly. “Now it makes sense, why you have come to England and are sequestered here.”
She closed her eyes, the bitter accusation lancing her soul. This judgment and condemnation was what she could expect, what she had expected.
May God curse you, Charles.
“You know nothing of my circumstances.” Tucking her chin to her chest, Angelina fought the scalding tears demanding release.
“By all that’s holy,” Lord Bretheridge muttered, as if speaking to himself. “Waterford’s trying to shackle me with someone else’s by-blow.”
Angelina winced. He might as well have struck her. Fury, dark and blinding, enveloped her.
“You unconscionable lout. Despicable cur. Contemptible blackguard—”
“Don’t forget cuckolded intended,” he drawled, mockery dripping from his voice.
She slapped h
im, the sound echoing ominously in the room. Tears streamed from her eyes. She jerked her hand back to strike him again. “Bloody rotten bastard.”
Lord Bretheridge caught her wrist in a gentle, yet unyielding grip. “You don’t get a second time. And, I don’t think you should be calling anyone a bastard . . . considering.”
Angelina flinched and gasped, feeling the color drain from her face. Lightheaded, she drew a deep, measured breath. Her chest ached where his words had impaled her heart, slicing a gaping wound to her soul.
“As I explained before, you know nothing of what has happened to me. You have no right to pass judgment.” Forcing the words through stiff lips, she wrenched her wrist. “Let me go.”
I must get away from him.
Another few seconds and she feared she’d topple over. A grayish haze blurred her vision. Her blood whooshed loudly in her ears.
“Were you . . . assaulted?”
Doubt colored the marquis’s question. Directed at her or himself, she couldn’t say. Of course, he’d rather believe her an immoral tart.
Once more, she tugged against his strong grasp.
He released her.
Angelina slowly swiveled toward the door. Swaying, she squinted and blinked several times trying to focus.
Too far. The settee then.
For the babe’s sake, she must gain the couch before blackness claimed her. She took three stumbling steps. Her vision narrowed to a tiny pinprick. Extending her arms, she edged forward a couple of unstable paces.
The settee must be near.
“Mrs. Thorne?” Lord Bretheridge’s voice echoed, muffled and distant.
Good. The bugger has finally decided to leave.
She never wanted to lay eyes on the fiend again.
Dizziness spiraled around her. Faltering, Angelina swayed for a moment before falling. She cried out weakly and attempted to shield her stomach. “No. My baby—”
Strong arms caught her as utter darkness descended.
Someone patted one of Angelina’s cheeks, then the other.
Go away. I want to sleep.
“Mrs. Thorne, wake up.” The deep voice sounded vaguely familiar.
Fabric rustled and the scent of lilies wafted by. “Good heavens, what happened?”
Ah, dear Aunt Camille.
“Saunders, fetch my smelling salts at once,” her aunt ordered.
No, not smelling salts. I’ll surely gag. Better stir myself.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Angelina cracked an eye open.
The butler hustled to the entrance.
“What did you do to the gel, Bretheridge?” Uncle Ambrose’s grating voice set her teeth on edge.
Wait. Bretheridge? The toad still remained?
She groaned, as memory and full awareness flowed through her. Maybe she should pretend to faint in hopes he’d be gone when she roused. A more disagreeable man she’d never met.
“There, there, dear.” Aunt Camille patted Angelina’s hand.
Daring to open her eyes for a brief moment, she glimpsed the half circle of concerned faces hovering above her. She struggled to sit upright, her limbs leaden and her head wooly as dirty fleece.
“No, don’t try to sit yet, Lina.” Aunt Camille bent near, supporting her. “You swooned.”
“I don’t swoon.”
A soft, deliciously deep chuckle rippled throughout the room. “Call it what you will, Mrs. Thorne. You were insensate for a good five minutes.”
The oaf. Go away.
Despite her aunt’s protest, Angelina angled herself into a sitting position, sagging ungracefully against the settee’s corner. “I’ve never had a fit of the vapors in my life.”
No one voiced the obvious reason for her fainting spell. Her aunt and uncle had no idea Lord Bretheridge was aware of her condition, and his lordship didn’t dare reveal she’d told him.
She fiddled with a pillow’s fringe. “It must have been the heat.”
Can’t I fabricate something a scant more believable?
“Indeed. It can be most draining.” Lord Bretheridge stood at the end of the settee, his expression one of cool politeness.
Angelina didn’t believe his perfect gentlemanly pretense. She’d seen otherwise. She averted her gaze, hating the shame he caused her to feel. Would the man never leave? “I’m perfectly fine. Truly. Perhaps I’m only hungry.”
Aunt Camille pursed her lips. “Yes, that might cause a spell of lightheadedness. I imagine you’re famished. You didn’t eat anything substantial at luncheon, and Murphy told me you consumed nothing other than mint tea to break your fast this morning.”
Aunt Camille, do hush.
Lord Bretheridge coughed and turned aside.
Angelina narrowed her eyes and compressed her mouth. Was he laughing?
Best add that to the list of conditions.
Peculiar senses of humor are to be avoided in males.
Holding her gown in place, Angelina swung her legs off the couch. Other than a trifling weakness, she did feel much better. She would be happy as the birds gorging themselves in her uncle’s orchard the moment the marquis left.
“Here, Lina.” Her aunt thrust a chocolate biscuit at her. “Eat this. It will help you regain your strength.”
Aunt Camille’s cure for everything involved food.
“Your Graces, Mrs. Thorne.” The marquis, his jungle eyes trained on Angelina, edged closer. “I’d be honored if you’d join me for tea at Lambridge Manse tomorrow.”
Angelina’s gaze careened to him. Had he taken complete leave of his senses? What game did he play? She would sooner embrace an asp or drink arsenic.
Meeting his eyes, Angelina glowered and mouthed an emphatic, “No!”
He couldn’t mean to pursue this farce of a match between them. Why the sudden change in tactics? Pity?
He could take his misguided nobleness and gag on it.
She hadn’t been interested in a match before he spewed those hateful things. But now? She wouldn’t have him if the Prince Regent Himself requested the union.
Lord Bretheridge flashed his white teeth, and turned to Aunt Camille.
Startled, she pressed a plump hand to her chest and sent a worried peek to Uncle Ambrose.
He nodded and beamed his approval.
He would, the traitor.
“Why, that would be lovely, my lord.” Her aunt tittered nervously. “As long as Angelina has recovered and feels capable of an excursion.”
Bless you, Aunt Camille.
Her aunt cleverly provided the excuse Angelina needed. She would be indisposed indefinitely. Right until the time she gave birth.
His lordship dipped his head in deference. “Excellent. I’m sure Mrs. Thorne will be in finest form by tomorrow afternoon. She expressed an eagerness to meet my family.”
Eagerness? What balderdash.
“I’ll inform my staff and shall expect you at three o’clock.” After a smart bow, Lord Bretheridge strode from the room.
Angelina scowled at the empty doorway.
So, his lordship wanted to play that game, did he? He had best be prepared. She was about to lead one pompous, overbearing marquis on a very merry chase.
Chapter 11
At precisely five minutes past three the next afternoon, Flynn examined his pocket watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. He paced before the drawing room’s unlit fireplace as Grandmamma and Franny silently watched him. Next to his grandmother, Franny knew him better than any soul alive.
Where are they?
After Mrs. Thorne’s revelation yesterday, he’d every intention of telling Waterford to go bugger himself. Flynn intended to refuse to pay the wager and accept the social disgrace accompanying such ignominy.<
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Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 12