“The sheer bliss of having my family around me will be all I need to keep me well,” Miranda assured him. “Please, Jake. I have to tell them she’s been found. They’ve been as worried as I have about Josie. Two years. That’s forever! I wonder what she’ll look like, how she’ll have grown. I can’t wait to hear what’s happened to her and why she didn’t return to us sooner.”
“Very well, love. Write down what you want in the telegrams to Hannah and Flint, and Hetty and Karl, and I’ll make sure they get sent.”
“You don’t mind if I ask my sisters to come as soon as they can?”
“I’ll add my entreaty to yours,” he said. “I guess it’s about time you and your sisters got back together and met each other’s husbands and families.”
“Don’t forget to invite both your brothers,” Miranda said. “Ransom won’t want to miss out on this reunion.”
Somehow, some way, Miranda’s sister Hannah had ended up married to Jake’s younger brother Flint, who co-owned a ranch in Wyoming with Jake’s youngest brother, Ransom.
“Your mother will be ecstatic to have her family back together,” Miranda said.
Jake scowled. “I hope you’re not suggesting I invite her husband to this reunion.”
After Jake’s father had died in the Civil War, Jake’s mother, Cricket Creed, had married a man named Alexander Blackthorne, who’d quickly claimed what should have been Jake’s inheritance. Jake had refused to move farther than Three Oaks, land that sat, like an irritating chicken bone in the throat, smack in the middle of Blackthorne’s vast—and growing—Bitter Creek empire.
“You know your mother won’t want to come without her husband and their twin boys. You have to forgive Alex someday for marrying her.”
“Why?” Jake demanded.
Miranda put a hand to his cheek, feeling the muscles in his jaw flex as he gritted his teeth. “Because you love your mother, and you don’t want to make her unhappy.”
He made a disgusted sound in his throat before admitting, “All right. Fine. I’ll invite the son of a bitch. But I don’t have to like it. And I can’t guarantee what Flint and Ransom will do or say when they lay eyes on him.”
“Thank you, Jake. Let’s let their wives worry about their behavior.”
Jake snorted. “I suppose they’re being led around by their noses by the women they love, just like I am.”
Miranda caught his nose between two fingers and giggled. “As if you do anything you don’t want to do, just because I ask it of you.”
She let go of his nose when she saw the look in his eyes.
“You know I’d kiss that rotten son of a bitch, if it would put a smile on your face,” he said seriously. “I love you, Miranda. I bless the day you walked into my life.”
“Even when I showed up with two little boys you weren’t expecting?” she said breathlessly.
He nodded, then lowered his head and kissed her as tenderly as she’d ever been kissed. “Even with those two little brats in tow.”
“Jake!” She jerked back at his description of Nick and Harry, and then saw the teasing light in his blue eyes, before they crinkled with laughter.
“Oh, you! You know you love them.”
“I do,” he admitted. “I mourned when those outlaws burned Three Oaks down. I never imagined anything could replace it—even with all your inherited millions. I had no idea that love was the thing that made Three Oaks a home. And we have more than enough of that to go around.”
“Oh, Jake.” Her eyes welled with tears, and she felt his warm lips on her cheek, kissing away the first one to fall.
He lifted his head and added, with a cheeky grin, “I also have to admit, I’m damned grateful you insisted on a house so big that we’ll have plenty of room for everyone who’s bound to show up here over the next couple of weeks.”
Miranda laughed. She laid a hand on her belly and said, “Now, if this little one will just cooperate, and wait until everyone arrives before she—”
“Or he,” Jake interjected.
“Makes an appearance,” Miranda finished, as though he hadn’t interrupted. “I promised Anna Mae a sister, if you’ll recall, and I intend to keep my promise.”
Jake nuzzled her neck below her ear. “But I promised your brothers another brother.”
Miranda chuckled. “Well, I suppose if either of them doesn’t get their wish, we’ll just have to keep on trying.”
Jake’s hands slid up to cup her breasts. “Well I, for one, will be happy to oblige.”
Miranda turned her head so her husband’s mouth could find hers, but their kiss was interrupted when Jake released his breath in an oomph and sat up straight.
“That little dickens hit me! With fists like that, it has to be a boy.”
Miranda put her hand on her belly where the kick had originated. “Our little girl is just anxious to join us.” She leaned close until their lips almost met and whispered, “Or maybe it’ll be both.”
Jake reared back. “What makes you say something like that?”
“You know twins run in my family. Admit it, I’m twice as big as I was with Will.”
“You look beautiful to me.”
She laughed. “I wish I could believe you.”
He met her gaze and said, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Miranda leaned her head against her husband’s chest, because the look of love in his eyes made her throat swell and her heart ache. How lucky she was to have found him! It had been terrifying to come all the way from Chicago to Texas to become a mail-order bride. It all could have turned out so very wrong. Instead, she’d married a strong, loving man who was a wonderful father to both their children and her brothers.
“Time for you to rest, sweetheart,” Jake said, standing up, shifting her in his arms, and holding her close.
Miranda’s eyes slid closed. She tired so easily these days. She hadn’t been feeling well, but she didn’t want to worry Jake, so she’d kept her inability to keep food down a secret. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, she’d gotten much larger around the middle with this pregnancy. Was it twins? She worried that two small babies would have a harder time surviving than one large one. On the other hand, one very large baby might be a lot more difficult to deliver.
“Don’t forget to send the telegrams,” she murmured as he settled her in their bed.
“I won’t forget.”
She felt him spread a blanket over her, before he leaned down and kissed her forehead. The last thing she remembered was the door closing with a quiet click as he left the room.
JOSIE WAS SITTING near the fire at the Hare and Hound, a pub near the London docks, the Pinkerton across from her, when she overheard a conversation between two gentlemen at the next table.
“The duke is completely pockets to let. If he doesn’t find a rich wife within the month, he’s going to lose everything.”
The word “duke” had caught her attention, but she was still only half listening, when the other gentleman said, “I heard he’s advertised both here and abroad seeking an American heiress.”
Josie was startled to realize that, if everything Mr. Thompson had told her on the endless train ride from Berwick-upon-Tweed to London was true, she qualified as “an American heiress.”
“I heard Blackthorne’s turned down at least a dozen girls. Too conceited. Too loud. Too brassy. Too bossy.”
Both men guffawed at the last pronouncement, apparently imagining the haughty duke being pussy-whipped by a woman he’d been forced to wed.
Josie froze in place. Blackthorne was seeking an American heiress? He had to marry? And in the next thirty days?
“Time to go, Miss Wentworth,” Mr. Thompson said, rising from the table.
“Not yet,” she said. “We have something to discuss.”
The Pinkerton eased back into his chair. When she said nothing, he asked, “Is there something else I can do for you, miss?”
“Yes, Mr. Thompson, there is. You can find o
ut the truth of the matter those gentlemen were just discussing.”
“You mean whether the Duke of Blackthorne is, in fact, seeking an American bride? The answer is yes, he is. He needs a rich wife, and he’s too proud to seek her among his peers.”
Josie smiled. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you were listening. Or that you know the answer to my question.”
He smiled back. “A Pinkerton never sleeps.”
Josie huffed out a breath. There it was. The answer to all her problems. She could offer the duke her inheritance to release the Lords Spencer and Clay Wharton into her care. Surely he would be happy to have the means to save his estate without the burden of a wife. Before she could change her mind she said, “How would I manage an introduction?”
The Pinkerton looked startled. “To the duke? For what purpose?”
“I want him to release the two boys you met at Tearlach Castle into my care. I’ll happily give him my fortune in exchange.”
Mr. Thompson steepled his fingers under his whiskered chin. “Are you aware of the precise amount of your inheritance, Miss Wentworth?”
Josie made a face. “I suppose it’s not enough, is that what you’re saying?”
“No, miss. It’s substantial. More than a million, I should say.”
Josie gasped. “Dollars?”
“Pounds, miss.”
Josie’s heart was beating a fast tattoo in her chest. “That should be enough, wouldn’t you say, to induce him to give the boys to me?”
The Pinkerton chuckled. “I suppose it depends on how much value he puts on his nephews.”
“None at all, from what I’ve seen over the past two years,” Josie retorted. She glanced down at the plain gray dress and black half boots she was wearing, then lifted a hand to the braids wrapped tightly around her head, which Mrs. Pettibone had insisted she employ to restrain her blond curls. “I can’t meet the duke looking like this. Do you think I could obtain the funds to dress myself properly?”
“I don’t see why not, miss. I’d be glad to act as an intermediary for your meeting with the duke, if you wish.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. That would be wonderful!”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he replied. “The duke may already have chosen a bride.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
The Pinkerton quirked a brow, and Josie explained, “Even if he’s secured one fortune, surely he wouldn’t turn down another.”
Mr. Thompson looked doubtful. “There’s no understanding the Quality, miss. Sometimes what they do makes no sense to anybody.”
“I can’t disagree with that. I need to see a modiste and a hairdresser. I don’t want to look like a supplicant, even though that’s what I’ll be.”
Josie parted ways with the Pinkerton, who left her with Miss Harriet Brownlee, the most expensive dressmaker in London. Harriet spoke French to her assistants and English to Josie, which consisted primarily of tsk, tsking about her clothing and hair.
Josie was careful not to give the modiste or her assistants the opportunity to see her back. She insisted on undressing and dressing herself in private. The terrible wounds she’d suffered two years ago had long since healed, but her back contained rivers of mutilated flesh that she couldn’t look at without shuddering. She still felt pain on occasion, if she jerked and the scars pulled. But once she was dressed, there was no way to tell that, once upon a time, she’d been savagely whipped.
Miss Brownlee brought in a hairdresser, because she didn’t want Josie leaving her establishment wearing one of her fabulous frocks with the hair of a washerwoman.
When Miss Brownlee and the hairdresser, Monsieur Pierre, were done, Josie could hardly believe what she saw in the mirror. Sparkling blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face, a dainty nose sprinkled with freckles, full lips, and even white teeth—which was when she realized she was smiling with delight at the transformation in her appearance.
“Why, I’m…”
“Stunning,” Miss Brownlee said with a satisfied smile.
“Magnifique,” the French hairdresser added, kissing his fingertips.
“You look devilish dashing, Miss Wentworth,” one of the assistants, to whom Miss Brownlee had spoken in French, said with a cockney accent.
Miss Brownlee lifted a disapproving eyebrow, and the girl disappeared behind a curtain.
Josie had grown up as the daughter of wealthy parents, so once upon a time, she’d been used to nice things. But it had been five years since the Great Fire of 1871 had killed her parents and sent her and her siblings to the Chicago Institute for Orphaned Children. Since then, she’d worn homemade muslin dresses and had her hair cut by her sisters.
The long-sleeved, powder-blue silk taffeta dress designed by Miss Brownlee buttoned to Josie’s throat, then followed her form to the waist. The skirt fell in folds to the pleated hem. Matching silk-covered buttons lined the bodice from throat to waist, and embroidered flowers decorated the sleeves at the wrists. Miss Brownlee had provided ivory kid high-top shoes that buttoned up the sides. Josie’s hair had been trimmed so bangs swept away from her face, and a small satin bow held her hair at the crown, leaving shiny blond curls falling onto her shoulders.
She’d grown nearly three inches in the two years since she’d come to England, and she was taller than average. At eighteen, her face and form had fulfilled the promise of the beautiful young woman she’d once been destined to become. The only visible hint that she’d been badly beaten about the face was a slight bump on the bridge of her nose.
“A gentleman is waiting for you in the parlor,” Miss Brownlee said, gesturing Josie in the right direction. “Are you sure you don’t want more than one gown?”
“One is all I’ll need,” Josie said with certainty.
“I’ll dispose of the garment you wore on your way here.”
Josie smiled wryly. That had been her very best Sunday dress. But those days were behind her. She would keep enough of her inheritance to get herself and the boys back to America. Surely she would be able to stay with one of her sisters until she could find work to support herself.
Josie never considered marriage. There was no way to hide her scarred back from a husband, and she couldn’t imagine anyone not becoming nauseated at the hideous sight. She would die inside, if a man she loved cringed from her. Better not to put temptation in her path. Better not to fall in love in the first place.
“Good heavens.”
Josie grinned at the Pinkerton’s shocked expression, then twirled around, so he could look at her from all angles. “I take it I pass inspection.”
“I’ll say, miss.” He put a finger in his shirt collar to pull it loose. “Near took my breath away, you did.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. Were you able to make arrangements for me to see the duke today?”
“Wasn’t easy, but luckily, he hasn’t made his choice yet, so his solicitor said yes to your request.”
Josie was suddenly nervous and realized she hadn’t acquired a fan or a purse to keep her hands busy while she was with the duke. “Excuse me.” She turned and headed back into the dressmaker’s salon. “Miss Brownlee?”
“Have you forgotten something, Miss Wentworth?”
“I need a handkerchief.”
Miss Brownlee pulled a delicate, lace-trimmed hanky from her pocket. “You’re welcome to this one. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Josie took the handkerchief, smiled, and said, “That’s all. Thank you. For everything.”
As she turned and left, she was already wringing the handkerchief like a washrag. How many times had she used a washrag on those two dear, dirty faces? More times than she could count. Soon the duke’s nephews would be hers to take care of forever after, and it would be deep copper baths and soft cotton washcloths, instead of a wooden tub and a worn-out rag.
“Hang on, boys,” she whispered. “I’ll be there soon to take you away. And we’ll all live happily ever after.”
BLACKTHORNE KNEW
HIS solicitor was only doing his job. Nevertheless, he felt more and more like a hapless fox being run to ground by baying hounds. He kept a tight hold on his temper as he said, “Your message sounded urgent, Phipps, so I’m here. But I meant what I said this morning. I don’t want to see any prospective brides today.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but if you intend to read the banns for three weeks before the wedding, you have less than a week to make your selection. This young woman is scheduled to return to America shortly. If you don’t speak with her now, the opportunity may be lost.”
Blackthorne turned his back on his solicitor and leaned both palms against the mantel in his study. Even though it was May, it was a chilly day. Unfortunately, the crackling fire did nothing to warm his frozen heart. It had been a year since Fanny’s death, but he wasn’t ready to take another wife.
It had been hard—impossibly difficult—watching Fanny die a day at a time. He’d believed he loved his wife on the day they married, but he hadn’t realized how his feelings would deepen over time, as they lived their days together and made love at night.
At first he hadn’t realized Fanny was sick. She’d simply asked to be excused from her wifely duties on occasion, stopped attending every party to which they were invited, and no longer hosted dinners.
Then she’d gotten pregnant. Her sparkling green eyes could have lit up a ballroom, she’d been so happy. He’d been pleased and proud, chest puffed out like a strutting cock—until the doctor told him that he’d warned Fanny her body couldn’t support the extra burden of a child, that the consumption that was daily stealing her strength would likely take advantage of her pregnancy to kill her.
Blackthorne had been stunned to discover that Fanny was in such poor health. He’d been furious when he learned she’d endangered her life by keeping him in the dark about the effects a pregnancy would have on her body. He’d confronted her, using his most daunting ducal voice, and demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me you were ill? Why would you allow me to get you with child, when it’s so dangerous for you? I don’t understand. Explain it to me, please.”
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