She was not prepared for the scene that presented itself. Sophie was asleep in the duke’s arms as he too sat with eyes closed in a large winged chair on the nursery’s hearth, both seeming at ease. She was not aware of the ravages he had suffered during the hours since he had left her side the previous day and they had taken their toll, leaving in him a tiredness impossible to ignore.
Unable to resist the temptation, she took a few steps into the room and stood examining their sleeping features for a few moments before finally retreating to her own apartment to sit gazing abstractly out of the window.
She hardly dared contemplate her husband’s reactions when he should finally confront her, but realizing the foolishness of trying to avoid the inevitable, she resigned herself to attempt to withstand whatever accusations he would level at her. Seeing him in the nursery with Sophie, she realized that to leave them again would be impossible. She could not endure further separation from all she held dear. Whatever the outcome, she must attempt to convince him of the truth.
She rested her head on her arm as it lay on the back of the window seat and closed her eyes allowing her body to relax. She found some comfort in her decision, realizing that she had not the strength to keep up this interminable battle. Surely she had suffered enough.
She sat so for a short while, only rousing herself at the sound of the maid arriving with a light luncheon set out on a tray and indicated that it should be set on a small table in the center of the room.
It was not until the maid had left and she had seated herself at the table that she became aware of a missive lying in the center of the tray. She was perplexed, surely, Deakin would not have redirected an invitation at such a time as this? She pushed it aside as if to ignore it but after a few moments her curiosity was aroused and finally she broke the seal. It was with some surprise that she recognized the duke’s hand and spread the sheet out on the table before her to read in his elegant hand,
Beloved Wife
If I could bare this heart of mine
And show you the thoughts that there entwine,
You would see that at your feet I lay
My heart, my life, my love, always.
Your very dearest friend,
R
She lifted the page from the table and read it repeatedly; trying to reassure herself of its full implication, when a light tap came on the door and waiting for no reply the duke entered, closing it silently behind him. He stood for a moment just within the room before opening his arms and in a voice deepened with emotion asked “Jane—will you not now come to me?”
Hesitantly she rose, still uncertain of what his reactions would be, unable to trust the hope that would rise and she searched his dear face for any signs of the passions that had formerly reigned there. There were none, only a longing, which was impossible to ignore, and casting aside the missive she ran forward to fling herself sobbing into his arms. He held her tightly to him, silently rejoicing as she returned the intensity of his caress, her tears bathing his face.
“I had not thought my note would cause you such distress, my love,” he said, smiling and attempting to lighten the moment when they finally drew apart. Then more seriously, “Come, my love, let us put an end to all this nonsense. Let not misunderstandings come between us, especially at such a joyous time as this.”
Still keeping her within the circle of his arm he led her to the couch to place her comfortingly at his side and, feeling the tension seep from her frame, held her close to his breast.
Resting her head against his shoulder she dabbed ineffectually at her eyes, “I have missed you so, my Robert, I have longed so for your strength and reassurance. You have terrified me with your passions. I knew not what to do.”
“Is that why you have not told me of the babe?” he asked quietly. “Was this your fiercely guarded secret? Could you not have confided in me? Had I, in my jealousy, alienated myself from your affections and become unapproachable?”
“I thought that in your rage you would not believe the babe to be yours,” she replied, not daring to raise her eyes to his face for fear of the anger she might see there.
“Not for one moment did I believe it to be otherwise,” he said, visibly shaken. “Have I given you such a fear of me that you would believe me capable of such thoughts?”
“In your jealousy you have been capable of anything, my Robert! So convinced were you in your passions that I had an affection for Darrows that it drove all other thoughts from your mind and you petrified me.”
“My jealousy has torn us apart. I have been a fool, but it will rule me no more. I swear to you, I have conquered it. You will never have cause to fear me again, my love. All I can do is to ask most fervently for your forgiveness and the return of your trust,” and lifting her slightly away from his breast he asked hesitantly, “Jane, do you forgive me?”
“With all my heart,” she said, and smiling, caressed his cheek with her hand. “If you in turn can forgive my foolishness?”
“My love, there is nothing to forgive, whatever misconceptions existed were entirely mine. This whole episode was of my making. Had I been more reasonable in my understanding none of this would have taken place. I can only assure you that never again will you have need to doubt my devotion. You are my life, and our child will be an eternal joy. Now kiss me my imp and let us finally have an end to it all. Forswear, I can live no longer without my wife.”
“Nor I without my dearest friend!”
“Praise be, and still our numbers increase, my love!”
***
The child, a son, entered this world at the beginning of the New Year and when, at his magnificent christening, his father was asked to give his son’s name, he proudly replied, “Stefan Alexander, Earl of Vale.” The years proved kind and the duke and his duchess, to their ever increasing delight, raised a fine family at Stovely whilst Harry, his health improved beyond expectation, achieved his wish to set up a bachelor establishment in London.
The End
About the Author
Hazel Statham began writing at the age of fifteen, finally committing to paper the stories she spun as a child. Writing has been her passion ever since, although marriage, motherhood, and career left time for little else. Once she retired, however, she was able to devote herself to writing full-time, publishing her first novel in 2007. A longtime student of history, she writes mainly in the Regency and Georgian eras, though she has been known to dabble in the medieval as well. She lives in Staffordshire, England, with her husband, Terry, and their beloved yellow Labrador, Mollie.
Website: www.hazel-statham.co.uk
Blog: http://hazel-statham.blogspot.co.uk/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/hazel.statham.1
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Table of Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
&
nbsp; Chapter Eighteen
About the Author
My Dearest Friend (Books We Love Regency Romance) Page 21