“This is my child,” she said. “All mine. You shall have no part of this child. You have not been here.”
“I was there at the start,” he said harshly. “I will not satisfy you, you see, by suspecting you with someone else. No child can be yours alone, Livy. The child is ours. And I would have been here ever since the start if you had only said the word. You know that.”
“No, I do not,” she cried. “You could not wait to return to London and your whore.”
“Mary is not a whore,” he said, “and never was my mistress, either. And you know you are being unfair. I wanted you to stay longer, if you will recall. Or have you forgotten that detail? Does it not fit your image of me as a compulsive womanizer and therefore must be suppressed from your memory?”
“I don’t want to argue with you,” she said, turning away from him. “I don’t want you here.”
“What is it?” he asked when she stopped abruptly.
“Nothing,” she said, taking a deep breath. “The baby moved. It is low and awkward.”
He reached out and touched her shoulder. She was heavy and awkward with his child. He felt an ache at the back of his throat. “How have you been, Livy?” he asked. “Has it been a difficult confinement?”
“Because I am thirty-seven years old?” she asked him. “No, I am still capable of bearing, Marcus. I must return to the house. I need to sit down in a proper chair.”
She was being deliberately nasty and spiteful. She realized that, but she could not seem to help herself. It was either that or cast herself into his arms weeping. She would not show him that she needed him, that she had longed for him every moment of every day and night since she had returned from Clifton the summer before. He had come because of the baby. He had left Lady Mornington so that he might have a new child to go back and boast about. Had he told the truth about her? She frowned.
“Let me help you,” he said.
His arm was so much firmer than Clarence’s. So much easier to lean on. But the distance to the house suddenly seemed a formidable one.
“What is it?” he asked when she stopped.
“More movement,” she said. “I need to get back to the house. I have not been feeling well today.”
“And you have no one to insist that you stay indoors when you are feeling so?” he asked. “You will have me from now on.”
“There are two weeks to go,” she said. “Sophia was late. Perhaps this child will be, too. It could be a month. You will miss part of the Season if you stay. There will be no need to do so. I shall let you know immediately.”
“You might as well save your breath for the walk,” he said. “This is my home, too, if you will remember, Livy. This is where I plan to be living for some time to come.”
“I don’t want you here,” she said.
“Don’t you?” he said. “Too bad.”
“I was hoping that Sophia would come,” she said.
“I sent a note around,” he said, “but I did not wait long enough for a reply. I had the sudden and strange urge to visit my wife. For all I know they may be on my heels. What is it?” She had stopped walking again and was drawing a deep breath instead of setting a foot on the bottom step leading up to the house.
“I think,” she said, “that this baby is not going to wait another two weeks. I think it is going to be born much sooner than that.”
There were more servants than usual in the hall, all of them curious to see the master they had either never seen or not seen for many years. The front doors were open. There were certainly enough servants present to answer the earl’s roar for attention. Soon one was scurrying for My Lady’s maid, another for Mrs. Oliver, and a third for the doctor. The remaining ones gawked as My Lord swept his very pregnant wife up into his arms as if she weighed no more than a feather and half ran up the stairs with her.
SHE COULD NOT lie down. The pains were more severe and more frightening when she tried to lie down and rest between times. She should try to lie on her side, her maid told her. She should bring her knees up to cushion the pain, Mrs. Oliver advised. She should pile the pillows beneath her head so that she was not so flat, the doctor said.
They might all go hang, the earl said, and leave his wife to do what was most comfortable for her. And no, damn it, he would not leave the room. His wife was about to have his child and he would damned well stay in the room if he damned well pleased.
He apologized to the ladies for his language when his wife relaxed after a particularly lengthy contraction, but refused to change his mind.
“Lean against me, Livy,” he said, “when the pain comes again. Perhaps it will help.”
And so when her indrawn breath signaled the onslaught of another bout of pain, he got behind her at the side of the bed and stood firm while she pressed back against him and arched her head back onto his shoulder.
“It helps?” he asked when she relaxed again.
“Yes,” she said.
Her maid had disappeared. The doctor and Mrs. Oliver were deep in low conversation at the other side of the room—probably some conspiracy to get rid of him, the earl thought.
“Livy,” he said. “I came because of you, you know. Not because of the baby.”
She was sitting upright again, her head dropped forward. Her eyes were closed.
“The child was begotten in love,” he said. “At least on my part. I love you. I always have and I always will. About that at least, I have always remained steadfast.”
She lifted her head and drew a deep breath and he took her against him again and stood firm as she grappled with her pain. She stayed against him when it had passed.
“I have never been as much of a womanizer as you seem to think,” he said. “There was someone for a year after you made it clear that there could be no reconciliation between us. And a few since for brief spells. And there was Mary for six years—my friend, as Clarence has been yours, Livy. But I broke off with her immediately after Sophia’s wedding, nevertheless. I knew there could be no one but you, even if you would never have me back.”
“Marc,” she said, “you do not need to say these things.”
“Yes, I do,” he said. “I know you have a low opinion of me, Livy. But you must have consoled yourself while Sophia grew up with the knowledge that my fall from grace came several years after her conception and birth. I think you need to know that this child, too, is not the child of a total degenerate.”
“Marc,” she said. But she drew in a sharp breath and pressed her head back into his shoulder. “Oh,” she said when it was finally over. “It hurts. It hurts, Marc.”
“Oh, God,” he said. “If only I could do this for you.”
She laughed softly.
“I love you, Livy,” he said. “For the child’s sake I want you to know that. I have always loved you. And I have been faithful to you since its conception. It broke my heart when you left last summer and I have longed for you every day since. I want you to know that for the child’s sake, not to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable,” she said. “It is so hot in here. Open a window, Marc.”
“They are all open,” he said. He raised his voice. “A cool cloth, Mrs. Oliver. Hand it to me. Her ladyship is feeling uncomfortably warm.”
It was a long labor. The doctor took himself off to sleep in another room in the house some time after dark. Some time after midnight, the countess’s maid replaced Mrs. Oliver at her vigil. The earl refused to leave. If he moved from the bedside in order to wet the cloth afresh or sip some water, his wife would cry out in panic for him when another wave of pain assaulted her. She had become dependent upon the warmth and firmness of his body at her back.
Daylight came before she finally felt the urge to push and her maid went flying off to rouse the doctor.
“Take my strength, Livy,” her husband murmured against her hot temple during an ever-shortening interval between pains. “I wish I could give it all to you, darling.”
“Marc,” she said
. “Marc. Ahhh!”
He held her by the shoulders, willing his strength to flow into her.
He had paced belowstairs during the long hours of her delivery of Sophia. The time had been endless, and he had seen in her face afterward that the birthing had not been easy for her. But he had had no idea of what a woman must suffer to bring a man’s child into the world. He would have died for her if he could, to save her one more moment of pain. But he could do nothing for her but stand and hold her and bathe her face between pains and remember the pleasure it had given him to plunge his seed into her.
Even after the doctor came back to the bedchamber and persuaded her to lie down at last and position herself for the birthing, it was not over and not easy. It terrified Marc to see her use more energy, at the end of hours and hours of the weakening pains than he had ever used during a hard day’s work.
My God, he thought, as he helped Mrs. Oliver for surely the dozenth time to lift her shoulders from the bed as she bore down to release herself of her burden. My God!
Both the housekeeper and the doctor had given up long before trying to make him leave as any proper husband would do. He had been an improper husband for long enough, he thought. Why change now?
And then she bore down and did not stop, only letting out her breath with a whoosh two or three times before gasping it in again. And he watched in wonder and awe as his son was born. He was sobbing, he realized as he lowered his wife back to her pillows, and he did not care who saw it.
“We have a son, Livy,” he said. “A son.”
And the baby was crying and being set, all blood streaked, on his mother’s breast as Mrs. Oliver wiped at his back with a cloth.
“Oh,” Olivia said. “Oh.” She touched him, smoothed a hand over his head, touched his cheek with light fingers. “Look at him, Marc. Oh, look at him.”
And then Mrs. Oliver was taking the baby away to clean him and the doctor was coughing and suggesting that his lordship leave the room while he finished with her ladyship.
The earl straightened up and dried his eyes with a handkerchief. But she turned her head and smiled radiantly up at him before he could turn away.
“We have a son, Marc,” she said, reaching up one weak hand, which he took in a firm grasp. “We have a son.”
He raised her hand to his lips and laid it against his cheek. “Thank you, Livy,” he said. “I love you.”
The doctor coughed again.
18
EVERYTHING LOOKED REMARKABLY THE SAME AFTER almost fifteen years. It was true that downstairs she had made some changes. The draperies and carpets and some of the furniture had been changed. He remembered her writing for permission and funds to make the changes. But the park he was looking at through a window was much the same. There had never been formal gardens at Rushton; only the kitchen gardens and the greenhouses behind the house and the rose arbor to the west. The room behind him, his bedchamber, had not been changed at all. Some of the belongings he had left behind were still in the drawers.
He had slept for five hours and bathed and shaved and felt much refreshed, though he was still feeling somewhat light-headed at the knowledge that he had a son. Just three days before, he had not even known that Livy was with child. And now he had a son. And he was at Rushton again, looking out at the familiar park, his wife and child in the next room, presumably asleep since he had left instructions that he was to be called when she awoke.
Had she named the child yet? he wondered. What would she name him? Jonathan? That was the name they had picked for a boy before Sophia had been born. But that was a long time ago. It was still nearly impossible to believe that he was almost forty-one, Livy thirty-seven, that they had been estranged for close to fifteen years, had been together briefly the summer before, and now had a newborn son. A son born that very morning.
He had been absently watching the approach of a vehicle along the driveway. It gradually revealed itself to be a traveling carriage belonging to Lord Francis Sutton. They had had his note, he thought with some relief, turning away from the window and hurrying to the door. And they had traveled at a pace almost as furious as his.
He met them outside the house. Francis, vaulting out of the carriage even before the steps were lowered, flashed him a grin over his shoulder.
“Here she comes,” he said as Sophia hurried into his arms, was lowered to the ground, and raced toward her father. “If I had allowed her to run instead of riding in the carriage, she would have run. Wouldn’t you, Soph?”
“Papa,” she cried, her face flushed and anxious. “Is it true? I could not believe it, though Francis said that there could be no doubt about it since you have such neat handwriting and the words were as clear as day. Is Mama with child? Is she? And where is she?”
“It’s true, Sophia,” he said. And he folded her tightly in his arms and felt his tears flowing again quite unexpectedly. “You have a brother, born this morning. I was with her.”
She went very still in his arms. “I have a brother,” she said. “I have a brother?” She tore herself from his arms, whirled about and launched herself at her husband. “Francis, I have a brother.”
“I heard you the first time, Soph,” he said, swinging her once around. “But it bears repeating twice more, I must confess. A little less volume, though, sweetheart.”
“I have a brother,” she said once more, releasing her death grip on his neck and beaming first at him and then at her father. “And Mama? Is she well? Where is she? I want to see her. And I want to see the baby.”
“Congratulations, sir,” Francis said, extending his right hand. “If I did not have enough brothers to plague me, now I have a brother-in-law, too. But at least this one is younger than I.”
“What is his name?” Sophia asked, linking one arm through her husband’s and one through her father’s and drawing them up the steps to the house. “I can’t wait to see him. And Mama.”
“He is still nameless, I believe,” the earl said. “And as for seeing them, Sophia, they are possibly still asleep and I would not want them woken. Your mother had a hard time. Go upstairs to freshen up and I shall have refreshments sent to the morning room. In the meantime, I will go up and see and come for you in ten minutes’ time if they are awake—or if your mother is, at least. Good enough?”
“Not nearly,” she said. “But I know that tone of voice too well to try to defy it, and I know Francis will take your part if I try to insist on seeing Mama without further delay. He has developed into a tyrant, Papa. I am a mere shadow of my former self.”
“Which is about as great a bouncer as you have ever told, Soph,” her husband said, taking her firmly by the hand and leading her up the stairs. “If you are a shadow of your former self, I would hate to have met the original. I have never found Amazonian wenches very appealing. Ten minutes it will be, sir.”
OLIVIA WAS AWAKE, the baby asleep beside her, a fist curled beneath one fat cheek. He had his father’s dark hair. She felt deliciously lethargic after a sleep of several hours. She stretched her toes and felt her almost flat stomach with satisfaction.
She wondered when he would come. She could send for him, but she wanted him to come without being summoned. She wanted him to come because he wanted to come. To see his son, she thought. To see his heir. He would come to see the baby.
But no, she would not indulge in thoughts even tinged with bitterness. He had said wonderful things to her the night before, things she had longed to hear the previous summer, things that she wanted to hear again. Perhaps he had said them to comfort her during her labor. But she had believed them then, and she wished to believe them now.
She wished he would come. She turned her head to the door and it opened as if in answer to her thoughts. She watched him come inside and close the door quietly behind him. He was wearing clean clothes and he had shaved. His hair had that soft look it always had when freshly washed.
“You may leave us, Matilda, if you please,” she told her maid.
“Livy,” h
e said, leaning across their son to kiss her cheek. She noticed that his eyes looked only at her, not at the baby. “Have you slept? Are you feeling better?”
“I feel wonderful,” she said. “I have never felt better in my life.”
“Liar.” He smiled at her.
And then he looked down at their child and the look of tenderness on his face made her want to cry.
“Is he not beautiful?” she said.
“No,” he said, smiling. “We will have to add a new word to the dictionary, Livy. There is no adequate word that I can think of. What have you named him?”
“We have named him Jonathan,” she said. “Unless you have changed your mind since last we thought we might have a son.”
“Jonathan,” he said, touching one knuckle to his son’s soft cheek.
“I was listening to you last night,” she said, “although I could not respond a great deal. I heard everything, Marc.”
“Good,” he said. “Then I need not repeat it all.”
“Would you?” she said. “If I had not heard? It was not just that I was in pain and needed comforting?”
“Shall I start now?” he asked. “With I love you? I can talk on that theme for an hour or so, if you wish.” He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the baby, and turned to look down at her.
“Marc.” She lifted a hand and laid it on his arm. He covered it with his own hand. “I was dreadfully wrong, was I not? Only things can be spoiled beyond repair. Not relationships. We could have repaired ours, couldn’t we? It could have been as strong as ever. We could have been happy again, couldn’t we?”
“Only if we had both been committed to being so,” he said.
“And I was not,” she said. “I would not allow for your humanity, Marc. I wanted you perfect or not at all. And so I emptied my life of all that might have given it meaning—except for Sophia. I did a dreadful thing. I destroyed the rare chance of a life of happiness. And I did terrible things to you, too. You have not been entirely happy through the years, have you?”
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