by Krissy V
Blessed silence filters down from above. I’ve been this far away from Rose before, and yet I would still be able to hear her wailing. God knows where that tiny thing finds the energy to cry as much as she does, especially since she refuses to nurse.
Could it be that Pippa’s managed to quieten her down again?
Perhaps it isn’t a fluke.
Dear God, I pray it isn’t a fluke.
Chapter Three
Pippa
It starts as a faint pressure. An uncomfortable fullness in my breasts. As soon as little Rose simmers down to unhappy hiccups, it fades away. Howie would be a week older than Rose, had he still been alive. Had his little body not eventually grown still under my pillow.
Rose lets out a surprised sound, and I realize I’m gripping her too hard, too protectively against my bosom. Before I can pull her away, Rose reaches for my breast, her tiny hand brushing my pale skin. I break out in shivers, and hurriedly adjust my grip.
“No,” I murmur, my voice barely audible. “Daddy is bringing your bottle.”
The words fall out of my mouth before I can censor them. A blush heats my cheeks, and I throw a guilty glance toward the dark, gaping archway that leads to the room where I first encountered Baron Dunnwood. What if he’d heard? I tuck Rose’s bright red hand behind her blanket and rock her a little. She glowers at me with her father’s eyes, seeming cross that I’ve denied her my breasts.
Then she tips back her head and begins howling.
I rock her. I try and burp her. I make faces at her.
Everything I do just seems to make her cry that much louder.
“Don’t fret, girl. I’m sure you won’t be the last to fail.”
I start, throwing Mrs. Potter a flustered look over my shoulder. Where on earth did she come from? I would have seen her moving through the archway from the corner of my eye — and she definitely didn’t use that entrance.
“Here you are.” Mrs. Potter hands me a warm bottle. I give her a thankful nod, and then shift Rose in my arms. Glancing around, I spot a rocking chair a few feet away and go sit in it. Mrs. Potter stands in the middle of the room, not moving, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Must you watch?” I ask, not bothering to take the snap from my voice. Had she not startled me half to death, I wouldn’t be rattling like this. I lay Rose in my lap and quickly test the formula on my wrist. Mrs. Potter sniffs and glances away as if I’ve insulted her deeply. I ignore her — I may not have any actual experience as a nanny or a nurse, but I know the basics of feeding a baby. And I’m not about to give Mrs. Potter any doubt in my capabilities.
I flush a little, and dip my head to murmur soothing words to Rose so Mrs. Potter won’t see the color tinging my cheeks.
No one can know, Pippa. They’ll send you back without a dime in your pocket.
I position Rose against my bosom, urge her hand away from my breast, and bring the teat to her lips.
She scowls, blows a fat bubble at me, and turns her head away.
“It’s the same every time,” Mrs. Potter says, punctuating her statement with a sniff. I glance at her, my spine straightening when I see the contempt in her eyes. I give her a wide smile, and shrug a little.
“Rose and I are still strangers,” I murmur, keeping my voice as low and soothing as possible. “Once we’re friends—”
“The baron wouldn’t dare keep you that long.” Mrs. Potter tips up her chin at me. “If you can’t get her to feed before the day is out, you’ll be leaving on the coach come the morrow.” With that, Mrs. Potter pivots on her heel and struts from the room, this time using the archway and disappearing into the study.
Rose makes another grab for my breast. I knock away her hand with a firm, “No!” and put the teat to her mouth. She spits it out, frowns hard, and promptly bursts into tears. I bring the teat back, and this time she fights it with her little red fists.
Is her entire body covered in these red splotches? Curiosity burns in me until I can no longer bear it. I tug down the blanket wrapped over her body. It seems not a single inch of her skin has been spared. How difficult it will be for her, growing up and having to deal with the stares, all those hurtful words whispered behind cupped hands? My heart swells with sadness.
And then that pressure starts up again. A deep ache starts up in my breasts before—
I gasp, and blush as red as Rose. Milk seeps into the front of my dress, warm and then immediately cooling in the brisk air. Rose howls and reaches for my breast, pushing away the bottle I desperately try to urge into her mouth. I manage to dribble a little of the milk in and she coughs as if I’m drowning her.
“No!” I push away her grasping hands, frustration welling to fury.
Tears race first hot, then cool, down my cheeks.
“It’s not…” I choke on my words, dipping my head low and trying to reason with Rose through my tears. “I know you miss your momma, but I can’t nurse you. It’s not—?”
Proper? Why on God’s green earth not, Pippa? Haven’t you heard of wet nurses?
I shove away Howard’s voice, my lips trembling as I attempt to control myself.
It’s not what I was hired to do. The baron seems adamant that Rose needs a bottle.
So you’ll let her starve?
In my mind’s eye, Howard’s lip turns up into a condescending sneer. Use that fluff between your ears, Pippa, what little you have. The babe’s hungry. You have breasts swollen with milk. Or have you forgotten how you loved to feed our little Howie before you smothered him with your Goddamn pillow?
My breath hitches. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve tugged down the hem of my bodice. My breast pops out, heavy with milk, and a second later Rose latches.
The sensation of that small, hot, wet little mouth sends a shudder through me. I want to pull her away, my face burning how aghast I am at what I’ve done, but…
But she’s nursing. Flecks of pale foam dot her lips as she sucks, and sucks, and sucks. And then I can’t pull her away anymore than I could have lifted that pillow.
Brandon
“’Spose we’ll be sending her back then, m’lord,” Mrs. Potter says, voice like a winter twig against a windowpane.
I turn, frowning hard as she descends the stairs above me. “How so?”
“The babe ain’t takin’ that bottle. Not from anyone. ’Specially no’ from her.”
My stomach turns to lead.
I thought she’d be the one. For some reason, the moment I saw her head full of curls, and her plain yet well-cut clothes, I was convinced she was the angel I’d been praying for.
The one I’d sell my soul to Lucifer for, had it been in a state the Devil would accept as barter.
“Give it time,” I say through my teeth, taking the stairs two at a time and meeting Mrs. Potter halfway for my efforts. She pauses a step above me, now eye-level, and stares me down for all but a second before dropping her gaze. “As you say, m’lord.”
With that, she hurries past me, for all the world as if I’ve offended her.
Fuck that, it will be as I say. Time’s run out. If Pippa isn’t the nanny I’ve been searching for, then I will have to travel with Rose into town and find myself a nanny or a nurse capable of taking care of her.
Perhaps I’ll finally have enough courage to put her up for adoption. At this point, I’d do anything to save Rose’s life…even if it meant I’d never be able to see my child again. Even if that last vestige of Alaine was removed from my life.
My thoughts are so dour that my movements become slow and quiet. The door makes barely a sound when I push it open. My broad feet hardly seem to touch the floor. I’m a big man, and one accustomed to people knowing the moment I’ve arrived. Mayhap that’s the reason why, when I step into my bedroom, I turn to stone. Why, even though every fiber of my being is screaming at me that I’m a perverted sinner who’s surely turned away from God, I can’t look away.
Rose is latched to Pippa’s breast. The sight of that perfectly formed
breast sends a pulse of blood through my cock, stiffening it slightly, but at the same time I feel as though this stranger, this woman I’ve only just met, has wronged me on a deep, deep level.
“What do you think you’re doing?” My voice is so thick, so rough, I’m surprised she can even make out what I’m saying.
As if she were in a trance, Pippa lifts her head and blinks at me a few times. Then reality must finally dawn on her, because she lets out a gasp, plucks Rose from her teat, and does her best to try and cover her breast.
I’m already storming over. I snatch Rose from her lap, avert my eyes from her puckered, dusty-rose nipple, and turn my back. Rose hiccups, and begins wailing in my ear. I’m shaking so hard, it’s an effort to put my child back in her crib, and I feel every second that I’m holding her increases her chances of me breaking apart her tiny body.
When I turn back, Pippa’s on her feet, palms on her face as if to try and suppress the blush suffusing her cheeks.
“How dare you?” My words shoot out like projectiles. I step up to her, expecting her to dart away. Instead, she stands her ground, merely ducking her head like a child caught in an act of mischief. “How fucking dare you?”
Rose’s wails transform into screeches. My body still trembles in fury, and even running my hands through my hair does nothing to tame me. “Get out.”
“No.” And then, despite my rage, Pippa lifts her chin and stares me down with wild, limpid eyes. “She will starve.”
I splutter. My hands curl into fists. But all I can do is watch as this previously demure woman — a girl, really — hoists Rose up to her breast, bares a perfectly rounded, dusty rose nipple, and guides my infant’s mouth closer.
Rose latches instantly. My baby girl’s eyes fall closed, and her tiny chest lifts once and then drops as she lets out a sigh. When my gaze draws up, Pippa’s watching me intently.
This time, there’s anticipation in her wide brown eyes. The longer I stare, the darker her cheeks grow, and eventually she breaks my gaze and watches Rose nursing.
I leave them, not knowing what else to do. Mrs. Potter’s in my study, face as pale as if she’s on death’s door.
She shakes her head, lines appearing between her brows. “It’s not right, m’lord. It’s not right what she’s—”
“I should let my child starve?” I snap.
Mrs. Potter’s chin sinks, and she turns stiffly as I pass.
“Have you prepared her room?”
“Wh-yes, of course, m’lord, but—”
“Then take her to it, when she’s done.” I pause in front of the door to my apartment, for a moment not sure where to go in my own home.
Rose’s soul the only thing keeping me here. I wish I could say it was out of love, but I’m not the kind of man who turns away from the truth.
Guilt is what moors me here. All I can do is pray that, now, that leaden chain will snap free. Perhaps, then, I can finally find release from this nightmare life.
Chapter Four
Pippa
A cool, bony hand shakes me awake. My eyes fly open and fix on Mrs. Potter standing beside my chair, her lips pursed with distaste.
“I must show you to your rooms,” she says, as if she wished it hadn’t been a command she was sworn to obey. Her pale eyes narrow as if she’s trying to bore through my mind.
“I need to feed—”
“The babe sleeps.”
I glance down. Rose is fast asleep, her cheek pressed to my breast. I must have nodded off myself, because I can’t remember when she stopped suckling. When I shift to readjust my bodice, Mrs. Potter snatches the child from my arms. Rose’s eyes pop open, but all she does is let out an unhappy sound before Mrs. Potter has her up, hand tapping on the infant’s back.
“Did you forget you have to burp her?” Mrs. Potter’s face seems all the more gaunt for her disgust. “Or are you content with simply filling her with your whorish milk?”
She turns away before I can respond. I press the back of my hands against my face, willing away the fiery embarrassment seeping into my cheeks. I move closer to the crib, and hold out my hands. Mrs. Potter sniffs and elbows me aside before laying down the child. “You go wait for me in the hallway, girl.”
My feet move of their own. For most of my life, I’ve been expected to obey without hesitation. The nuns at the orphanage certainly didn’t allow any backchat, and nor did Howard. At least, not after our first month as a married couple.
My hand is on the doorknob, already turning. I could stop now, argue, enforce my position as Rose’s nurse…but it would be so much easier just to step outside like Mrs. Potter commanded me to.
Obeying is always so much easier.
* * *
My room is small, cold, damp. It’s hidden beneath the stairs leading up to the third floor, and has no windows. There is, however, a small fireplace where steady flames lick and bite at the stack of logs placed so precisely inside. Had I been a lady of any standing, it would have been utterly disrespectful housing me in such miserly accommodations. But on my resume I claimed I come from nothing — in the baron’s eyes, this must seem like seventh heaven.
“Breakfast is at seven,” Mrs. Potter says, and then shoves me between my shoulder blades when I don’t move. I almost end up on my knees. Fortunately, I’m right up against the bed, and can latch onto the rail to steady myself.
“What on earth is your problem?” I swing around with a glare, only to have my bedroom door slammed closed.
Then comes the unmistakable sound of a key in a lock, a click as the tumblers fall into place.
My chest grows so tight, I can barely breathe.
There’s a loud crack from the fireplace. When I swing to face it, a bright spark lands on the bare flagstones a foot away. I hurry over and grab the grate, sliding it into place with a grunt. I stare at the hungry fire, my heart beating too hard, too fast.
Dear Lord, please keep the fire contained. I know I deserve it, but please do not let me die at the stake.
Brandon
My breakfast is usually confined to my study, as are all my meals. I have no need for the staff to warm up any of the manor’s massive rooms; after all, I’m usually dining alone.
But as we’d discussed before Pippa arrived — if the new nanny were still around in the morning, then I’d be having breakfast with her in the dining room.
I wish I hadn’t been so presumptuous. I have always been an optimistic man, but after so much darkness entered my life, all I’ve been able to clutch to is pessimism. I guess the part of me that would wake with a smile to watch dawn break over the mountains and flood the forest with its glorious colors is still alive. Perhaps just buried beneath the shadows.
This close to the first snowfall, every inch of the manor is cold, except where I’ve instructed Norm to turn up the heat. Some rooms don’t have access to heating, and thus will never be warm without a fire, but most of the living rooms warm within half an hour.
Norm must have stoked the boiler early this morning — the dining room is so warm, I’m tempted to remove my coat and gloves. I hesitate, seeing Pippa has not yet arrived, and then take off only my coat. The dark kid gloves are supple enough not to hinder me during the day. In fact, I can’t remember when last I took them off.
I take the head of the table, and stare sullenly down the length of the pale oak surface. Dunnwood Manor had been decorated by sober, discerning individuals who obviously lacked creativity in any shape or form. Everything inside this hulking estate is formed of thick, straight lines and dark, muddy tones.
My mother tried to bring vibrancy and color to the place, but everything she introduced would look so out of place on the gloomy background she eventually gave up.
My eyes dart up. Pippa walks into the dining, sees me, and freezes like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights. A serving girl comes in behind her, breaking the spell, and she hurries to take her seat opposite me. There are more than two yards between us, but in a few moments, the space is filled wi
th enough food to feed an army.
At least I know it won’t go to waste — Dunnwood Manor employs several staff members, even through the winter, and whatever leaves this table is always divided between them. I don’t often see anyone beside Mrs. Potter and her son, Norm, but I’m sure if I did, most of them would be bursting from their clothes.
The serving girl pours me my coffee, and then heads over to Pippa’s side of the table.
“No,” I bark out, swiping my hand to the side. The serving girl flinches, as does Pippa, and both turn wide eyes to me. “Everything you eat, my child eats.” I turn my gaze to the serving girl. “Bring her tea. Weak, no sugar, no cream.”
Pippa shifts in her chair and sends a brief scowl my way, but it disappears so quickly I might have imagined it. A second serving girl moves up to the table, glancing over at me for instruction.
“You may have whatever you want,” I tell Pippa, giving her a grim smile over my coffee cup as I inhale the decadent steam. “But no pork or eggs.”
Her mouth opens, but she decides not to say anything. She points at the dish of beef sausages, and then at the thick slices of toast nearby. “May I have butter?” she asks stiffly, lifting her chin at me.
I concede with a dip of my head, ignoring the tone in her voice. “But no preserves.”
“Are you afraid I will gain too much weight to feed your child?”
My fist slams into the heavy oak table with such force that I manage to rattle a few of the dishes. Pippa jumps, a hand fluttering to her heart before it curls into a fist that she shoves into her lap. Her scowl is back, and this time it appears to be permanent.
The serving girls, wisely, flee the room.