Remembering the overwhelming sense of loss she felt at the moment Grandby appeared, Clarinda’s hand moved to rest on her belly. At least David knew. She hadn’t even told him – she hadn’t needed to say anything. The week before, he had simply placed his hand there and given her a look of profound adoration. Then he had made love to her with slow, torturous and thoroughly satisfying kisses, his manhood filling her completely while he barely moved inside her. When they both fractured, he’d captured her mouth with his so her screams would be muted and his growls would vibrate through her body as much as they did his. He had stayed in her bed that night and every night since, locking the door and insisting she sleep naked against him, either tucked up against the front of his body as he spooned her or atop him as his arms anchored her to his chest and their legs tangled together.
Tonight, she wore her night rail, the billowing fabric suddenly feeling tight around her legs and the ribbon closure feeling as if it was choking her. But she knew the constriction in her throat was due to unshed tears. She needed to be alone so she could weep in peace. “No, Missy,” she finally answered the abigail. “I won’t need you the rest of the night. Get some sleep,” she ordered, trying not to sound cross but suddenly wanting her privacy. She nodded as Missy bobbed a curtsy before taking her leave of her mistress.
The door latch had just clicked when Clarinda felt the hot tears stream down her temples and seep into the fine bed linens. David would never share her bed again, never again hold his hand against her growing belly, never see the babe that would be born in less than six months.
Sobbing, Clarinda thought of how compassionate Grandby had been, concerned because there wasn’t an heir for the Norwick earldom – at least, not yet. And if she carried a girl, then ... She sobbed again, hoping beyond hope she carried David’s son.
In the meantime, Grandby saw to it a dispatch was sent by courier to Daniel Fitzwilliam, informing David’s younger twin brother of the accident. A streak of fear shot through Clarinda as she thought of what would happen to Norwick House, of what would be done with the household staff, of what might become of her now that Daniel Fitzwilliam would be acting in his brother’s stead.
Clarinda moved both hands to her belly, covering it protectively. She hadn’t seen nor heard from Daniel in nearly two years, their last meeting so strained she was sure he hated her.
At one time, she had been fond of the man, the man who would have been the Earl of Norwick had he been born just a few minutes earlier. But David had had that honor. He’d been the heir to the earldom, assuming the role when their father had died a decade ago. Daniel had merely been the spare. And Clarinda, betrothed to the eldest, took her place as David’s bride in a marriage some assumed would be a marriage of convenience that instead turned out to be a celebrated love match.
Looking back, she wondered if it would have made a difference which twin she ended up marrying – at the time, they seemed almost interchangeable. But Daniel seemed to harden as he grew older, his bitterness more noticeable and his manner more severe with the years. As far as Clarinda knew, he hadn’t taken a wife, instead opting for what she assumed was a string of mistresses and immersing himself in estate work in Sussex. His brief letters to David were all about business, their content never hinting the two shared the same mother, a woman of five-and-fifty who occupied the dowager house on one of the earl’s properties near the southern shore in Bognor. Nor did his letters ask about Clarinda.
She had never intended to hurt him – she didn’t realize she had when she formally agreed to marry David. But Daniel had never looked at her quite the same way again.
And now, the spare would be the earl, if the child she carried turned out to be a girl. And if she carried David’s son, Daniel would still need to assume the duties of the earldom until such time that his nephew could be properly educated, as all gentlemen were, and taught to perform those duties required of an earl, including taking his seat in Parliament.
A modiste would arrive on the morrow with a collection of hastily assembled widow’s weeds. Clarinda’s maid, accompanied by a footman, would be dispatched to the shops in Bond Street to secure several black bonnets and slippers. And a funeral service would take place in a few days. At some point after the service, the solicitor would come to Norwick House to read the will.
Another stab of fear shot through Clarinda, effectively ending her tears. Had David made sure his affairs were in order? Was that why he had met with his solicitor earlier that day? She shouldn’t be so concerned for her own future – she might be carrying the heir to the earldom – but given the circumstances of Daniel’s last visit to her, she couldn’t help but wonder if he still felt anger toward her, as if she had somehow betrayed him by marrying his brother. Until that day two years ago, she hadn’t known he felt affection for her, hadn’t known he intended to ask for her hand when she married David.
Falling into a fitful sleep, Clarinda tried to imagine David and instead found Daniel’s visage hovering in front of her, his lips, indeed, his entire face looking exactly like David’s as those lips moved to cover hers. Firm and soft as silk, they touched hers briefly and then took purchase, rending her breathless as the power of the kiss took hold and consumed her. She returned the kiss as best she could, her experience so limited to David’s kisses, she wasn’t prepared for Daniel’s tongue to stroke against hers, wasn’t prepared for the sensations that coursed through her body, wasn’t prepared when Daniel’s hand moved from her jawline down the side of her throat and over the top of one breast until his palm captured it completely and began kneading it through her gown and chemise and corset.
The jolt through her body was so sudden, so unexpected, she jerked away and had to inhale as deeply as possible. Her eyes wide, she stared up to find David’s face hovering over her.
At least, she was fairly certain it was David.
“David?” she whispered, her eyes blinking quickly.
He made a low sound in his throat that might have been a chuckle. “I should hope so, or I shall have to admonish you for cuckolding me,” he said with a cocked eyebrow. One of his hands reached out to her face, his thumb outlining the bottom of her lip as his expression changed to one more serious. “I love you, Clare,” he murmured, his thumb moving to caress her jaw. “I don’t think I mentioned that before I left you this morning.” In the darkness, his brown eyes appeared almost black, but there was adoration there, adoration and perhaps a bit of mischief.
Clare shook her head, staring at her husband in disbelief. “No. I don’t believe you did,” she murmured. Did he ever, though? The thought crossed her mind so quickly, it barely registered. “But you certainly showed it with that daring move you made in the parlor,” she countered, her face suddenly lighting up in delight. “As a proper lady, I probably should have swooned.” She didn’t add that she thought Lady Pettigrew would have hit the floor before her – and the older woman was merely a witness.
David lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers before turning the hand over in his and kissing her palm. Clare’s inhalation of breath could barely be heard in the stillness. “You never did tell me you were expecting a baby,” he accused, his lips moving to kiss her wrist.
Clare smiled at that. “I didn’t need to, did I?” she answered, a tooth catching her lower lip. “You just ... knew.” She sucked in a breath as his kiss moved to the inside of her elbow, his lips so feather light on her skin they tickled more than tantalized. “How ... how did you know?” she wondered then, her whisper barely audible.
David made the low sound in his throat again, his face breaking into a grin. “You were suddenly ... more beautiful ... even more so than the day we married.” He settled his elbow into the mattress, his head held up in the palm of his hand. “You looked like a Madonna the way you glowed, this halo of light surrounding you, especially at night, like you could light my way when I
came into your room. In fact, I could find you no matter what room you were in.” His head moved then and she felt his lips brush her forehead.
Closing her eyes, Clarinda sighed. “This is the longest I’ve carried a babe,” she whispered. She heard David’s murmur of agreement.
David had known about the first miscarriage. He’d been in the study when her anguished cries filtered from her bedchamber, her sobs so violent from the grief of her loss – their loss – David thought she would die. He stayed with her the rest of that day and the entire night, arguing with the physician over her care and ordering her maid to leave once it was clear nothing more could be done. He finally collapsed in exhaustion the following morning, wrapping his body around hers in what she remembered as a cocoon of comfort and warmth.
The second miscarriage – David wasn’t at home that day – Clarinda suffered by herself. Only her maid, Missy, and the physician she had sent for knew what happened. She hadn’t even known she was enceinte, so it was not nearly as frightening as the first one. Not wanting David to know, Clarinda begged the doctor and Missy to say nothing of it to anyone.
“The third time is the charm,” David said, leaning down to again place a kiss on her forehead.
Gasping, Clarinda stared at her husband, a look of shock crossing her face. “You knew about the second miscarriage?” she whispered, her brow furrowing as she regarded him.
David shook his head. “No. Not until now,” he commented. Sitting up straighter, he sighed. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ll carry this babe until it’s born, and the three of you will be a happy family,” he said with a wistful look. “I want you to be a happy family,” he stated firmly, his own expression suddenly happier.
Clarinda stared at him for a very long time, believing every word he said. Smiling, she closed her eyes again, tiredness suddenly gripping her. Just as she was drifting off to sleep, something niggled at her, some little word that didn’t quite make sense, didn’t quite add up.
What had David said?
The three of you will be a happy family. Yes, that’s what he’d said. Clarinda smiled in her sleep, feeling quite herself again.
Three?
Sitting up straight, Clarinda’s eyes flew open. “What did you mean by ‘three’?”
But David was no longer sitting on her bed. Nor was there any evidence that he had been there. Her eyes darting about the dark room, Clarinda wondered if she had dreamed the whole thing.
But David had been there, she was sure.
She glanced down at her hand, remembering the feel of his lips as he kissed the back of her fingers, her palm, her wrist, her elbow. Was I just dreaming? Suddenly bereft, tears once again dripped down her cheeks as she struggled to bring back the remnants of the vivid dream. “David,” she whispered in a sob. She closed her eyes and fell back into the pillows, sobbing until sleep finally claimed her.
Chapter 3
The New Earl of Norwick
Daniel Fitzwilliam brought his quizzing glass to his eye and peered through it, studying the suddenly enlarged series of numbers he’d written in the ledger. He had spent the past hour trying to make the numbers add up to the same total, even taking the time to copy them onto a piece of scratch parchment and doing the addition again, with no luck. Drat!
He wasn’t aware he’d said anything aloud until Mr. Hildebrand cleared his throat. Daniel looked up from the ledger to see his butler in the doorway, a silver salver littered with that day’s mail and a London newspaper.
“Is there a problem, my lord?” Hildebrand wondered as he gingerly stepped forward and placed the tray on the end of his master’s large rosewood desk.
“My inability to add numbers, apparently,” Daniel replied indignantly. “I was perfectly capable of the task yesterday ...” He allowed the sentence to trail off as he noticed one of the notes on the salver.
“A courier brought that only a moment ago,” his butler spoke carefully. “I asked the man to wait in the vestibule in the event it requires a reply.”
Eyeing the white folded missive, Daniel wondered at its news. Only bad news came by courier. He lifted the paper from the tray and turned it over, one eyebrow arching when he spied the seal embossed in the red wax securing the edges together. Torrington. Damn! The note was from Grandby. Sliding a finger beneath the seal, the wax broke apart and the letter nearly unfolded itself. Daniel stared at the masculine hand, rereading the words twice before allowing his head to rest in one hand, an elbow keeping it propped up. Dear Daniel, Your brother has died of a broken neck. He was thrown from his horse in traffic in Oxford Street. Please come at your earliest convenience. My sympathies on his death and my congratulations on your becoming the next Earl of Norwick. Yours, Grandby.
“Do you wish to send a reply?” Hildebrand wondered, his hands clasped behind his back.
Daniel gave the question some thought. Grandby wouldn’t expect one, but if a courier had been sent to his mother’s house in Bognor, he would find her away from her home. “Yes. I must send word to Mother. She’s at Glendale Park in Kent for a house party,” he murmured, keeping his face impassive.
Hildebrand nodded.“My lord, I believe the same courier was about to head her way,” he intoned. “Shall I have him redirected?”
Daniel gave the question some consideration. “Yes, but let me add my own note. Could you see to a meal and some ale for the man?” he ordered, drawing a piece of the earldom’s stationery from a tray.
“Of course, my lord,” the butler replied. When it appeared Daniel had no other immediate need of him, the butler turned on his heel and headed back to the vestibule and the courier awaiting there.
David is dead. The words echoed in Daniel’s head. Given the growing gloom outside, he wondered at when the courier had left London. How long had David been dead before Grandby penned the note? Had David just died that morning? Or yesterday? There was much to do if he was expected in London at his earliest convenience – if his ancient valet could manage to pack everything over the course of the day remaining, he could leave on the morrow and be at his apartment in Bruton Street tomorrow night. He could then call at Norwick House the day after tomorrow.
He wondered how things were at Norwick House, how she might be reacting to the news of her husband’s death. He imagined her tears, imagined her lower lip trembling, a tooth denting the plump flesh as she worried it back and forth. He imagined her running into his arms, relieved to have his strength, happy to have his steadfast support and love and ...
Well, that wasn’t going to happen, he chided himself. Clarinda Ann Brotherton Fitzwilliam despised him. He rather doubted she would allow him over the threshold of Norwick House, even if he was the earl – and the de-facto owner of said house.
Sighing, he gave one last glance at the column of numbers. This puzzle would now be his secretary’s to solve, he figured as he wrote a quick note to his mother. “Courage,” he wrote. “See you in London.” He signed his name and folded the note, sealing it with red wax and planting the Norwick earldom seal into the wet puddle. The Earl of Norwick seal. If David was dead, that meant Daniel Fitzwilliam was now the Earl of Norwick. Courage, indeed.
Chapter 4
Life as a Widow
“How did you bear it?” Clarinda asked as she and Lady Torrington strolled in Hyde Park, their parasols held aloft to guard against the rare winter sunshine. Having spent the first day of widowhood trapped in Norwick House being fitted for black gowns and making arrangements for the funeral service and answering dozens of questions and ordering a hatchment be hung on the front door, Clarinda was quite relieved when Adele Grandby, Countess of Torrington, offered to accompany her on a walk in the park. Clarinda had never been so glad to see a blue sky and almost collapsed her sunshade in order to allow the sun’s rays to reach her face. But now that she was almost eight-and-twenty years of age, it would do her no go
od to develop a sprinkling of freckles on her otherwise peaches and cream complexion. A few wisps of her brunette hair flew around her face in the breeze that reminded the women it was still late winter. At least Clarinda’s hair didn’t display the streaks of gray that Lady Torrington’s elaborate coiffure did, although to be fair to Adele Slater Worthington Grandby, she was at least ten years older than Clarinda.
“I did because I had to,” Adele replied, patting the back of Clarinda’s hand as they walked arm in arm on the crushed granite path. “And, I must admit, it was easier for me because I was not in love with Worthington,” she said softly, a bit of hesitancy in her words, as if she’d never voiced the admission before. She heard Clarinda’s inhalation of breath and had to resist the urge to feel guilty.
“You two always seemed ... ”
“Oh, I think we always felt affection for one another,” Adele agreed with a bob of her head. “But I didn’t love him. Not like I love Grandby.” The widowed matron had been surprised when the Earl of Torrington asked to escort her to the second ball of the Season two years before. Every Season, the middle-aged, never-married earl seemed to attach himself to a young widow with whom he attended all the events. Then, when the summer came and the ton fled the heat of town for their country manor houses or the inns in Bath and Brighton, Grandby and his paramour would bid farewell to one another, effectively ending their liaison.
The Widowed Countess Page 2