Her lips smiled even as her eyes closed. “A bit suspicious though, I think, when I was so choosy about what I ate.”
“Mm.” His nose traced the curve of her jaw and made little tingles whisper over her. “I daresay it won’t take them long to come to their own conclusions about it. We had better tell them ourselves.” His voice held no dread at the prospect. “Tomorrow at morning prayers? We can’t exactly hide for long that you’re still sick.”
Tomorrow? She sucked in a breath. Better to tell them than to keep dodging the question. And better to smile in joy than hide away in her room. Still . . . “Are ye certain ye’re ready?”
His hand moved to her stomach and rested gently upon it. Even that light pressure made her feel ill, but she’d never in a millennium say so. He sighed a bit. “I’m certain. This is my child—I will not keep the joy of that to myself.”
Rowena blinked back the burning brine. He was trying. So obviously trying, but so obviously not feeling that joy yet. “Ye needna pretend. Not with me.”
“I’m not pretending. I’m just . . . torn. Selfishly. But so sorry for what you suffered.”
She breathed a bit easier when he moved his hand and turned her head to look at him. “It was a nightmare—as ye well ken. But I’ll confess here and now that I’d more than resigned myself to the thought of a bairn. I’d come to want it—despite how this babe came to be, and that I wish it were yours instead. But it’s different for you.”
“No. If anything, it should be easier. I didn’t go through what you did. But still I received the blessing of a beautiful wife and a child of our own.” He kissed the tip of her nose.
Her heart melted a little more. “It could well be a girl. If it’s a girl—”
“It doesn’t matter. Know that now, darling.” He smiled, and amusement returned to his gaze, as light as the finger he trailed over her arm. “I admit that I had the same thought, railing against the idea of another man’s son being the next duke, compromising the bloodline. But let’s be honest. Do you really think that in three hundred years of history, that’s never happened in the duchy before? I always rather thought the fourth Duke of Nottingham bore more of a resemblance to the portraits of the then-Earl of Ashford than his own father . . .”
It shouldn’t have made her laugh, but a giggle escaped. “I could hardly believe the third Duke is in your ancestry. Frighteningly ugly, wasn’t he?”
“And yet those features never show up again in the gallery—for which I may just owe my inconstant great-etc. grandmother eternal thanks, if she betrayed the old dog. I hear he was a foul-tempered, boorish man too.”
He would never advocate inconstancy—she knew that. But wasn’t it just like him to find the humor in a thing? Turning onto her side, she wrapped her arm around him. “I thought God had abandoned me, deemed me unworthy. But He led me to you . . . so I must be loved by Him indeed, to have been given such a blessing. I’ll be a good wife to you, Brice. We’ll have our own children after this one—
“This one is our own. I mean that. Girl or boy, this is my child.” His hand was in her hair, cradling her head. His eyes were as deep as Loch Morar but far warmer.
She’d thought it a curse when Lilias pushed her down that embankment. Thought it a cruelty when Father demanded they wed. But when his lips took hers, she knew it was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Blessings already—Fire Eyes or no Fire Eyes.
Twenty-Two
A baby? A baby? The words spun around Stella’s head, dancing with incredulity. A baby. His and hers. Nottingham’s and Rowena’s. They clasped hands as they said the words, gazing at each other rather than the collection of family and staff. The words that said all was over. All Stella’s chances gone.
A baby.
Charlotte squealed. Ella laughed in glee. They both flew from their seats to embrace the happy couple, words like blessing and thrilled ricocheting about the room.
But this was no blessing. This was nothing to be thrilled over.
“Oh.” Mrs. Granger grabbed Stella’s hand, blinked back tears that she smiled through. “Oh, I couldn’t be happier. Look at them—what fine parents they’ll make. Won’t they?”
How was one to smile into a face one had known all one’s life and convince her one was happy? But Mrs. Granger was scarcely paying attention, certainly not waiting for an answer. She was creeping forward with the other upper staff, waiting their turn to offer their sincere congratulations. Mrs. Granger, Mr. Child.
Even Father, beaming the smile of the ignorant. Of one who had no idea what this news did to his daughter. Who, if he did know, would scowl and lecture and ask her for the millionth time why she couldn’t be content with what he’d given her, like Geoff.
A baby. It would surely look odd for her to sink to the cushions of a chair when everyone else was on their feet, but her knees were shaking. She leaned on the wall to cover it. A baby. They were together so little until Her Grace took ill . . . had only a time or two seemed to even tolerate each other, there in Yorkshire. And oh, how green and oily her heart felt when she stopped to consider how it all came to be. Their arms about each other. Lips upon each other.
No. No, it wasn’t right. They weren’t in love—wasn’t it obvious? They had no business creating a child. But they must have conceived right away, to be so sure already of . . .
Wait. Stella straightened again. Wait, wait, wait. What was it that brute of a Scot had said when he barged his way into the castle? The words certainly weren’t spoken in the accent McLucky had used at school in their impromptu Gaelic lessons, but they had been clear enough. Could he have said . . . ?
Yes! A baby—Kinnaird had spoken of a baby. And not Brice’s, to be sure.
Her lips curling up, it was an easy matter to slip from the room, from the house. Around to the little cottage their family had always called home. Fetch a coat, fetch a hat. Borrow a horse. A quick trip to Brighton and Lady Pratt, and this little bump would disappear. Not that loosing the Highland brute on them was a good plan, but what choice did she have?
Precautions could be taken to make sure Nottingham wasn’t harmed. But Kinnaird must come. He would, at the least, drive a wedge between them. He would shout the truth—or the possible truth, anyway—to the world, and the lie would be shattered. Their marriage would shatter with it, for even Nottingham wasn’t so good that he would forgive his wife for trying to pass another man’s babe off as his. That would be that.
And at the most . . . at the most, Kinnaird might end the marriage more quickly than a divorce or annulment would. And then who would be there to comfort the bereaved widower?
The wind blew brisk and steady off the Channel, a harbinger of autumn. Then winter, and then her new post would begin, and she would leave here.
But she couldn’t, mustn’t. Once she was gone, her chances would go with her. She must act now. Before this smoldering fire inside grew to fever pitch. Before he forgot their love in the excitement of a child and a wife who looked at him as Rowena had been doing that morning. Before all their history, all their years together, all those dreams turned to dust.
Kinnaird. He would solve it all. Though Stella didn’t dare try to get in touch with him herself—if Nottingham found out, that would be the end of her newfound hopes—but Lady Pratt could take care of that. Then it would all be finished.
Twenty minutes later Brighton came into view, bright and golden in the morning light. Gulls cried overhead, horses clopped, the occasional automobile puttered. Stella steered her horse around a parked milk wagon and entered into the town she’d always called her own. She’d come here countless times during her life, but her favorite trips had always been by Ella’s side, where she could pretend that her purse were as heavy with silver as her friend’s. That they were sisters, duke’s daughters both, with the world at their feet.
Sometimes she had pretended that the passersby wouldn’t know, to glance at them, which was the real Lady Ella—as if all of Sussex hadn’t been e
xclaiming since Ella’s birth—sometimes in admiration and sometimes in disgust—about her brilliant red hair.
It was no wonder she always tried to claim it was auburn. Though she never minded being the center of attention, Ella had always preferred to earn the spotlight, not to be forced into it. As children she would sometimes hide behind Stella. Push her forward. As if she, too, wanted her to be the duke’s daughter.
Stella checked the direction on the letter she’d stashed in her handbag, the street sign at the corner, and turned her borrowed mount down the avenue. She would never be a duke’s daughter. But she could be a duke’s wife. A duchess. Higher than Ella, higher than Geoff, higher than the insufferable gentlewomen she’d had to kowtow to at school. Then it would be she Brighton bowed to as she passed. She people sought out for favors, for friendship. She Brice took into his arms and gazed so fondly at.
After securing her horse outside, she mounted the steps before the front door and rang the bell. It took a long moment before a servant answered it, no doubt not expecting any callers for another hour.
He greeted her with a sneer that would have gotten him sacked had he been her butler. “Servants around back.”
Servant! Stella lifted her chin and realized only then she had been dressed to help Grandmum prepare their little garden plot for autumn. Why had she not thought to change before she came here? “Only one of us is a servant, and I assure you it isn’t me.”
The butler made to shut the door in her face—she stopped it with both hand and foot. “Your mistress gave me instruction to come.” She thrust forward the letter she’d received two weeks ago. The one Stella had nearly ripped up, in which Lady Pratt had arrogantly demanded news of her progress.
Snatching the missive from her hand, the butler studied the handwriting for a moment and then grunted and let her in. “I’ll thank you to exit from the rear. We can’t have the ladies who will be calling seeing riffraff going through the front door.”
Curses upon dull cotton dresses! She should have donned her linen morning suit, the one whose embroidery she had slaved over for two solid weeks. Then he would know with whom he dealt. Then he would fawn over her as he would those insipid ladies who would be laughing their way up the stairs in an hour. She snatched the letter back. “Just show me to your mistress.”
He directed her toward the drawing room, from which came the sound of a squealing brat. Stella paused just inside the threshold, trying to curtail her disdain. As if she needed any crawling, gurgling reminders of why she was here.
And hadn’t the lady funds enough for a nursemaid? Why did she soil her frock by rolling about on the floor with her baby?
Catherine, Lady Pratt looked up—and sneered. “What are you wearing?”
Blighted cotton. “Never mind that. You wanted news?” She waved the letter. “I’ll give you news. But you have to swear to me you’ll take immediate action.”
She outlined it all quickly as she could, the fire inside banking a bit more with each new spark of interest in Lady Pratt’s eyes.
When the lady smiled that mean little smile, Stella knew she had done right in coming.
“Don’t worry.” Lady Pratt set her son upon her lap and motioned Stella toward the door. “I’ll take care of everything. I know just how to use this.”
For the first time in days, Stella breathed easy. Soon Rowena would be gone. And Stella would be stepping into her rightful place.
Rowena followed the servant into a drawing room in the rented house, wishing she hadn’t handed over her handbag and wrap—she could have done with something to clutch. She had been so sure that she was meant to come here, to try one more time to help Catherine. She had been so calm as she bade Brice farewell with a soft, lingering kiss and climbed into the carriage.
But seeing one of the burly guards surveying the rented town home, receiving his instructions on where to sit and how to signal if there was trouble . . . her stomach knotted, and she knew that it wasn’t to be blamed on the bairn.
Inside the drawing room Catherine was laughing and tickling her wee one, who gave a great belly laugh in return. He crawled up into her lap with all the familiarity of a child who knew his mother better than his nurse and settled happily there.
Could she be a monster and a good mother? Rowena was none too sure.
The servant cleared her throat, disapproval in her eyes. “The Duchess of Nottingham, my lady. Shall I take the boy up to his nurse for you?”
Joy lit Catherine’s eyes as she looked up, soothing a bit of the concern in Rowena’s heart. The lady waved the servant away. “No, no, the duchess doesn’t mind my little Byron. Do you, dearest?”
“Not at all.” Rowena smiled and hoped the sincerity of that statement came through, rather than the conflict within her. Settling onto a chair near her hostess’s spot on the floor, she couldn’t help but gaze at the wee lad and wonder what her own babe would look like. Would he or she have the dark hair of Malcolm? No, of Brice. They looked enough alike that anything inherited from the monster they could attribute to her husband instead, and happily. Brice’s hair. Brice’s height. Her grey eyes?
Catherine transferred herself and little Byron to the chair beside Rowena’s. She grinned. “I see you’re not wearing the rubies to be slobbered on today. Wise of you.”
Laughing before she could check herself, Rowena touched a hand to her throat and the simple pendant she’d chosen for the day. Well, the one Brice had chosen, had fastened around her neck for her. He’d even pressed his lips to where neck and shoulder joined, sending a flurry of happy tingles down her spine. “Not for fear of drool, I assure you.”
Catherine smiled. “I’m so glad you could come by today, Rowena. I was beginning to worry for you. Have you been sick this whole time?”
“I have, yes. I . . .” It would be so easy to fall into small talk. But would small talk lead her to true revelations? She had so little experience in honest friendships. Please, Lord, guide me. If I can help her, help me to know how.
The babe squealed and stood on his mother’s knee, clapping chubby hands to her cheeks. Catherine laughed. “Well, By is happy you are feeling better. Aren’t you, my little darling?” She anchored him with one arm but focused her smile on Rowena again. “I was afraid your husband would have been upset with you after that soiree. He was none too pleased to find us in Brighton, I know.”
“You needna have worried.” Rowena clasped her hands together and forced a smile—told her tongue to deliver only English syllables, to leave her Scots at home. “I didn’t realize your brother would be joining you here.”
“I do detest traveling alone. Though, of course, when Rush is going ever on about the expense of letting a house, I almost wish I had.”
Though she was listening for it, Rowena couldn’t tell if there was anything hidden in the tone of voice. Catherine spoke evenly, off-handedly, a laugh seeming to hover on her lips.
How often had Rowena laughed off dread and disappointment? But she had never been so skilled at it. “Your brother . . .” She swallowed, moistened her lips, and forced a smile. “He reminds me in some ways of my father.”
“Your father’s a miser, you mean?” Catherine tilted her head back with a laugh.
No mirth, even feigned, would come. Rowena nodded. “Aye, that he is. And controlling and stern and always hovering to make sure I didn’t do anything that would reflect poorly on the clan.”
Catherine laughed again. “Rush can seem stern, I imagine. But you needn’t be concerned over his scolding of me, dearest—and you are concerned, aren’t you? Sweet of you. But he is all bark.”
“No, he isn’t.” That she could state evenly, without a trace of shaking. That she knew to the very core of her soul. “I know the look of a man who is all bark, Kitty. And I know the look of one who takes his greatest pleasure in hurting others.”
“You . . .” Now Catherine’s good humor faded, hardened. But it wasn’t gratitude that filled her eyes, nor sympathy. It was . . . fury. �
��You little twit. You think my brother is cruel to me? That he—what? Controls me? Hurts me? You think me so weak that I would let him?”
A sting, but she ignored it. “’Tisn’t a matter of weakness—”
“That is exactly what it is! I would think you would recognize it, given that you haven’t a backbone to speak of.”
Rowena snapped straight. But she had lashed out before, hadn’t she? Attacking the one who wanted to help rather than the one who was the problem. “Kitty, I—”
“If you want to save someone from violence, you’re about a decade too late.” She put little Byron onto the floor and sat back up with blazing eyes. “And it’s he you would have had to offer your pathetic aid to. You want to bond?” She swept an arm out. “My brother isn’t like your father—my father was like your father. My brother is the only reason I never felt his fist. He always took it for me. For our mother. He is the only one in this world who has ever fought for me, and if you dare to insult him—”
“I’m sorry.” And yet Lilias’s words clanged about in her head. “He wanted to make you stronger . . . and that’s how his father taught him.” “I don’t mean to insult him, or you. I just recognized—”
“You’re too stupid to recognize the nose on your own face.” Catherine surged to her feet. “I am not a victim, Duchess. I don’t need your help in managing my brother, or whatever you came today thinking to offer. There’s only one thing I need from you.” She leaned in, towering over Rowena’s chair much like Father would have done. “The diamonds.”
Much like Father . . . but not. His tone, but not his voice. His posture, but not his build. Catherine was but a few inches taller than Rowena, a few pounds heavier.
And if she clapped her hands, her guards would come bursting in.
Nothing to fear. Which was, perhaps, why it was more sorrow than terror than filled her. “You don’t want the diamonds, Kitty. Not if you really think their worth will fix what’s wrong with your life. Not when their curse feeds on that very thing.”
The Reluctant Duchess Page 29