He pulled a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I have obtained a special license.”
A special license. How extraordinary. “How did you—?”
“Lady Evelyn offered her assistance. She was able to convince the archbishop to issue me a license. She wrote to me of your meeting,” he said. “It so brave of you to go to her. At your behest, she called her brother off and convinced him to retract his complaint from the House of Lords.”
Emily felt relieved, but calling the Duke off was only the beginning. “But what of the marriage license? Surely someone will now feel compelled to look into things.”
“Morris unearthed the first wife’s baptism entry in the church records and discovered she was one year younger than she claimed. She was twenty when she married my father and her guardian did not give his permission—he was a vagabond and she likely could not find him. In any event, the marriage was never valid. Neither my father, nor my grandfather knew of her duplicity, however, so the marriage was presumed legal.”
Morris had pulled through, after all. “I am so happy for you.”
Dipping his head, he captured her lips in a deep, soul-wrenching kiss. When he pulled away, emotion glinted in his eyes. “Say yes, Emily. Say you will be my wife.”
She smiled. “Yes. I will be your wife, Stephen.”
At that exact moment, her stomach pinched painfully and a gush of wetness trickled down her inner thigh. “Oh!” Mrs. Hill had warned her about this. It was a sure sign that her time had arrived. “I think the babe is coming.”
Stephen stared at her, half-horror, half-fear etched on his handsome features. He glanced down at her swollen belly, then back up at her face. “Are you certain?”
She clutched her belly as another wave of pain crashed over her. “Oh, ow. Yes, I am left in no doubt, this child plans to arrive today.”
His green eyes went wide. “Dear God.” He turned and rushed to the door, pulling it open. “Everyone inside.”
James, Mr. Grant, the curate and Mrs. Hill rushed in, pushing into Emily’s small parlor. “The babe is coming, we must perform the ceremony now,” Stephen said.
The ceremony was short—a blessing, because now the pains were coming more closely together, one on top of the other. She scarcely had time to breath before another painful spasm slammed into her.
Stephen took the ring from the crease of the open bible and slipped it on Emily’s finger. The beautiful green emerald matched Stephen’s eyes. Then he kissed her—short, sweet and full of love and promise for the future.
The curate thrust a pen at them and instructed them to sign the license and marriage registry. When that task was done, the curate took his leave and Mrs. Hill stepped in with all the authority of a colonel.
“Help her into the bedchamber,” Mrs. Hill ordered.
James and Stephen helped Emily up the steep staircase and into her modest bed.
“One of you must go to my cottage and fetch my maid. At this hour, she will be in the back garden,” she said calmly.
James volunteered quickly. “I will go.”
Stephen kneeled by the bed and clutched Emily’s hand, fear evident in his eyes. “Tell me what I can do. Give me a task.”
The pain was so great, Emily couldn’t think, let alone speak. She moaned, digging the back of her head into the pillow and squeezing his hand. Her belly tightened, cinching unbearably tight. She feared she might cry out in sheer pain.
“Sir, you must leave,” Mrs. Hill said sternly. “I assure you, she will be well cared for.”
Stephen’s brows knit together and his hand tightened around hers. “I cannot leave her.”
Her chest tightened at the protectiveness in his voice, but she knew he could not stay. Men had weak constitutions when it came to women’s troubles. He would likely faint clear away at the first sight of blood.
“Stephen, I will be fine. I promise you.”
“Emily…” His voice cracked with emotion.
“I have delivered a dozen babes safety into this world and I cannot do my duty with you under foot. I must insist you wait in the parlor.” Her tone softened. “If she is ever in any danger, I will fetch you at once.”
Reluctantly, he stood. “Be advised. I hear her cry out once and I will be back inside this room.” Then he left, glancing back at her one last time before closing the door.
Stephen paced the length of the small parlor, the floorboards creaking under his boots. Knots cinched tight in his stomach and sweat poured off him in buckets. He had the distinct feeling he wanted to vomit, or get drunk.
Or still better, get drunk and then vomit.
He had heard nothing, not a sound, in the three hours since he had left Emily’s side. If only there were some sign she was well. This silence was utter torment.
“Sit down, will you?” Grant said. After retrieving the maid, he had joined Stephen in the parlor. James had taken his leave, so it was just the two of them now. Waiting. Endlessly. “Watching you walk to a fro is hurting my neck,” he finished.
“If only I knew she and the child were out of danger.”
“I am sure everything is fine,” Grant said. “I have a cousin with no less than six children and all are well to this day. Oh, wait, no, she did perish, sadly, with the last one.”
Stephen turned to Grant. “Why in God’s name are you here?”
Grant fixed him with a bored stare. “Excellent question. As I recall, I was sitting in a coffee shop, when you stormed in, plucked me up, mumbling something about a requiring a witness, and then tossed me into a carriage.” He lifted his hands. “So here I am. Dragged across four counties to watch my best chap pace endlessly. “
Stephen growled. He remembered now. Once he had gotten news of Emily’s whereabouts, he had wasted no time. He already had the license, but he would require two witnesses for the ceremony. He already had James, so it was only natural he would force Grant to stand in as the second.
“You’ve fulfilled your purpose admirably. You can leave now if you wish.”
Grant laughed. “Surely you jest. I have been dragged through this strange romance of yours and now I intend to see it through.”
“How good of y—“
At that moment, a low, guttural cry cut through the air. Stephen flew up the small staircase and burst through the bedroom door. He stood mid-way into the room, his gaze fixed on Emily. He saw her from the side, her head resting back on the pillow, sweat trickling down her temples, wetting her hair. Her breath came in hard, short bursts, as though she had just run a great distance.
Time stopped. The breath sawed from his lungs and his heart thundered against his ribs. He swallowed. “Emily,” he said, stepping forward.
Then he heard it—the strong, angry cry of a babe.
“You have a daughter,” Mrs. Hill said as she cleaned the babe and wrapped her in a bundle of cloth and then handed her to Emily.
A daughter. A daughter.
Dear God, he felt like his heart would burst.
He rushed to Emily’s side. Her face was more pallid than he would have liked, but when she smiled up at him, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She held the little bundle in her arms and within the folds; he could see a small cherub face with a tuft of blond hair.
Their sweet babe. She was perfect.
Mrs. Hill and her maid slipped out of the room, leaving them alone. Stephen slid onto the bed next to Emily and placed his arm around her shoulders, tugging her close to him. He kissed her on the temple, his heart swelling. “You have done well, my love.”
“We have done well,” she said, gazing down at their child. “She is so precious. I thought for certain she would be a he, but even so, I would not trade her for the world.”
“I always knew she would be a girl,” he said proudly. “A father knows such things.”
Emily laughed. “I rather think it was a lucky guess on your part.”
He touched his head to Emily’s. “Perhaps.”
�
��What shall we call her?” Emily asked.
He thought for a moment. “I have always admired the name Annabel. It was my Scottish grandmother’s name and I was extremely fond of her.”
She looked down at their daughter. “Scottish. How very fitting. Yes, she looks like an Annabel, does she not?”
“She looks like her mother, thank heavens. I should have been distressed to discover she had inherited my nose.”
“No, indeed,” she laughed again. “She has something of your eyes, I think.”
They stayed that way for the rest of the day; cuddled together, sleeping and waking with a jolt whenever little Annabel made a sound that was not expected.
Late in the evening, when Annabel was suckling at her mother’s breast, Stephen gazed down at them. This was everything he had dreamed life would grant him—a wife he loved and a child he cherished.
“I vow to always love and cherish you, Emily,” he whispered against her hair, inhaling her lemon scent. “You are all I have ever longed for.”
She wet her lips and glanced up at him. “And I vow to love you, Lord Devon, as long as there is breath in my lungs.”
“Only until then?” he asked.
She turned in his arms. “I am yours, now and forever.”
He smiled down at her. “That is more like it.”
And then he kissed her, long and sensual, careful not to wake their sleeping babe.
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A Duchess in the Dark: Excerpt
Available Now
CHAPTER ONE
London 1814
IF MISS PIPPA WELBY had learned anything in her short twenty years, it was that one must be prepared for anything.
But this was quite beyond the pale.
She stood paralyzed at the threshold of her father’s study, eyes fixed on the gentleman standing just a few feet away.
“You asked to see me, Father?” she said finally, turning her gaze away from the austere gentleman who stood by the mantel.
Her father turned, but the gentleman didn’t acknowledge her presence. He merely stared into the flickering amber flames, one polished Hessian boot perched arrogantly on the lip of the hearth.
She had recognized him instantly. Indeed, his tall, imposing frame, dark hair, and dashing good looks weren’t easily forgotten. He was Lucas Victor Alexander, ninth Duke of Arlington, and quite possibly the most sought-after bachelor in London.
His presence in her father’s house was startling, if not puzzling. She’d met Arlington only once, last year in Yorkshire at the Tisdale ball. Indeed, the disastrous meeting had been branded into her memory forever. Even now, it often crept into her thoughts with little provocation. Someone might comment on the weather, for instance, and the flurry of unpleasant memories would come rushing back—a figurative tidal wave of mortification. It galled her that he’d gotten under her skin so completely, but there was no helping it. And she should know. She’d dedicated the last six months to expunging him from her thoughts, only to be met with his image every time she closed her eyes.
“Come, sit down, Pippa.” Her father gestured to the blue-striped chair nearest Arlington. “His Grace has something he wishes to discuss with you.”
Narrowing her eyes, she had the sudden, inescapable feeling her father had led her into a trap. She’d been summoned to the study without the barest hint that Arlington had come to call. She shouldn’t be surprised. Her father was no fool, and he likely realized she’d have no interest in visiting with the gentleman who’d slighted her in front of everyone.
“Oh?” she said in a coolly unaffected tone. “Will it take long? I’m absolutely famished and breakfast will be laid out soon.”
Mortification swept over her father’s plump face. He was a proud, self-made man, and quite willing to pour money into his daughter’s upbringing, especially if that meant entrapping a titled husband. It didn’t matter how successful his investments were, or how much wealth he amassed; noble blood would never pulse through his veins. Certain members of the haute ton had made that painfully clear. Admission into their ranks could not be purchased. His only glimmer of hope was in Pippa—his only child—marrying into the crème of society, which would elevate him, at last, to the upper echelons.
She hadn’t the heart to tell him that his dream was all but impossible.
“I hope you will forgive my daughter’s lack of manners,” her father said after an awkward moment, eyeing her sternly. “I’m afraid your visit may have caught her off guard.”
Arlington remained leaning against the mantel but turned his head to look at her. For the first time since entering the room, she saw his face. His straight, aristocratic nose and the firm line of his jaw, one dark eyebrow arched at her father’s words … and his eyes. They were the most uncommon shade of blue, like a cloudless sky, and they stared at her with such intensity, she thought she might wilt under his penetrating gaze. Instead, she lifted her chin a degree.
“Miss Welby’s priorities are perfectly understandable,” he said lazily, as though her blunt dismissal hadn’t offended him in the least. He flicked his gaze in her father’s direction. “Leave us, Welby. I’d like to speak with your daughter alone.”
Her father didn’t hesitate to do as bidden, coming around his massive mahogany desk to lay a kiss on her cheek. Then he was out the door, leaving her completely, helplessly alone with the duke.
She glared as she lowered herself into a nearby chair, perching on the edge, poised to escape at the first opportunity. The way he ordered her father around like a servant in his own home was positively reprehensible. He might intimidate all of London, but Pippa refused to yield to such arrogance. He had no right to barge into her home and start making demands.
“Well, since I have breakfast waiting and you have”—whatever scoundrels do first thing in the morning— “whatever it is you have to do, why don’t we cut straight to the matter, Your Grace? What is your purpose in coming here?”
His lips twisted into a faint smile. “Playing games, are we, Miss Welby? You must know why I’m here.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said. “Nor do I care, particularly.”
That nonchalant comment nettled him, as she had suspected it would. She could see it in the way he glared as he moved to the sideboard and poured himself a generous helping of her father’s finest brandy. His posture was rigid, every move stiff and deliberate. Women didn’t speak to men of his ilk with such indifference, especially women of her “tainted” breeding.
“You haven’t the slightest idea why a man might prevail upon you and your father at this early hour?” He took a healthy sip of brandy, then set his glass on the small, circular table beside her. “Perhaps I misjudged you, Miss Welby. What I perceived as intelligence is clearly no more than artfully concealed ignorance.”
She narrowed her eyes at the insult. “You slighted me at the Tisdale ball last year. Why would I have any reason to believe you would call upon me, of all people?”
He raised one elegant brow. “Slighted you, did I?”
Now that nettled her. Good heavens, she wasn’t even worth remembering! To this day, she relived that horrid moment, agonizing over every humiliating detail. His blank, slightly horrified expression as Mr. Tisdale had introduced them. His subsequent silence. Then finally, his curt dismissal as he turned and walked away, in front of everyone.
Word of her humiliation had spread rapidly, of course. They’d called her presumptuous for wrangling an introduction to a duke, and though it was Mr. Tisdale’s oh-so-brilliant idea, not hers, she was still somehow at fault. She was arrogant, pompous, assuming, pretentious—the list of vicious names multiplied for weeks until the story grew tiresome and the gossips found another poor soul to torment.
“What would a duke want with a trad
esman’s daughter?”
He chuckled then, a dangerously seductive tone that Pippa struggled—unsuccessfully—to ignore. His voice was deep, masculine, and it rumbled through her like a gathering winter storm.
“You astonish me, Miss Welby. I would have thought the reason was quite clear.” He leaned down and placed a hand on each armrest, caging her in. For a brief moment, it felt as though all the air had been sucked from the room. She could scarcely draw in a breath. Her heart fluttered at his nearness, but she didn’t lean back. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I want you in my bed, of course.”
Bewilderment struck her first, followed swiftly by disbelief, then pure, unfettered outrage. He wanted her for his mistress! Perhaps she hadn’t been born a true lady, but she was certainly a lady now, in spirit if not by blood, and she would not be used for the singular purpose of warming a man’s bed, duke or not.
With one hard shove, she pushed him out of the way, stood, and snatched a carved ivory letter opener off her father’s desk. The ivory was a beautiful piece, made by the master carvers in the seaport village in Dieppe, France, where her father had often traveled before the war. It’d be a pity to get blood on it. She wondered briefly if it’d stain. The surface of the ivory blade was smooth, unblemished. She was fairly certain Arlington’s blood would just wipe off with nary a sign she’d plunged it into his cold, unfeeling heart.
“Just six months ago you gave me the cut direct.” Pippa leveled the blunt letter opener at Arlington’s chest. “Now, you dare saunter into my house and propose I be your mistress?”
Arlington curled his long fingers around her wrist and pulled it aside, effectively thwarting any attempt on his life. “Much as you’d like to stab me, that wouldn’t be wise, Miss Welby. People will ask questions, and I’m not entirely sure you are ready to hang for a simple misunderstanding. I don’t want you for my mistress,” he said. “I want you for my wife.”
All of her anger drained away instantly. She blinked several times; certain she’d heard him wrong. “Your wife?”
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