Edmund stared at his well-meaning mother in growing dismay. It was good to be home, but allowing his mother to smother his bride with unceasing attentions was the last thing they needed. The first thing they needed was the privacy—and the time—to get to know each other again.
Correction: the first step in the battle was to get married.
Chapter 6
Within hours of having returned from his visit to his parents, Edmund had given enough orders and commissioned enough supplies to feel like the general of an army.
His townhouse (long live Bartholomew!) would be the base for Operation Wife and Baby. There wasn’t quite enough money to employ more than a skeletal crew of servants, but how much trouble could a tiny infant be?
Once a few investments paid off, they could hire governesses or nannies or wet nurses or whatever the baby needed. Until then, Edmund and Sarah would simply have to be battalion leaders. A team. A solid, united front against the world.
Or at least against soiled nappies.
Bearing a folded parchment on a silver tray, Edmund’s manservant entered what had once been Edmund’s study and was now a makeshift nursery. A cradle would arrive within the week, as would a beggaring amount of linens and white cotton baby gowns and suitable toys. And a pair of rocking chairs had been commissioned to match the cradle.
The housekeeper had suggested most of the items, for which Edmund was deeply grateful. He knew nothing about being a husband and even less about being a father to a small child. His own past gave no insight. He and his brother had been nearly eight years old before they could finally slip out from under their mother’s watchful eye to engage in manly pursuits with their father. Hunting. Fishing. Boxing.
Those things would come later. The first year would be the hardest. Or perhaps the most dull. When did babies begin talking and playing? When they were two years of age? Three? Perhaps that was why he and his twin hadn’t engaged their father’s interest until they were much older. They had been boring.
No matter. Even if his child was nothing more than a pretty little doll at first, he would not abandon Sarah to do the rearing herself. Nor should she have to. His fists clenched. If he had more money, she wouldn’t have had to lift a finger—most gentlewomen had little reason to interact with their offspring.
But Sarah was not most gentlewomen and Edmund was not a gentleman at all. If he were, he wouldn’t have taken her innocence and left her with child. Nor would he have stolen her out from the arms of a duke, or forced her to live in renovated bachelor apartments while he made rash investments in hopes of a large windfall.
He didn’t wish Sarah to have a comfortable existence. He wished her to have a marvelous one. He wanted to surround her with riches and luxury and pleasure. She had given up her chance at being a duchess… for him. The least he could do was treat her like one.
Edmund had just finished dragging the boxes of old ledgers from his study into the cubby beneath the stairwell when he recalled both the presence of his footman—who would have been more than happy to do the heavy lifting himself—and the missive upon his platter.
Cheeks burning, Edmund snatched the letter up from the tray and tried to feign as though it were not strange at all for him to have automatically thrown himself into servants’ work.
Edmund sighed. He would be gossip fodder by nightfall.
When he’d left for war, he doubted he’d ever wondered where items were stored when they were not in use, much less have been aware of the existence of storage areas beneath staircases. Or the best way to lift a heavy crate so that one’s back did not spasm with agony upon the morrow.
He would not think of the past, Edmund reminded himself as he inspected the letter. He would think only of Sarah. And… Ravenwood? Edmund broke the familiar seal and began to read.
Blackpool,
Come to Ravenwood House at once. Urgent matter requires your immediate presence.
Dress nicely.
Ravenwood
Edmund reread the contents a second time before he was certain he’d understood it correctly. When had the letter been delivered? He glanced at the clock upon the mantel. Perhaps a half hour past? If he hadn’t been so busy doing footmen’s work, Edmund could already be at Ravenwood House.
Jaw clenched, he strode into his bedchamber to make himself as presentable as possible. Surprisingly, his coxcomb brother had not thought a valet to be an essential part of Edmund’s staff. He had a footman, a cook, and a housekeeper, but no one to tell him whether the waistcoats he’d purchased four years ago were still at the height of fashion—or likely to make him a laughingstock.
There was no time to worry about such things, nor did they warrant his attention. He had decided toward the beginning of the war that anything that wouldn’t matter in a month’s time didn’t deserve to matter at all. That pragmatism had gotten him through the worst of it.
An unfashionable waistcoat was the least of his concerns.
He cleaned and dressed as quickly as he could before descending to the street to flag a hack. Bartholomew had in fact continued paying for the upkeep of Edmund’s old horses, but this morning Edmund had sold everything and split the profit with his brother.
Someday, he and Sarah would have the finest steeds and finest carriages in all of London. For the next few months, however, they were unlikely to leave the nursery. That savings was better spent in investments that could double or triple in value over time.
He hoped.
The moment the hack dropped him off at Ravenwood House, the butler was already opening the door to grant him entrance.
Edmund frowned, but did not slow his pace. He assumed the staff would be less than pleased with his interruption of the duke’s plans to take a wife, but they were doing a masterful job at keeping their expressions clear of rancor or judgment.
A footman led Edmund not toward Ravenwood’s study, but toward the billiard room. Rather, toward the back parlor where the duke had tried to wed Edmund’s bride.
His heart quickened as he entered the room. The same people were present. Sarah and Ravenwood, at the altar. The vicar. Edmund’s own brother—this time accompanied by his wife Daphne and… Sarah’s elder brother Anthony?
“What is this?” Edmund demanded, his voice hoarse with fear and fury.
Ravenwood stepped forward. “You’re getting married. I apologize, but there wasn’t enough time to summon your parents up from Kent for the ceremony. The vicar must leave for Derby within the hour, and I know you wish to take care of this matter promptly.”
Edmund blinked, then swung his baffled gaze to Sarah.
“He used his influence to have your request for a special license granted,” she murmured low enough so only he could hear. “Considering this vicar witnessed what happened last time… He thought it best to involve the least number of persons as possible.”
Ravenwood thought it best. Edmund’s teeth clenched behind his frigid smile. He forced his tight muscles to relax.
Would it matter a month from now who had helped procure the special license, and how? No, it would not. All that mattered was Sarah. Miraculously, she would be his, at last.
“You may take your seat,” he couldn’t resist ordering Ravenwood, before turning to the vicar. “Please begin as soon as you’re ready.”
The vicar nodded.
Edmund took Sarah’s hands and didn’t let go.
She was beautiful. Her eyes were tired and her limbs had swollen and her stomach was large enough to birth a baby elephant… His baby elephant. There was nowhere else he’d rather be than by her side, holding her hands in his.
It didn’t matter whether either one of them was ready to marry or to start a family. That was what they’d been given. What they had wanted. If not like this.
The vicar turned to Edmund. “Have you a ring for your bride?”
Sarah’s fingers flinched and grew cold in Edmund’s hands. The room fell silent.
Ravenwood leapt up from his seat. “You are welcome t
o use the—”
“I have a ring,” Edmund said quietly.
He released Sarah’s hands just long enough to reach into his waistcoat pocket and pull out the ring he had purchased in Bruges after Sarah had boarded her passenger ship back to England.
The reason it hadn’t been stolen when he’d been left for dead on the battlefield was because he hadn’t been willing to leave it in his camp—or even in his pockets. He had tied it about the arm closest to his heart with the ribbon Sarah had used to fasten her stockings. For him, it had represented a piece of the past and his dreams for the future.
Back when he’d believed in such things.
He slid the ring on Sarah’s finger with steady hands that belied the trepidation gripping his heart. His desire to wed her had never once flagged. It had only grown stronger day by day, month by month.
Did she feel the same? Or for her, did this feel more like an ending than a new beginning?
It was too late for doubt. The vicar was nearly done.
“Forasmuch as Mr. Edmund Blackpool and Miss Sarah Fairfax have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and have declared the same by giving and receiving a ring, and by joining hands…” The vicar’s voice rang out clear and true. “I pronounce that they are man and wife.”
Man and wife. Edmund’s heart swelled. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms, to kiss her senseless and thoroughly. But he’d already done quite enough to tarnish her reputation. Kisses could wait until they were alone tonight.
Hands clapped against his back as their friends surrounded them to give their well-wishes. Edmund’s ears roared from the noise and the feel of so many hands upon him at once. Everyone, it seemed, wished to hug him.
Ravenwood apologized again for being unable to fetch Edmund’s parents in time. And for offering up his own ring when Edmund needed no such intervention.
Edmund shook his head. He didn’t care what Ravenwood did with his ring. Edmund was finally married to Sarah.
“Where is Xavier?” he asked. “Could he not attend, or were we too intimate of a party?”
Daphne shook her head. “He’s in Chelmsford, I’m afraid.”
“Entertaining a bluestocking,” Bartholomew put in with a salacious wink.
Edmund couldn’t help but laugh at the image. “And Oliver? Now that he’s Earl of Carlisle, he must be in London. His presence is required in the House of Lords.”
“He… didn’t wish to intrude,” Ravenwood said, a touch too diplomatically.
“Intrude?” Edmund’s brow furrowed. “He’s been one of my best friends for as long as I’ve known him. One of our best friends. When has he ever chosen not to accompany us in anything?”
Daphne sent a pointed glance at the duke, who in turn sent a desperate glance toward Bartholomew, who lowered his eyes and looked away.
“Ah.” Edmund’s flesh ran cold. “The secret.”
Bartholomew glanced over at him, startled. “You know?”
“There obviously is one. Since everyone seems privy but me, you might as well come out with it. Why would my childhood friend have refused to attend my wedding?”
“He didn’t refuse,” Ravenwood said with a sigh. “He did it for you. He didn’t want you to look back on your wedding day and feel the experience had been soured because of his presence.”
“Soured how? He’s one of my best—”
“Waterloo,” Bartholomew interrupted, his chin up and his tone flat. “You had just been shot in the chest. The wound appeared mortal. But I refused to leave you there to die. So I raced as fast as I could to where I’d seen you fall…”
“—and ran directly in the path of the cannon fire,” Daphne finished, linking her arm with her husband’s. She lay her cheek to his shoulder.
Ravenwood nodded. “By the time Carlisle got there, you both had lost too much blood and the French were closing in. There was no time to save you both. Not with all the bullets and cannons firing in the air. Carlisle risked his foolish hide by even trying.”
The pieces clicked into place. Dully, Edmund nodded his understanding. “Oliver had to choose.”
Bartholomew grabbed his arm. “He wanted to save us both, but—”
“He chose you.” Edmund closed his eyes as months of pain and fear and hunger and desperation washed over him. He had felt furious. Frightened. Abandoned. And as it turned out, he truly had been. “I see.”
“Edmund—”
“I’m not angry with you, brother,” he said tiredly. His twin had tried to save him. That was how he’d gotten his leg blown off in the first place. It was more than Edmund could handle right now. “If you’ll excuse me, the only thing I really want right now is some time alone with my new bride.”
He couldn’t imagine what she must think. Sarah had been quiet during the entire conversation. He glanced over his shoulder and frowned. She was not behind him. He pushed his friends and brother aside to cast his frantic gaze about the entire empty room.
Sarah was gone.
Chapter 7
An hour later, Sarah accepted a steaming cup of tea from a little silver tray and settled back against a mountain of soft pillows in Miss Katherine Ross’s townhouse. “Thank you so much for taking me in. I didn’t know where else to turn. None of my friends know that I’m increasing, so I couldn’t go knocking upon their doors in this condition.”
And she’d needed to go somewhere. She needed a chance to collect herself. To think. To plan. And it was impossible to think whilst surrounded by her family, her friends. Edmund’s unexpected reappearance had thrown them all into a tizzy.
Like her, they were overjoyed at his return. Unlike her, they didn’t have to worry about what to do next. How to rekindle romance whilst eight and a half months pregnant. How to live happily ever after when hunger pangs kept them from sleeping. How to give her child the many opportunities of London on extremely limited purse strings.
“Having you spend the night is my pleasure.” Miss Ross poured a dram of milk into her tea and smiled at Sarah. “Anthony might be a rapscallion and a shameless rogue, but he is also a dear friend. The least I can do is open my home to his sister.”
Sarah’s eyes narrowed at her teacup, but she made no further comment.
Her brother Anthony was indeed a rapscallion and a shameless rogue. Miss Ross, on the other hand, was a young, eccentric patroness of the arts—and first cousin to the Duke of Lambley. Sarah could scarcely imagine how her brother and the elegant Miss Ross had ever crossed paths, much less become fast friends.
“Anthony?” Miss Ross’s great aunt asked as her trembling hands brought her teacup closer to her lips. “You don’t mean that charming Mr. Fairfax, do you, Kate?”
“Yes, dear heart. The very one.” Miss Ross smiled indulgently at her great aunt, despite having answered this same query three times since Sarah’s arrival on her doorstep.
If Sarah found it hard to imagine Anthony moving in the same circles as Miss Ross, ’twas even more difficult to imagine him having cause to make the acquaintance of Miss Ross’s Great Aunt Havens.
Then again, Anthony worked in mysterious ways. He knew lots of women. Had gambled with most of their husbands. Once, when he’d thought Sarah wasn’t listening, he’d alluded to very nearly winning a young lady as a prize in a game of chance.
Sarah couldn’t imagine Miss Ross in so ignominious a position, but one never knew with Anthony. Perhaps he’d won Great Aunt Havens during a midnight game of hazard.
As the hot tea eased her parched throat, Sarah allowed herself to relax a little.
What she’d wanted—what she’d needed—was time to think. Now that she was safely wed, she could finally spare a moment to do so. Her child would be born legitimate… and to his rightful father. Sarah had missed him so much.
She desperately wanted them to have a happy marriage. She’d already destroyed his trust by standing at the altar with another man. Even without that, she’d ruined his d
reams for an idyllic reunion by carrying a child in her belly—she’d seen the look in his eyes when he saw her. Shock. Horror. Disillusionment. He hadn’t returned to a lover. He’d had disappointment and fatherhood thrust upon him.
Sarah had a scant fortnight to take stock of her new situation and plan for the future before the baby was born. But she had only tonight to collect her thoughts and come up with a plan. She and Edmund had already been apart for far too long. Her greatest fear was losing him again. Not to distance, this time, but to unhappiness. Their new life would not be the romantic romp it once was. She swallowed hard.
Now that they were back together, he might no longer want her.
“I would ask if it’s a man,” Miss Ross said with a smile, “but it’s always a man. The ring on your finger makes me suspect marital bliss has proved elusive?”
“My husband has proved elusive.” Despite her fears, a delicious chill slid down Sarah’s spine at the words my husband. “He was a soldier, and had gone missing after Waterloo. We all thought he was dead until he showed up less than a week ago, just in time to stop my marriage to someone else.”
Miss Ross’s eyes widened. “Who on earth were you going to marry?”
Sarah twisted her ring. “The Duke of Ravenwood.”
Miss Ross very nearly spit tea into her lap.
“Ravenwood?” Mrs. Havens repeated in her querulous voice. “You don’t mean Lawrence Pembroke, the duke’s son, do you?”
“He’s duke now, Aunt.” Miss Ross patted her lips with a handkerchief then burst out laughing. “Ravenwood. Jilted!”
Sarah tilted her head. “I take it you know him?”
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 57