“Blackheart,” Mrs. Halton said dreamily.
Lady Carlisle’s head spun around. “Mama.”
“Er, he was dreadful. Horrid.” Mrs. Halton waved a slender hand in disdain. “Too much muscle and swagger for my tastes. A brute, really. So arrogant and strong…”
Lady Carlisle dropped her face into her hands, then glared at her husband. “This is your fault, you know. If Mama runs off with a pirate…”
“I would never run anywhere,” Mrs. Halton protested.
“You ran to America when you were seventeen years old!”
“Well, it would have to be quite a pirate to tempt me away from all this. I have a family again.” Mrs. Halton touched her daughter’s cheek. “I have you again, Grace. I have no urge to go anywhere.”
Oliver leaned forward to pin his gaze on Edmund. “What about you? It’s good to see you, but… shouldn’t you be with Sarah? I can’t imagine you would leave her side if she were feeling unwell.”
Edmund’s chest tightened. “I would never leave her. Sarah left me.”
Chapter 9
Tears sprang to Sarah’s eyes as her nightrail-covered knee rammed into yet another block of antique furniture. Blast.
The problem wasn’t disorientation from having slept in someone else’s townhouse for a few nights. A low fire crackled behind the grate and bathed Sarah’s bedchamber with a soft, warm glow.
The problem was Sarah’s complete inability to walk in a straight line.
Somewhere around month six or seven, her ability to stroll had devolved into an unbecoming waddle. By month eight, she frequently found herself veering off into unexpected angles. Over the past week—ouch! Deuce it, why was there so much bloody furniture?—she had become so huge and ungainly that every time she took a step, she crashed into something.
The snow falling outside was beautiful and relaxing, or at least it would be if Sarah were capable of sleep. The baby kicked her at all hours of the day and night, and at least half of those well-placed kicks resulted in the immediate need to use a chamber pot. She had even begun dreaming about stomach pain, but the last several times she’d woken, her bladder had been empty.
Sarah washed her hands in the expensive porcelain basin on her bedside table without managing to upend either item, and decided to slip down to the kitchen in search of a bite to eat. Heaven help her, she was always hungry.
’Twas perhaps three or four in the morning. She didn’t feel comfortable waking any servants just because she wanted something sweet, but dash it, she could not seem to go a single hour without yet another food craving.
The trick would be not tumbling down the staircase mid-route.
She shrugged a robe over her nightrail and lit a candle in the fireplace to light her way before she slowly eased open her chamber door.
When her foot landed on a squeaky floorboard, she covered her mouth to hide a giggle. The situation reminded her too much of sneaking into kitchens with Anthony in search of biscuits, when they were young children.
Sarah had just reached the staircase when a sudden cramp gripped her belly—and was just as quickly gone. She frowned and ran her hands over her stomach. It had almost felt like her womanly cramps, except of course she hadn’t had one of those in eight months.
She counted slowly to one hundred, but the feeling didn’t return. Instead, her stomach growled its impatience. The baby delivered a double kick, just to make certain Sarah was paying attention.
“Yes, fine, biscuits,” she muttered at her belly and turned back toward the stairs.
This time, the sudden cramp was severe enough to make her cry out and stumble against the banister to catch her breath.
Katherine’s door flung open and she ran out into the corridor, wild-eyed. “What is it? What’s happening?”
“I’m fine,” Sarah gasped, clutching the banister for dear life. “I’m just…”
A stream of warm liquid splashed down her bare legs and onto Katherine’s expensive wood floor.
Sarah’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. If only the banister would swallow her whole. She had tried to use the chamber pot. She would never live down the mortification of—
“Ohh,” she moaned as another cramp seized her from the inside.
Another door flew open. Katherine’s Great-Aunt Havens rushed into the corridor—and stepped right into the fresh warm puddle.
Sarah closed her eyes. This was beyond humiliation. This was—
“The baby,” Mrs. Havens breathed. “It’s coming now.”
“Nooo,” Katherine moaned and sagged against the wainscoting. “You promised you wouldn’t do this until you’d gone back home. You gave me your solemn word.”
“I’m sorry,” Sarah gasped, clutching her belly. “I should have another fortnight…”
“You should get back into bed,” Mrs. Havens said briskly, braving the wet puddle to wrap a bracing arm about Sarah’s back. “Come. Let’s get you settled. Kate, have the staff fetch hot water and clean cloths. You’ll need them to—”
“Me?” Katherine blanched in horror. “I shall not be anywhere near a childbirthing. I’ll be down at the closest pub, spending every coin I have on gin.”
“Very well, then. Just wait in the corridor and summon the items I demand, as I ask for them. I will handle everything.”
“You? But you haven’t been a midwife in twenty years, Aunt. You can’t possibly—”
“Kate. Who do you suppose will deliver this baby? Father Christmas? There isn’t time to do anything else.”
“Hot water,” Katherine repeated as she raced toward the stairs. “Clean cloths. Back in a moment.”
Sarah lay back in the bed and tried not to succumb to complete and utter panic.
Midwife. She didn’t have a midwife. She didn’t have anything. The baby clothes she had embroidered were at home at her parents’. Her tiny nest egg was at the Bank of England and could not be withdrawn without her presence. Her husband didn’t even know she was here. She moaned. This was a disaster.
Katherine skidded back into the room with an armful of pristine white towels. Two footmen followed close behind, each carrying pails of steaming water. Katherine immediately sent them off for more.
“Here are the cloths, Aunt.” Katherine’s face was pale, her eyes glassy. “What else do you need?”
“Pillows,” Mrs. Havens said calmly. “We need to ensure your friend’s comfort.”
“Pillows,” Katherine repeated, and dashed from the room.
Sarah clutched her stomach as another contraction rocked her. She was drenched in sweat and so terrified the birth was going to go wrong that she wouldn’t have noticed if she were laying on pillows or rocks. But she, too, had seen the terror in Katherine’s face. If having a purpose would have a calming effect, then Sarah was all for it.
Only one of them could panic, and that person was Sarah.
“Pillows!” Katherine announced as a flock of maids burst into the room, laden with every cushion in the entire townhouse.
“Prop her up,” Mrs. Havens ordered, dragging a stool to the foot of the bed. “Knees, too. Won’t be long now.”
Katherine blanched and began to sway alarmingly.
Mrs. Havens pinned her with a sharp glance. “Your friend is overwarm, Kate. This can be an uncomfortable process. She might like to suck on some ice.”
Katherine blinked, then pulled herself together. “Ice. Yes. I can bring ice.”
Sarah closed her eyes and groaned as another contraction ripped through her. It was different now, much stronger than her monthly cramps. The pain was sharp, the pressure visceral. It felt like her body was tightening, rather than opening. Like the world’s worst constipation. Good Lord, she hoped she didn’t make that kind of mess in Katherine’s antique bed. Right in front of her.
Sarah’s legs ached. Her back ached. Her hips ached. Each new wave was a fresh knife from the top of her stomach through her womb.
By the time Katherine returned with the ice chips, the cr
amps were coming much faster. Sarah’s nightrail was sticky with sweat and she could no longer speak from the fear and the pain.
“What do you need?” Katherine begged. “What can I bring you?”
“Needle and thread in case of tearing,” Mrs. Havens said. “Scissors to sever the cord.”
“Edmund,” Sarah managed to pant between another wave of cramps. Panic flooded her. Needles? Tearing?
Katherine raced out the door.
“Shh,” Mrs. Havens cooed softly, applying gentle pressure on Sarah’s knees to widen her thighs. “I’ll tell you when to push. So will your body.”
Sarah groaned and nodded, no longer embarrassed about her nudity or her fluids. There was too much pain for that. Too much concentration. She just wanted the baby out.
Healthy. Safe. And in her arms.
She threw back her head and screamed as the baby’s head began to push out into the cool night air.
Mrs. Havens kept up a steady patter of soft, calming words.
Sarah didn’t register any of it. She was trying too hard to keep sucking in air, to keep pushing in time with the contractions, to breathe during the pauses, to not cry from exhaustion.
With one last push, the pressure finally eased just as a loud, furious cry rent the air.
Sarah’s eyes flew open. Her baby. She’d done it!
Her lungs were still too weak to allow for lucid conversation, so she held out her arms and gave Mrs. Havens a tired, relieved smile.
Mrs. Havens quickly bathed the infant with a clean wet cloth before swaddling the tiny limbs and placing the baby in Sarah’s waiting arms.
“A boy. Congratulations.”
A boy. Tears streamed down her cheeks as Sarah cuddled the baby to her chest. Ruddy cheeks. Bright blue eyes. He was so small, so perfect. Every minute of the birthing was worth it, just to hold him in her arms. Her child.
She would make a family for this baby. By force, if necessary. Her son would be the happiest, most well-adjusted boy in the history of children. He would never want for a meal, or doubt his parents’ love for him. She would be the best mother that ever lived.
The door flew open and Katherine burst back inside. This time, with Edmund on her heels.
Sarah gazed up at him sleepily. Dreamily. “It’s a boy, darling. We have a son.”
“We have a son.” He fell to his knees beside her, and covered her face with a thousand kisses.
Mrs. Havens turned toward Katherine. “Your friend…”
“Sarah, Aunt. This is Sarah.”
Mrs. Havens nodded blankly. “Have I met her?”
Edmund’s gaze flew to Sarah’s in alarm.
She smiled and lifted a shoulder. Nothing mattered but the baby. Her life had completely changed.
“May I hold him?” Edmund’s voice was quiet, but eager.
Sarah hesitated. Not because she wished to withhold his son from him, but because she wasn’t quite ready to let the baby go. Even for a moment.
“I don’t know if—” A sharp pain rocketed through her, stealing her breath. Her head fell back against the pillow in agony. “Take him,” she gasped. “Take him.”
“What is it?” Edmund stammered, lifting the baby from her arms. “What’s wrong?”
Mrs. Havens sat back down on her footstool and grinned at the room. “Your friend is having twins.”
Chapter 10
In his three years at war, in the long, blood-drenched hours of Waterloo, in the eight arduous months it took to finally make his way home, Brigadier Edmund Blackpool had not once succumbed to panic.
Until now.
His heart banged as he approached his townhouse. He didn’t have a baby. He had two babies. Two tiny, helpless, completely identical infant sons. Timothy was the one in Sarah’s arms. Edmund was holding little Noah.
Probably. Had he mentioned they were completely identical?
Edmund inched up the freshly cleared front walk with slow, careful steps. He did not want his first act as a father to be slipping on an ice patch and flinging his newborn baby into the sky.
London wasn’t helping matters. The babies were as displeased with the noise and the crowds as Edmund was, although their red-faced cries were much louder. The stink of the waste and the layer of soot from a city of burning coal were as unpleasant for the babies as the bitter wind and the blinding yellow sun.
His first goal was to get them tucked away inside as quickly and safely as possible.
His second goal was to figure out what the devil to do next.
The cradle was a good size, but was it large enough for two babies? Or would they have to keep one in their arms while the other one slept until Edmund could get an additional cradle delivered?
Presuming the babies would ever sleep. Or that Sarah would allow them to leave her arms. So far Edmund hadn’t seen much evidence of either possibility.
As soon as they drew near the front step, the footman swung open the door and ushered them inside. Edmund and Sarah stared at each other for a long moment as the cozy interior warmth replaced the chill of the city.
There. Now they were inside. With their coats and scarves and hats and boots and winter gloves still on.
Holding two tiny babies.
“Er,” said Edmund.
Sarah raised her brows in question.
He smiled awkwardly and wished he hadn’t said anything. Sweat dripped down his spine.
Edmund had earned the title of brigadier because of his skill at organizing and deploying soldiers. He wasn’t good at developing a winning battle plan that encompassed an exhausted bride, married life, and two infant children.
His blood boiled in frustration. He hated not knowing what to do. All his dreams—romantic waltzes, long walks along the river, fireworks under the stars—had disappeared the moment Sarah was actually within his sight.
He’d wanted this to be perfect. He’d wanted to be perfect. He longed to have her look at him again the way she used to do before. When she’d thought he was magnificent and capable of anything. When she’d loved him.
Instead, they were slowly sweating to death in the middle of his austere bachelor townhouse.
Which Sarah had never before seen. Edmund straightened. That was something he could do!
“Come,” he said gruffly. “Let me show you your new home.”
She followed him through the parlor to the dining room, around the kitchen and up the stairway to the master bedroom, and the nursery that had once been his study.
He stopped there because it seemed the most practical place to pause, and tilted his head toward the singular cradle. “I sent for another before we left Miss Ross’s house. It may take a day or two, but—”
“It’s lovely,” Sarah said tiredly, as if she barely registered his presence at all. “Thank you.”
He was appalled at his lack of insight. “You’re exhausted. Of course you’re exhausted. Let’s… let’s do something. Would you like to lie down? I can… er… watch the babies…”
By himself. Alone. Dear God, what was he saying?
“They’re hungry,” Sarah said, gazing down at the one in her arms. Timothy. Most likely. “That’s why they’re fussing. And my breasts ache. I think I’m leaking milk inside my coat.”
Her breasts ached. Leaking milk. He had to take action. Edmund glanced around the room in search of inspiration.
“Put Timothy inside the cradle, and take off your coat and gloves. Then you can feed him.”
“Noah.”
“Er, Noah. Put Noah in the cradle.”
When Sarah met his gaze, her eyes were laughing. “Do you have any idea which is which?”
“Do you?” Edmund countered brilliantly. He wasn’t certain which way he hoped she’d answer.
“I do, actually. You’re holding Noah—”
“I knew it!” The back of his neck heated at her raised brow. He flashed a guilty smile. “Or, at least, I suspected strongly.”
“—and I am holding Timothy.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Their hair.”
Edmund cast a skeptical glance at the wiggling baby in his arms. “They both have precisely one tuft of hair.”
“Look closer.” Sarah stepped closer. “Noah’s whorl of hair curls off to the right, whilst Timothy’s cowlick curves off to the left.”
Edmund stared at both babies, then grinned at Sarah. “You’re a bloody genius.”
Her smile vanished as though he’d slapped her.
“No profanity in front of the babies,” she hissed.
He blinked. “They’re one day old. They have no idea what we’re saying.”
Her jaw set. “It’s a bad habit, and we’re not going to do it.”
Fine. Edmund clamped his teeth together to keep from responding. No swearing in front of infants. If that was the line he needed to walk to get her to look at him like she used to, so be it.
He gestured across the room with his elbow. “Please put Timothy in the cradle and take off your coat. I don’t want you to get overheated. The babies’ safety and your comfort are my sole priorities.”
The moment Sarah laid Timothy in the cradle, he started screaming. She snatched him right back up and his cries immediately ceased.
“Put him down,” Edmund repeated.
“I can’t,” Sarah said wretchedly. “He’ll cry.”
Edmund narrowed his eyes. One day old, and his son had already mastered the art of manipulating women. “You can’t feed him if you’re wearing seven layers of clothing and I can’t feed him no matter what I do. You’re going to have to put him down. Long enough to take off your coat, at least.”
She stared at the cradle doubtfully. “I'll have to unlace my gown.”
“And unlace your gown,” Edmund agreed. Sarah had mentioned she hadn’t bothered with stays since about the third month of her pregnancy, but there was still a shift and a morning dress between her breast and her child.
Sarah took a deep breath and placed Timothy back into the cradle. He screamed as if it were a vat of lava. She shot a pleading glance toward Edmund.
He shook his head firmly. “Coat.”
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 59