by Susana Ellis
Cornelia paled. “What could have possibly happened?” She unfolded the letter with trembling fingers. “It’s from Preston.”
Frederica peered over her shoulder. “What does he say? Doesn’t he know you are returning to London tomorrow?”
Cornelia dropped back into the chair. “He is in Cheshire. It’s Joanna, the viscountess. She lost the babe, and nearly died herself. I am to travel posthaste to Cheshire.”
Her friend gasped and hugged Cornelia from behind. “Merciful heavens, that poor woman. But—she will recover? Does he say?”
Cornelia felt numb. “At the time this was written, her condition was improving, but it must still be quite serious if Preston believes my presence is required.” A thought suddenly occurred to her. “Oh no.” She slumped in her chair. “What have I done?”
Frederica hurried around Cornelia and dropped to her knees beside her. “Cornelia, what is it?”
“I have ruined his life,” moaned Cornelia.
“What are you talking about?”
Cornelia pressed a hand to her temple. “What if the viscountess is unable to bear more children?”
Frederica frowned in confusion.
“That would make Preston heir to the viscountcy.”
“But that is a good thing— Oh.” Frederica pressed a fist to her mouth.
Cornelia nodded. “The title will fall to Preston, which means he must provide the male heir. And he is married to me.” Cornelia dropped the hand gripping the letter onto her lap. “What am I to do? If I had not proposed this—this travesty of a marriage—Preston could marry and do his duty to his family.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “He would have his choice of any young lady on the marriage mart. Instead, he’s tied to a sham marriage and will never have legitimate children of his own.” She rose and began pacing the room. “Oh Freddie, I wish I had never gone through with this preposterous scheme. We lied to our families. We made vows to each other and to God, all the time knowing them to be lies. Is this God’s punishment for our deception?”
Frederica rose, hurried to the bell pull and rang for service. The maid arrived. When Frederica ordered her to bring brandy, the girl repeated the request, clearly uncertain she had heard correctly.
“Yes, brandy,” Frederica said. “Mrs. Warrington has had some distressing news.” She turned when the maid left. “Cornelia, do sit down and calm yourself. You are assuming a great deal from that brief message. The situation may not be as dire as you imagine.”
Cornelia sobbed and Frederica rushed to her side and pulled her into a hug. Cornelia cried on her shoulder for several minutes, then allowed herself to be led back to her chair and accepted a glass of brandy when it arrived. She choked down a mouthful of spirits. A comforting warmth flowed through her body. The sense of doom that had overtaken her dulled, and she could breathe a bit easier.
“The color has returned to your face, my dear.” Frederica smoothed hair from her face. “Do you feel up to discussing this matter, or would you prefer to rest in your room?”
Cornelia would have much preferred to lose herself in a fog of spirits, but she didn’t have that luxury. She was leaving in the morning and, in any case, her room wouldn’t be much of a respite with Norton laundering and packing her clothing for the trip. This was her last opportunity to confer with Freddie before having to make some disagreeable and life-changing decisions about the future.
“I need your help, Freddie. Preston does not deserve this. He once mentioned that he never wanted the title for himself and was happy to be the spare son who could flit about and do as he pleased.” She shook her head. “But he is not a man to shirk his duty. He’s nothing if not loyal, and his family means everything to him. He adored his father and mother while they lived. He told me how much he regretted not being at their sides when they died, nor even able to attend their funerals. When we were in Cheshire—before the wedding—we visited their graves, and he genuinely grieved when he beheld them.” She bit her lip at the memory of him clasping her hand tightly while he recounted tales of his childhood as they returned to the house.
“You care about him.”
Cornelia sighed heavily. “Of course, I do. Who would not? I am not a heartless monster, only a selfish one.”
“Are you certain it’s not more than that, Cornelia?”
Cornelia stiffened. “I am not in love with him. I can’t be.”
Yet, she remembered the tingling that went through her body whenever he touched her, accidentally or otherwise, and the way he’d made her laugh on their honeymoon. Indeed, she seemed to lose track of time when they were together, so delighted she was to be in his presence. Being his wife—even a pretend one—had proved to be an exhilarating experience. How proud she had been to be presented to the Prince Regent as his wife—and to note the envy on the faces of many of the ladies present.
He’d played the devoted husband to the hilt. He could easily have abandoned her to her own pursuits while he haunted the Pavilion and the gentlemen’s clubs. It was not unheard of for real bridal couples to spend some time apart, even on their honeymoons. She could have happily filled her days on the beach and in the shops and tearooms. But Preston had seemed to enjoy spending time with her—no, he had enjoyed their time together, she was certain. But that didn’t mean he loved her.
She took another sip of brandy.
“Cornelia,” said Frederica as she squeezed her hand, “you might consider making this marriage a true one. No, don’t,” she added when Cornelia opened her mouth to reply. “I know why you believe you must not bear children. I also know that your parents don’t agree. Your father loved you before you were born—even gave you his name—although he knew you were sired by another. Why do you assume that you could not love a child of your own, sired by a husband you care for and likely even love?”
Cornelia grimaced. “That man—my real father—brutally raped and beat my mother. I despise him for that. I won’t give birth to a child with his tainted blood.” Her stomach turned with nausea, as it always did, at the thought of being the daughter of a rapist.
“But you haven’t become a monster, Cornelia. A child of yours would have even less ‘contaminated’ blood. He would have the benefit of your love and affection, as well as your husband’s, and that of all your family and his. Surely that must bear more influence on the child’s character than a mere accident of birth.”
Cornelia rubbed her aching temples. She wasn’t used to drinking spirits. She’d debated this issue since the age of eighteen, since that day she’d found her mother’s journal and discovered the truth about her birth. If only she hadn’t found it, had never learned that the admiral wasn’t her real father—how simple her life would have been. By this time, she’d be married with a family, as her siblings were, and her parents would have carried their secret to the grave. But she had succumbed to the temptation to open Pandora’s box, and once opened, she couldn’t put back the terrible truth it had revealed.
“I do not think I can, Freddie. Preston deserves better.”
“Why not let him decide that? I don’t know why you did not tell him the truth before the wedding, but surely you agree that he must know now.”
Cornelia shook her head. “We were strangers. How could I confide such a personal family secret to someone I hardly knew? We weren’t meant to remain together for more than a few weeks, so it hardly mattered.” She drew a deep breath. “But yes, I shall have to tell him now. Perhaps we can have the marriage annulled.”
“I hope it does not come to that,” said Frederica, her brow wrinkled. “Think of the scandal, Cornelia.”
She would be persona non grata in the haut ton, and likely Preston, too, as the scandalmongers speculated on the reason for the rift. Her father and mother and siblings would likewise be affected, and his family, as well. An annulment of the marriage would harm her loved ones for a very long time.
“Damn that Marriage Maker to hell,” she muttered.
With
that, she stalked from the room, entered her bedchamber, dismissed her maid and fell onto the bed for a long, heartbroken cry.
Chapter Nine
Warrington, Cheshire
Five days later
Joanna’s physical condition improved enough that Preston regretted having sent for Cornelia. He could have allowed her to return to London as planned and then broached the fact that he was now responsible for producing an heir. As it was, they would have to discuss the matter as guests in his brother’s home, and Cornelia would be under considerable pressure to reassure their hosts that she would do her duty to the viscountcy.
He slammed a fist on the marble mantelpiece. What was he thinking? They had agreed to a marriage of convenience, to live their lives apart, to protect each other from the incessant demands of their loved ones to marry and settle down. He had no right to expect anything more from her, no matter the change in circumstances. He would have to take care—when he broke the news to her—not to phrase it in a manner that would make her feel obligated to make theirs a true marriage. While he would like nothing better than to have Cornelia as a true wife, the last thing he wanted was to make her feel she had no other choice.
In the end, though, neither of them would have a choice. He had to have an heir. His brother knew that he would always ensure the care of Joanna and the children. But their cousin John would throw them out without a moment’s hesitation.
William strode into the room. “Why so glum? Your wife is due any moment. You are still newlyweds, after all. I remember when Joanna and I—” The sound of dogs barking and wheels turning over the gravel drive cut him off. “That must be your wife now.” William turned on his heel and started for the door. “I had better inform Joanna.”
* * *
The journey to Cheshire seemed endless. When it wasn’t raining—which it did during most daylight hours—the gray sky and bleak countryside mirrored Cornelia’s grim spirits. Her maid’s inane chatter gave her a headache that would not be cured, and the dips in the muddy road made it impossible to sleep. Innkeepers and serving staff did not seem inclined to extend to her the same deference as before, when her husband accompanied her. She and Norton took to having their meals in their cramped rooms rather than endure the leers of other patrons in the taproom. On several occasions, she found herself having to dispute charges when some insolent rogue tried to overcharge her.
All in all, she missed having a husband to travel with. Truthfully, she missed Preston.
He was witty and charming and full of stories from his adventures on the Continent that kept her enthralled or laughing uncontrollably, and sometimes both. He noticed things that other people missed—no doubt, a skill that served him well during his undercover service—and at the same time he wanted to hear what she had to say, about her life, her family, her work with the Foundling Hospital, books, politics, anything she wanted to share. Warmth and sincerity shone in his eyes when he looked at her, and as their honeymoon progressed, she thought—imagined—there was something more than friendship in them.
Knowing that he would be leaving soon for India, and that she had no business falling in love with an absent husband, she had hurriedly organized a trip to Hampshire to visit Frederica and her new baby. But it was too late. As delighted as she was to see her old friend again, she found herself longing for Preston, and soon had to come to terms with the fact that she had fallen in love with him. Who would not? Preston was imminently lovable.
How foolish she had been to believe she could solve her problems by entangling herself in a pretend marriage without expecting some sort of consequence.
Passing through Stretton, where they had spent their wedding night, the time for reflection ended. Only a few short miles lay between her and Warrington Manor, and Cornelia would have to face her future. Not just hers, though, but Preston’s, and his family’s, as well. She sat straight in her seat and considered what she would say when she rejoined them.
What could one say to a woman who had not only lost a child, but failed at what many would say was a woman’s most important duty: producing an heir for her husband? Enlightened men would not blame their wives for a twist of fate so completely outside their control, but the woman likely would. The only thing Cornelia could think to say that might make Joanna feel better was something she could not say.
It isn’t your fault, Joanna. You’re not alone. Responsibility for the title no longer rests on your shoulders alone. I cannot promise I can succeed, but I will do my best to assure your future and the future of your children.
Telling her the truth wasn’t an option, either.
* * *
Preston stood at the front steps when the carriage pulled up to the door. He watched eagerly for a glimpse of Cornelia’s face through the window, instantly aware of how much he had missed her. While he wasn’t looking forward to the difficult conversation ahead of them, his heart raced in anticipation of having her near him once again.
He opened the carriage door and put down the steps, wholly intending to help her down in a dignified manner, but when he offered his arm, she lost her balance and fell into his embrace, her breasts crushed against his chest.
She stared up at him, wide-eyed. “I tripped.”
He smiled down at her. “So I see.”
“I believe you can put me down, sir.”
He lifted a brow. “Are you certain it is safe?”
She drew in a deep breath that lifted her breasts over her bodice enough to send his heart into erratic rhythms.
“I believe so.” She blushed charmingly. “But it is rather nice to have you there to catch me.”
“My pleasure entirely.” He set her down carefully.
Memories of all the times he had helped her out of the carriage to observe a particularly beautiful prospect or to search for a pleasant site for a picnic flooded him, easing the anxiety that knotted his belly.
She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. “How fares Joanna? You said in your note that she was improving, but that was ages ago.”
Preston’s chest tightened. “She is better, although she hovered at death’s door for several days. William has been frantic with worry. I have never seen him so desperate. He still worries. Joanna has some ways to go before she is fully recovered.” He hesitated. “But Cornelia, there is something—”
“Cornelia.” William emerged from the house. “How wonderful to see you again.”
Cornelia faced him. “Thank you, William. I am happy to see you, as well. I-I am sorry about the trouble you have had. Preston tells me Joanna is recovering, though? I have been greatly worried since I received his note.”
He took her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you for your kindness. My wife is improved.” His expression clouded. “There was a time when we thought— Well, happily, we did not have to deal with the worst possible outcome. Do come in, my dear. Joanna bade me bring you to her right away, so eager she is to see you.”
“We will talk later,” Preston whispered as they followed William into the house.
Cornelia nodded grimly. Had she guessed about Joanna’s situation? Oh, how he wished they could speak privately. He took a deep breath and attempted to rein in his apprehension.
* * *
Cornelia caught sight of Joanna, sitting on the terrace next to a table with a pitcher of lemonade and a filled glass in front of her. Wrapped in a thick blanket, her face, thin and gaunt, had dark circles under her eyes. She was the farthest thing possible from the happy, effervescent woman Cornelia had met a few weeks earlier.
Cornelia hurried to Joanna’s side. Cornelia knelt and grasped both her hands. “I heard about the babe. I’m so very sorry.”
Joanna’s slight frame seemed to shrink as her head slumped to her chest. “It was a boy,” she sobbed. “An heir, at last.”
Cornelia’s throat constricted. What could she say? Nothing would help. “I am sorry,” she said with a sympathetic glance at both Joanna and William. “I am so glad Preston sent for me. I know
things look black for you now, but you will get better. I will remain by your side as long as it takes to nudge you back to health. Preston too,” she said, with a nod in his direction. “We are family, and that is what family does for each other.”
For an instant, Joanna’s eyes filled with hope, and Cornelia drew her into a gentle embrace. When she drew back, Preston shoved a chair to Joanna’s right, and Cornelia sat in the chair to her left. Preston remained standing, like a hawk ready to swoop.
“Forgive me, Cornelia,” Joanna whispered. “I did not wish to discomfit you by turning morbid so soon after your arrival. It’s just that—well, seeing you so vigorous and healthy—” She burst into fresh tears and accepted the handkerchief Cornelia offered her. Joanna dabbed at her eyes. “I shan’t be having any more children, you see.”
Cornelia didn’t flutter an eyelash. Here it comes. She handed Joanna the glass of lemonade sitting in front of her and urged her to drink. “Remember, you have three very delightful daughters.”
“Aunt Cornelia!” With perfect timing, the three girls burst from the house, followed by their governess.
“We heard the servants bringing up your trunks, and when the children went to the window and saw their uncle’s carriage—” The governess shrugged.
Cornelia rose to embrace her nieces.
Twenty minutes later, when William insisted that Joanna retire for a nap, Preston said, “Cornelia, perhaps you would like a rest, as well?”
She nodded, and kissed each of the girls, then left them with the governess and allowed Preston to lead her into the house.
In the hallway, out of earshot, Preston said, “I am sorry, I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone but me.”
She nodded. “I know.”
His mouth fell open. “You knew?”
They reached the stairs and started up. “I suspected. Your note did sound rather desperate. I suspected she might have incurred some sort of damage in the process.”
He shook his head. “We were overwhelmed with fear that she might not survive. William stayed by her side night and day, and I tried to keep the girls occupied.”