by Darcy Burke
“I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”
“In due time, I’m sure he will, but something tells me Perry won’t be so easily horrified by anything Christopher says again.”
Paula finished her scone and tea. “I’m sure Christopher will live with it.”
“He will. If there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s adapt to change.”
The front door opened and as soon as she recognized Perry’s voice, Paula jumped off the settee and hurried down the hallway. Before waiting for him to greet her, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I missed you.”
Christopher glanced at Agatha. “Why don’t you greet me that way when I come home?”
“Give me a reason to and I will,” Agatha shot back, a teasing gleam in her eye.
“My dear Agatha, you get more and more beautiful every day,” he replied.
She walked over to him and kissed his cheek.
“That’s it?” he asked. “Has the passion already left our marriage?”
“I think you need to read a certain book again,” Perry told him, jabbing him playfully with his cane.
Christopher groaned.
“What book is he referring to?” Agatha asked, her eyebrows raised in interest.
“Oh, nothing important,” he quickly replied. “So when is it time to eat? I worked up an appetite out there.”
“Lunch will be in an hour,” Perry said and gave Paula a kiss. “I hope you’ll be able to eat more than you did yesterday.”
“She already ate a scone,” Agatha spoke up on her behalf.
“And I’ll be hungry enough to eat lunch,” she assured her husband.
“Good.” He kissed her again then released her. “I need to change out of these riding clothes then take a bath.”
“Don’t be too long,” Paula said. “I miss you when you’re not with me.”
“You can come with me.”
She glanced at Agatha and Christopher. “I don’t know. We have company.”
He turned to them. “We’ll meet you in the drawing room in an hour.” Before Paula could respond, he slipped his arm around hers and led her to the stairs.
Barely within her hearing, Christopher told Agatha, “I had no idea my cousin had such a wild streak in him.”
To which Agatha replied, “Well, you hoped Paula would loosen him up and you got your wish.”
Perry winked at Paula and continued leading her up the stairs.
EPILOGUE
Two years later
Paula gave a final push and the doctor told her the baby was out. Exhausted, she collapsed on the pillows behind her, glad the ordeal was over. When she heard the baby let out a strong wail, she peered around her monthly nurse as the doctor wiped the baby’s face with a clean cloth.
“Congratulations, my lady,” the doctor called out over the baby’s cries. “You have a healthy baby boy.”
Laughing, Paula accepted the nurse’s help as she brought her up into a sitting position and fluffed the pillows behind her. “A boy?”
“And he’s a strong one,” the doctor said. “He keeps kicking his blanket off.”
“I’ll get him swaddled up for you,” the nurse told her before she took the child and wrapped him tightly in his blanket.
Eager to hold her son, Paula stretched her arms out and brought him to her bosom. He wiggled against her for a moment then settled down and let out a contented sigh. Tears filled her eyes as she examined him. He was so tiny. And perfect.
The nurse patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll let the father know he has an heir.”
She nodded her thanks then turned her attention back to her son. Her son! She hadn’t been sure she could conceive, given that her time with Daniel hadn’t resulted in a child. But early that year, she had discovered she was with child, and here she was just two days away from Christmas and she was holding her son.
“You did fine, Lady Clement,” the doctor said, turning his attention to taking care of the afterbirth. “Your husband will be pleased.”
Yes, he would. Though Paula knew he would have been happy with a girl, she was glad she could give him an heir. Curious about her son, she pulled back the blanket and inspected his little fingers that were clenched. He let out a yawn and opened one of his hands so she reached out to touch his palm. He curled his fingers around her forefinger. Chuckling, she whispered, “You are strong.”
She continued to hold and speak to him in low, soothing tones until the doctor was finished. “You and your son are doing well. I’m happy to say you had a good birth and should have no problems having more children in the future,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll tell Lord Clement it’s safe to come in.”
The monthly nurse returned just as the doctor left and smiled at her. “I’ll get him cleaned up for you, my lady.”
Though it was hard to part with him so soon, she handed the baby to her and watched while she gave him a quick bath, surprised he should cry.
“It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” the nurse assured her. “Babies don’t like the cold air. They spent nine months in a very warm place.”
A gentle rapping on the door brought Paula’s attention to Perry who stood at the doorway. Her smile widening, she motioned for him to join her. “You have a son.” She couldn’t resist saying it, even though she already knew the nurse had told him the good news.
“Now I can tell Christopher he doesn’t have to feel guilty for having a daughter,” he replied, his tone light as he came over to her and settled next to her on the bed.
“He can have all girls if he so desires. The pressure to pass on a title to an heir is no longer going to burden him down,” she quipped, recalling the way he responded when Perry had teased him about not having a boy three months earlier.
“I’m sure he’ll be relieved.”
Giggling, she turned back to the nurse who came over with her son. “Unless you need me for anything else, I’ll give you a few minutes alone,” the nurse said.
“We’ll be fine,” Paula replied then waited until she and Perry were alone before she spoke again. “What do you want to name him?”
A smile crossed his face. “I’d like to name him Anthony, if that’s all right with you.”
“Anthony’s a good name. You want to hold him?”
“I don’t know. He looks so small.”
“You won’t hurt him. Come on. Hold out your arms.”
Despite the slight unease in his expression, he obeyed and gingerly held his son. “He barely weighs anything.”
“I know, and that’s surprising since he felt huge in my womb.”
“Will you miss carrying him? You often mentioned how much you enjoyed it when you could feel him kick.”
“I’ll miss that part of it, but I love seeing you with him. You’ll be a wonderful father, Perry. You can teach him everything you know about chess and horses.”
“And we’ll take him for walks in Hyde Park and to the gazebo.”
“Do you really enjoy walking?”
“I do but only because I’m with you. I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it otherwise.”
She kissed his cheek and settled her head on his shoulder. “You needn’t—”
“I know, I know. I shouldn’t worry so much about what others think.”
“I understand. It’s easier said than done.” She traced her finger along their son’s nose and cheeks. “Why did you pick the name Anthony?”
“It’s Nate’s middle name.”
“Is it?”
He nodded. “I could have named him Nathaniel, I suppose, but I prefer Anthony.”
“It’s a fine name and will serve him well in the years to come.”
“Next time we have a child, you can choose the name.”
“You’re very sweet, Perry.” She gave him another kiss. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Thank you for making my life complete.”
With a contented smile, she returned he
r gaze to their son, thinking of all the good things waiting for them in their future.
MORE IN THIS SERIES
The Marriage by Scandal Series
The Earl’s Inconvenient Wife
A Most Unsuitable Earl
His Reluctant Lady
The Earl’s Scandalous Wife
ABOUT RUTH ANN NORDIN
RUTH ANN NORDIN is a stay-at-home mom of four school-aged boys and the proud wife of a veteran of the US Air Force. She lives in Montana where she is blessed to spend her days creating new worlds with her characters. To date, she's written over fifty romances and has plans to write many more in the years to come.
THE MAJOR’S FAUX FIANCÉE
Erica Ridley
Four left for war…
Only three made it home.
ONE
February 1816
London, England
Despite the icy wind pelting the windows with snow, hot rivulets of sweat dripped from Major Bartholomew Blackpool’s skin.
He was facedown in the center of his town house parlor, the muscles of his upper arms trembling as he pushed his prone body up from the faded Oriental rug again and again. As he did every morning. Balancing on the toes of just one foot.
Not that Bartholomew had much choice. Half his right leg was missing.
He’d lost the limb—and everything else he’d ever cared about—seven long months ago, at the Battle of Waterloo. His pride. His twin brother. His very identity. All gone, in the space of a few seconds.
Bartholomew gritted his teeth and increased his pace. He couldn’t replace his brother or his missing leg, but he wasn’t going to sit around weeping about it. He’d lived through the pain thus far. He could survive a great deal more.
A loose floorboard squeaked in the corridor. Someone was approaching the parlor.
With a muttered curse, Bartholomew flung himself off the rug and behind the pianoforte. He snatched up his discarded prosthesis and barely got the wretched thing secured before the parlor door slowly creaked open.
The fury in Bartholomew’s tone could have melted iron as he hoisted himself up from the floor to scowl at his butler. “What the devil is so important that you would disrupt me when I have expressly forbidden all interruptions?”
Only the slightest twitch of his nose betrayed Crabtree’s affront at this rebuke. Impassive, he strode into the parlor bearing the morning missives on a burnished silver platter, just as he’d done every single day of his seven years in Bartholomew’s employ.
Every day until his master left for war, that was. Upon returning home, Bartholomew had requested all incoming correspondence be delivered directly to the closest fireplace.
“Who put you up to this?” he demanded, although there could really only be one culprit. “Fitz, don’t you dare hide around the corner like a coward. If you’ve stones enough to order Crabtree about, you’ve stones enough to bring me your complaints in person.”
Silence reigned for a few moments before Bartholomew’s thin, excitable valet appeared in the doorway, wringing his pale hands and casting beseeching looks at the ever-stoic Crabtree.
Bartholomew let out a slow breath. This was his own folly. If he had been less vain and self-important when he left for war, he would not continue to pay his sought-after valet’s exorbitant fees, just to keep Fitz out of the clutches of the two-legged dandies.
And if Bartholomew hadn’t been the most shameless braggadocio, the most infamous rake, the most imitated Corinthian—Fitz might not still be here, hoping against hope that someday, he might once again fluff and pluck and adorn his master back into his rightful place as the most celebrated pink of the ton.
Foolishness, of course. Without two legs, a man couldn’t ride, box, waltz, or whisk pretty young ladies into shadowy corners. Nor did he wish to. Not anymore. Without his twin, Bartholomew couldn’t even smile, much less face the judgmental countenances of his peers.
What was life now, but solitude and phantom pains and locking himself in his chambers whilst he attended to his own toilette? He could no longer stand for his valet to glimpse what had become of the once-perfect body he had been so arrogantly proud of. It was nothing, that’s what it was. ’Twas pride that kept him from allowing any help. And it was pride that kept him from letting Fitz go.
Or allowing anyone to see him, now that he was less than perfect.
“Whatever those missives are, you know what you can do with them.” Bartholomew wiped the sweat from his face with his towel. When he glanced back up, neither of his servants had moved. “If you need suggestions on where to put those letters, you might start with your—”
“’Tis the Season,” Fitz blurted.
Bartholomew shook his head. “Twelfth night is long past. It’s February.”
“Not that season, sir.” Fitz looked horrified. “The Season that matters. The London Season. It’s here. You’re here. All we have to do is—”
“I said no.”
“You should be out in Society. You were made for Society.”
Bartholomew snorted and gestured at the awkward wooden prosthesis strapped to his right knee. “With this leg, Fitz? What would be the point?”
“Not every moment must be spent dancing.”
“Or sparring in Gentleman Jackson’s, I suppose, or riding hell for leather through St. James Square, or hiking to remote follies, or sweeping ladies off their feet?” Bartholomew tossed his towel over his shoulder.
“You don’t have to literally sweep them off their feet,” Fitz said earnestly, his thin hands wringing without cease. “You could use your… your charm, sir. Surely you didn’t lose that in the war.”
“My charm? What I had was good looks, two legs, and plenty of arrogance.” Bartholomew crossed his arms. “That was then. This is now. If wooden pegs haven’t suddenly become an aphrodisiac to gently bred ladies, I fail to see—”
“You do fail to see, sir! Your apparatus is scarcely an eyesore. It’s got moving ankle joints and five cunning little toes—”
“Wooden toes…”
“—and one cannot even discern it beneath your breeches and stockings and boots. Truly.” Fitz took a deep breath and rushed forward, his fingers stretching toward his master’s chest. “If you would just let me do something about this hideous waistcoat—”
Bartholomew batted away his valet’s hands. He glared over Fitz’s shoulder at the butler, who hadn’t changed position or expression since entering the room. “Crabtree, if you’ve nothing to say for yourself, could you at least brain Fitz with that silver platter until he recovers a modicum of sense?”
“What about your brain?” Fitz put in before Crabtree could respond. “If your charm is rusty, surely your mind is not. Do not discount yourself so easily, sir. You went to Eton and Cambridge, and you were a major in the King’s Army. If you would use—”
Bartholomew scoffed. “My brain is irrelevant. The ton has never held the least interest in intellectuals. My conversations with men centered on sport, horseflesh, and women, and my conversations with ladies were limited to ballroom gallantry and bedroom whispers. Attempting to force a crippled, but intellectual version of myself upon Society would be a nightmare for all involved. No, thank you.”
“But sir—”
“I’ve no wish to be part of that world anymore, Fitz. Not from a distance, and not as an object of pity.” He lifted his chin toward Crabtree’s silver tray. “Why do you think I receive so much correspondence? Because no one wishes to visit. No one wishes to see me in person. Not with this crippled leg. The ton sends letters to make themselves feel better, not because they long for the presence of a broken soldier.”
“You did so have an invitation,” Fitz stammered. “Last month, for the annual Sheffield Christmastide ball. I saved it.”
Bartholomew sighed. “The sister of one of my best friends sent me that invitation.”
“You receive many invitations, sir,” came Crabtree’s bored voice. “It’s simply difficult to respond to them
once they’ve burned to ash. Are you certain you wish the same fate for these?”
“I do.” Bartholomew smiled tightly. “’Twould be embarrassing for all parties to have me show up and clomp about their lymewashed floors as they try desperately to think of something to say that doesn’t involve my missing leg or my missing brother. Coping with my own grief is hard enough. I bloody sure won’t waste my time scribbling platitudes to people I hope never to see again. And I’ll be damned if my name pops up in the scandal sheets for stumbling on my prosthesis and falling on my arse in front of all and sundry.” He gestured toward the fireplace. “Go on. Toss them in.”
“Only once you’ve verified they’re all rubbish.” Crabtree lifted the first missive from the pile. “Addington? It certainly looks like an invitation.”
Bartholomew cut him a flat look.
Crabtree tossed the folded parchment into the flames and squinted at the next. “Grenville? I’m told that family still has unwed daughters.”
Bartholomew crossed his arms and turned toward the windows. Snow clung to the panes and whirled past in clouds of white, blocking his view, but anything was better than enduring the ritual of his unwanted correspondence. He refused to read any of it, and his butler refused to destroy a single word without first ensuring he wasn’t tossing anything of importance.
“Montgomery… Blaylock… Kingsley…”
Seven months. Bartholomew closed his eyes and let the names fade to silence.
His closest friends had visited when he’d first returned from war. The Duke of Ravenwood. Lord Carlisle. Captain Grey.
Bartholomew hadn’t been fitted for a false leg yet, so he’d refused to let them in. He wouldn’t let them see him as a bedridden invalid.
Even once he got his expensive prosthesis—a fully articulated contraption designed by James Potts, a true craftsman and a visionary—it had taken months for Bartholomew to accustom himself to the strangeness of its weight, to its lack of feeling and sluggish behavior. But he’d never stopped exercising. Never stopped trying.