Hot Historicals Bundle with An Invitation to Sin, The Naked Baron, When His Kiss Is Wicked, & Mastering the Marquess

by Jo Beverley

  He did not want to know…he did not want to think about anything concerning the old roué, the society gossip, and that very small room.

  Chapter 10

  Hermes was barking…in her ear?

  Kate cracked open an eye. Hermes’s large orbs stared back at her. She groaned.

  “Go back to bed. It’s the middle of the night.”

  Hermes begged to differ.

  “Ow!” He brushed up against her breast. It was uncommonly sensitive, perhaps because her courses were a few days late.

  Her courses were never late.

  She must have some odd malady. She was so tired, and she felt bloated and out of sorts all the time.

  Hermes was still staring at her; absently, she stroked his ears.

  It wasn’t surprising she was tired. She’d been keeping most irregular hours, and when she did find her bed, she didn’t sleep well.

  She sniffed, wiping away a sudden tear as she pictured the primary reason for her lack of sleep. Damn it all, men were supposed to want bed frolic without any emotional complications. Alex should have been happy she wasn’t demanding anything of him.

  She’d had a wonderful time, and then he’d had to go and ruin it by asking her to marry him. She couldn’t marry him. He must know that. Why had he teased her with the offer?

  She smiled slightly. But oh, what he’d done with her in this bed. His touch had been magical. There was no resemblance—none at all—between bed activities with Alex and with poor Oxbury. Just thinking about Alex made her body throb in embarrassing places. She craved his touch…

  But she could never have it again. She couldn’t flirt with scandal by carrying on an affair with him—and, in any event, he’d said he never wanted to repeat the experience. And then he’d left her—and London—so abruptly.

  He had hurt her—but she had hurt him. Why had she played the merry widow then? She should have given him the truth.

  Had she broken his heart? Well, they were even. Her heart was in pieces as well.

  She sniffed again. She was crying far more easily these days, too. She must get more rest.

  Hermes licked her face.

  “Stop it, you silly dog.” She lifted the covers. “Here, as a special treat you can sleep next to me. But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, you know, so do not get used to it.” She was very fond of Hermes, but she’d learned early on that letting him sleep in her bed gave her uncontrollable sneezing fits.

  She closed her eyes to give him the proper example.

  His very wet tongue accosted her cheek once more.

  “Please go back to sleep. It’s too early to get up.”

  “But it’s not, my lady.” Marie pulled open the bed curtains.

  “Wha—?” Why was Marie here? And her bedchamber was full of light…but it faced west. “What time is it?”

  “Almost two o’clock.”

  “In the afternoon?” She’d never slept that late. She prided herself on being an early riser. She must definitely be sickening.

  “Aye. Jem took Hermes for his morning walk, but I thought ye’d want to take him out now.”

  It was two o’clock! How was that possible? She’d dragged Grace away from the Wainwright ball early last night because she’d been too exhausted to stay another minute.

  “I brought ye some chocolate.”

  “Ah.” Chocolate. A nice cup of chocolate would settle her nerves. She struggled to sit up—and inhaled the thick, sweet scent. Ohh. She put her hand over her mouth. “I don’t want any chocolate this morning—I mean afternoon. Take it away. Please.”

  Why was Marie giving her that look? And why was she staring at her chest? She looked down at her thin nightgown. She’d become attached to the old thing in the last few weeks since—she blushed…and saw her breasts darken slightly.

  Obviously the garment was too threadbare.

  Were her small breasts looking a little larger? And a little…different?

  Ridiculous. She crossed her arms over them and winced. They were definitely sensitive.

  “Yer courses are late, aren’t they, my lady?”

  Marie would know since she collected the soiled laundry. “A little late.”

  “How late?”

  What was this, the Grand Inquisition? “I don’t know. A few days. Perhaps a week.” She was feeling nauseous. Was there a basin handy? She might have need of it.

  Marie was frowning at her. “If I did nae know any better, I’d say ye were increasing.”

  “What?!”

  “Increasing. Ye know. Breeding. In the family way. With child.”

  “Ga.” She dove for the cupboard by the bed and flung it open. Thank God! She grabbed the basin and emptied her stomach. “Ohh.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Marie gave her another look. Kate clutched the basin more tightly. At the moment it seemed like her sole anchor to reality.

  “But I couldn’t…It’s not p-possible…”

  “Aye, I know.”

  “I’m forty years old.”

  “That’s not the impossible part. Many a woman past forty finds herself with a babe. As long as ye still get yer courses, ye can still get a child.”

  “Oh.” Surely she knew that—she just hadn’t thought about it. She’d been so regular all these years. And Oxbury had exercised his marital rights several times a month—almost daily when they were first married—yet she’d never conceived. “But I’m barren.”

  Marie shrugged. “Perhaps the fault was with yer lord. I’ve seen more than one barren woman bury her first husband and have a quiverful of children with her second.” Marie fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “And that’s the part that makes it impossible for ye to be increasing—ye have no husband.” Her gaze sharpened. “Or do ye?”

  “Of course not. You know I’m not married. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Ah, but church vows aren’t needed for a babe. It just takes a man in yer bed with lively seed and a strong plow.”

  She must be as red as a beet. She could barely get her breath. Could she be…had she and Alex made…but they had only done it once…

  “Had ye a man in yer bed, my lady?”

  “Ah…”

  “And it needn’t be a bed, ye know. A quick poke in the garden will do the trick as well.”

  “But…”

  Marie crossed her arms. “Ye may as well tell me, my lady. There’s no point in lying. I’ll know soon enough when yer courses don’t come and yer belly swells.”

  “Ah. Ah. Oh.” She threw up again and then burst into tears.

  Marie took the basin carefully from her hands, sat down on the bed next to her, and gathered her into her arms. Kate hugged her and sobbed into her sturdy shoulder.

  “Ye know, my lady,” Marie murmured in her ear, “ye need to send a note to Mr. Wilton.”

  She was increasing.

  What in God’s name was she going to do?

  Hermes tugged on his leash, pulling Kate down the hall. It was a good thing he knew the way to the park. She couldn’t find her way out of her room at the moment. She was locked in a nightmare.

  Could she be increasing? After all those years with Oxbury, month after month of disappointment…

  Marie must be wrong.

  But her courses were over a week late and they were never late. And she’d never felt this way before—so tired and…odd.

  It could be the strain of coming to Town, couldn’t it, and of seeing Alex again?

  Alex. She had done much more than see him. She had tasted him and touched him and felt him deep inside her…

  Dear God. She must be increasing.

  She grabbed hold of the banister before she pitched down the stairs. If she fell, she might hurt the baby.

  The baby…ohh.

  “Are you all right, Aunt Kate?”

  “Wha—?” Grace was standing next to her. Where had she come from? “Yes. No. Ah.”

  Grace and Hermes stared at her.

  “Perhaps
you’re sickening.” Grace laid her hand on Kate’s arm. “I was worried when you slept so late, but maybe…do you think you need to go back to bed? I’ll take Hermes out for you.”

  Going back to her room, pulling the covers over her head, hiding from…No, that would do no good. Even if she hid in her room for all nine months, she’d still have a baby at the end…

  Dear God, a baby! How was she going to tell Alex? Marie was right. He deserved to know. But the man was forty-five years old. He could not want a child. And she’d promised him she was barren before he’d even ventured into her bed. Would he think she’d lied to him intentionally? He thought she’d lied about her engagement to Oxbury.

  This wasn’t the sort of news one put in a letter. She should tell him face to face—but he had left London.

  And if Marie knew Alex was the father, would all the ton guess as well?

  She wet her lips and swallowed. “N-no. It will do me good to get out, I’m sure.”

  Grace was still frowning at her. “Why don’t I accompany you then? You still look pale.”

  “All right. Yes. That would be fine. Delightful.”

  “Let me just go get my bonnet. Wait for me in the entry hall, all right?”

  Kate nodded. Grace gave her another worried look and then hurried to her room. Kate stumbled down the stairs.

  Sykes was standing by the hall table. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sykes.” She clutched Hermes’s leash more tightly. Mr. Sykes looked unpleasantly serious. Surely he didn’t know about the scandalous state of her womb? “Do you have something to say?”

  Sykes let out a gusty, rather depressing sigh. “Unfortunately I do, my lady. The new Lord Oxbury has sent word he is coming up to Town. He should be arriving shortly. I’m sure you understand, but the staff will need to move you and Lady Grace to other accommodations as Lord Oxbury”—Sykes swallowed as if he’d just had to down a draught of extremely nasty medicine—“will expect to be occupying the master suite.”

  “Of course, Mr. Sykes. I understand completely.” Dear heavens! The situation had just got horribly worse. Why was the Weasel coming to Town? He was certain to note the moment her waist got half an inch larger—though he shouldn’t care. Oxbury had been dead over a year. There was no chance anyone would think the baby legitimate.

  She let herself down slowly onto a handy chair.

  If she didn’t marry, her baby would be a bastard.

  “My lady, are you feeling quite the thing?”

  She couldn’t meet Sykes’s eyes—she merely nodded and waved a hand in his direction. Hermes came over and put his paws on her knees, barking and waving his tail in an encouraging fashion.

  He was a dog. He did not understand the depths of her despair.

  What would the Weasel do when he discovered she was increasing? Would he throw her out into the street?

  Of course, she was forty years old. It was possible she would miscarry…She put a protective hand over her middle. She didn’t want any harm to come to her baby—hers and Alex’s.

  She sniffed and searched for her handkerchief.

  “Lady Grace, please, look to Lady Oxbury,” she heard Sykes say. “I fear she is unwell.”

  “Aunt Kate.” Grace put a hand on her shoulder and bent to look searchingly into her face. Kate focused on Hermes. “Are you certain you’re all right?” She dropped her voice. “Is it that time of month, perhaps?”

  Kate’s head shot up. That time of month? She began to laugh, she feared a touch hysterically. “No. It’s not. Definitely not.”

  Grace stepped back, looking hurt. Thankfully, Sykes—probably assuming her malaise was a female complaint—had taken himself off.

  “I sometimes get weepy at that time,” Grace said.

  Kate stood. She had to get out of this house and into the park, into the open, the fresh air. She had to get a grip on her emotions. “Yes, I know. I thank you for your concern, it’s just…” She let out a long breath. What could she say? “Mr. Sykes just told me the Weasel is coming to London.”

  “Oh.” Grace grimaced. “I see why you might be crying.”

  “Yes, well, I am better now, and Hermes has been very patient. Shall we go?”

  “Did you see Miss Hamilton dancing with Mr. Dunlap at the ball last night? Or, more to the point, did you see the Duke of Alvord watching Miss Hamilton dancing?” Grace was grasping for conversational straws. This was her fifth attempt; if she met with as little success this time as she had with her previous efforts, she was going to give up and just sit quietly on the park bench next to Aunt Kate watching Hermes chase squirrels.

  “Hmm?” Aunt Kate fiddled with Hermes’s leash and stared off into space.

  “Alvord did not look at all happy—not that I blame him. I had one set with Mr. Dunlap. I grant you, he’s very handsome, but…well, I found him unsettling. He reminds me of a rotten apple—big and red on the outside, but brown and soft and nasty on the inside.”

  “If the apples are rotten, tell cook to throw them away.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. It was hopeless.

  Hermes, barking maniacally, dashed after another squirrel. This one scampered back toward Oxbury House and dove into some large, dense bushes. Hermes followed in hot pursuit.

  Grace jiggled her foot; Aunt Kate frowned at Hermes’s leash.

  Hermes’s barking faded.

  “I think I’ll go see what happened to Hermes, Aunt Kate.”

  Aunt Kate did not reply—she probably hadn’t even heard. She was sniffing again and dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.

  Something was seriously wrong.

  “I’ll be right back.” Grace spoke a little louder. Aunt Kate nodded and blew her nose.

  Grace strode across the lawn. What could be the problem? Aunt Kate had been fine last night. Well, not fine. A little sad—she’d been sad ever since Mr. Wilton had left London—and tired, but not the watering pot she was this afternoon.

  She reached the bushes. She was not going to plunge into the greenery. “Hermes?” No response. The stupid dog. Where had he got to? Surely Hermes had the sense to turn around and come back once the squirrel took to the trees. She walked around the shrubbery—

  “Oof!” Her stomach collided with a masculine shoulder. A masculine hand shot out to grab her hip.

  Her heart flew into her throat; she opened her mouth to scream—and then saw who was crouching in front of her.

  Lord Dawson.

  Oh. Her heart paused, took stock of the situation, and changed from the rapid tattoo of panic to the slow thud of something else entirely. It dropped from her throat to her stomach. Lower even. To…She flushed.

  The last time she’d seen Lord Dawson, they’d been standing very, very close together in Lord Easthaven’s tiny waiting room. He had been on the verge of kissing her. If only Aunt Kate had not arrived at precisely that moment—

  No. It was very good Aunt Kate had arrived. If she hadn’t, who knows what might have happened.

  A little shiver ran up Grace’s spine. She knew what would have happened—exactly what had happened in the Duke of Alvord’s garden.

  She should not be hoping for a recurrence of such activities, but part of her was—the odd, daring, hoyden part that had emerged when she’d defied Papa to come to London and which was insisting she gain a few adventures during her stay. The other part—the dutiful daughter, the well-bred lady of quality—was suitably shocked by her behavior.

  She pushed the prim Grace to the back of her consciousness.

  Lord Dawson was looking up at her now. Well, not looking up precisely. Looking at would be more accurate. His head was on level with her—

  She turned even redder and tried to step back, but he wouldn’t let her go. “What are you doing?”

  He grinned at the parts of her by his face and then finally tilted his chin to look into her eyes. “I’m making the acquaintance of this friendly dog.”

  She looked past Lord Dawson’s large body. H
ermes was lying on his back, an expression of canine ecstasy on his face as the baron gave his belly one more scratch. “Hermes!”

  She swore the beast grinned.

  “Ah, is he a friend of yours as well?” The baron stood, but did not step back nor allow her to move to a more appropriate distance. The hand that had been scratching Hermes moved to join its fellow so he now had his fingers on both sides of her waist.

  Prim Grace tried to get her attention. She ignored her.

  “He’s Aunt Kate’s dog.” She was having a difficult time drawing breath. “I’m sure she is missing him.” She glanced back down at Hermes. He yawned and chewed on a stick.

  “We won’t be long.” Lord Dawson slid his hands higher.

  Grace glared up at him, but she was certain she failed miserably to look stern. It was very hard to feel any kind of righteous indignation when one was unable to breathe—and when the hoyden Grace was urging her to grab Lord Dawson’s face and pull it down to hers.

  His blue eyes lit with a spark of…what? Something very hot. As she watched, the spark spread. It must have jumped from him to her because she was suddenly extremely overheated.

  “I have good news.”

  She saw his lips move. She remembered so clearly how his mouth had felt on hers in Alvord’s garden. She wanted to feel it again…She moistened her lips and watched his eyes follow the path of her tongue.

  “What?” She was as bad as Aunt Kate. She couldn’t make herself focus on what the man was saying. If only he would bring his lips closer…

  He did. He brought them very close indeed. He brushed them over her forehead, her cheek…

  She tilted her head, parted her own lips. Her eyes drifted shut.

  No, no, no, prim Grace was shouting, but it was difficult to hear her over the pounding of her heart—and very easy to ignore her.

  Lord Dawson’s mouth touched hers—just the barest glancing contact. Oh! His hands wandered almost to her breasts and then back down to her hips. They stroked over her skirt, pressing, bringing her up against his hard body.

  She was panting—quietly, discreetly, she hoped, but definitely panting. She wanted to be even closer.