More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance)

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  The news rather shook Becky a bit, despite the fact she’d seen the old earl only once in the last seven years, and it was this news that she blamed on her churning stomach.

  “I’m sending for the doctor,” Stephen announced, after Becky’s third attempt to put food in her belly that afternoon.

  “Really, darling, it’s not...” She couldn’t finish the sentence for her nose caught the scent of something wretched—though she’d never be able to say what it was exactly—and sent her back to the chamberpot.

  “You’re not sick, Lady Hastings,” said the doctor after his examination. “You’re pregnant.” He turned to Stephen. “She needs lots of rest and a doting husband doesn’t hurt much either.”

  Stephen smiled and turned to Becky, who still wasn’t sure what to do with the doctor’s announcement. “That won’t be a problem, doctor,” Stephen assured the man. “She won’t be able to get rid of me.”

  Stephen thanked the doctor for his time and saw him from the room before rushing to his wife’s side. She’d never looked so beautiful or so fragile, and he warred with wanting to pounce on her or put her in a glass box so she could never come to harm again. The former won out and in moments he was snuggled beside her, holding her to him, determined never to let go.

  “Stephen,” came her muffled plea as she tried to speak into his shoulder.

  He pulled back, unable to keep the grin from his face. “I’m sorry darling, I’m just…I’m so happy you’re all right.”

  Becky smiled up at him, a wry, knowing smile.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” Stephen asked, all at once appalled and amused.

  “I had my suspicions,” Becky clarified, “but I wasn’t positive. Are you happy?”

  “What a silly question.” Stephen searched her face and pushed the stray hairs from her forehead. “Why on earth wouldn’t I be happy?”

  Becky’s eyebrows shot up. “You? Oh, I don’t know, perhaps because mere months ago you couldn’t refer to your wards without the greatest disdain.”

  “A man can change, can’t he?”

  “And how do you feel about the children now?”

  Stephen stared at her for a moment, finding it hard to think when she looked so bloody beautiful. But he wanted her to be clear about how he felt, so he forced himself to focus on her question. “I love them, and you, with all my heart, as I love our unborn child. And I promise I will never look on any of you with anything other than love and adoration from this day forward.”

  Epilogue

  December 24

  Hastings House

  “They’re here! They’re here!” Lydia’s voice rang through the entrance hall of Hastings House as she watched her uncle and brother pull into the circular drive. “Aunt Becky!”

  “We’re coming, sweetheart,” Becky laughed as she met the girl at the door, a toddling child following at her heels.

  She looked out to see Stephen and Max alighting the carriage, their feet making definite imprints in the fresh blanket of white snow that covered the ground. Stephen had left five days earlier to retrieve Max from Eton and then had taken him to London for a bit of bonding. It had become a tradition over the last couple of years and Becky was happy for that, but she was even happier when they came home.

  Five days without her husband felt like a lifetime.

  “Lydia, watch your cousin for a moment,” Becky instructed and then stepped out the front door to stand under the portico.

  Stephen caught sight of her through the falling snow and a wide smile graced his features. He went to her immediately, not hesitating to take her in his arms and kiss her openly.

  “You shouldn’t be out here, my lady,” he drawled as he pulled away. “The last thing we want is you catching a fever in your condition.”

  “A little cold air is hardly going to hurt me,” she replied, her heart skipping a beat at the nearness of her husband, the warmth in his arms and in his eyes.

  “Well, I don’t relish myself catching a fever, so we might as well go inside. Besides, I’m dying to see my girls.”

  “Hello, Aunt Becky,” Max said as he came up behind his uncle.

  Becky looked down into the face of her nephew, shocked at the changes that had taken place since she’d last seen him. He had grown at least another inch, making the two of them nearly of a height. His voice had dropped considerably and she could see glimpses of the man that he would one day be.

  She gathered him into a tight embrace. “Oh, how I’ve missed you so!” she exclaimed. “Are you faring well at school?”

  He smiled back at her and nodded. “Head of my class, as always,” he replied.

  They walked together into the house where Stephen was already in the throes of doting on “his girls”.

  “This one is for you, Lyddie,” he said as he handed her a small package wrapped in bright gold paper and tied with a ribbon. “But you can’t open it until Christmas.”

  “Oh, please, Uncle! Can’t I open it now?”

  “Uh-uh, it’s a Christmas present.” He turned to face the child in his arms, a miniature version of her mother, and handed her another small package. “And this is for you, Clarabelle.”

  The two-year-old’s chubby hands reached out to grasp the present with a little squeal before Stephen handed her to the ground again.

  “Have the others arrived yet?” he asked of his wife.

  “Not yet. I do hope they can make it before it truly begins to storm. Come, let us lunch while we wait.”

  By nightfall, all their guests had arrived and the house was abuzz with a great deal of excitement in anticipation of the holiday. With Becky being so close to delivering their second child, everyone had agreed to spend Christmas at Hastings House. Lady Eastleigh and Lady Grimsby were there, along with the Duke and Duchess of Weston and their entire brood of children, which now included the twins, William and Anne, as well as two more little girls, Sophia and Mary. Phoebe and Benjamin had come with little Charlotte who wasn’t so little anymore and their son, Matthew, a mere twelve months behind Charlotte in age. Andrew and Michael arrived last, having prolonged their time in London terrorizing Society.

  But they did not arrive empty-handed.

  “A puppy!” Lydia exclaimed when she saw the tiny head peak from its box. “Is she for me?”

  Andrew bent down to put the box on the floor and removed the lid. “Yes, indeed, he is for you,” he corrected. “With compliments from Lady Elizabeth Crawley.” All five matrons in the room exchanged furtive glances.

  Lady Eastleigh cleared her throat. “And how is Lady Elizabeth?” she asked, trying to keep her tone nonchalant.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” Andrew began.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” Michael cut in, “is in love with me, but our dear Andrew here refuses to believe it.”

  “Poor Michael. He suffers greatly from dementia, I’m afraid.”

  “I?”

  As the boys continued to argue over which one was favored most by the illustrious Lady Elizabeth, the children gathered around the tiny pup to pet and cuddle him with tender care.

  “May we keep him, Uncle?” Lydia asked, her blue eyes lit with hope.

  “Of course you may,” he replied as his arms slipped around his wife’s burgeoning waist.

  “You knew about this, didn’t you?” she asked, her smile widening at his touch.

  “Well, I may have had a little something to do with it. Andrew mentioned that Lady Elizabeth’s dog had just given birth to a new litter and I thought it just the thing for the children. They’ve never had a real pet, you know?”

  “I am well aware of how deprived they’ve been, my lord,” she replied sarcastically.

  The truth was that Stephen had discovered fatherhood suited him far more than he had anticipated. He gleaned an enormous amount of joy from lavishing gifts on his children—of both the monetary and emotional sort. Max, Lydia and Clarabelle were the proverbial apples of his very blue eyes.

  “Oh!”

  All eyes
turned to Becky as her hands flew to her stomach.

  “Darling?” Stephen held her tighter, as his eyes searched her face. “Are you all right?”

  Becky shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice tinged with the slightest bit of panic. “I think it’s time.”

  The entire household went into a tizzy, everyone eager to help in some way or another. Andrew and Michael wrangled the children and the puppy, moving them all to the nursery, while Benjamin set off to find the doctor, and William, the midwife. Katherine set to organizing the staff, shouting out detailed instructions while Lady Grimsby and Lady Eastleigh helped Stephen settle his wife into their bed.

  Although he should have left the room to allow the doctor and the midwife to do their jobs, Stephen did not. Rather, he stuck by his wife’s side, lending his hand for her to dig her nails into, patting her down with cool cloths to keep her comfortable through her strenuous labor.

  And in the wee small hours of Christmas morning, Becky gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby boy. Stephen wept at the sight of his tiny son lying happily in the arms of his mother. She looked up at him, her eyes bright in spite of her exhaustion.

  “A Christmas baby,” she murmured. “Whatever shall we call him?”

  “I do think he looks like a Nicholas, don’t you?”

  Becky smiled. “Little Saint Nicholas. It’s perfect.”

  “Merry Christmas, darling.” Stephen leaned down to plant a kiss on Becky’s forehead.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  The End

  Don’t miss the third book in the Best Selling Wetherby Brides Series, The Wary Widow…

  1820, London

  Lord Andrew Wetherby stalked into Eastleigh House, determined to leave again as soon as was humanly possible. He clenched his fists as the nauseating smell of French perfume and gardenias invaded his nose. God, how he hated these things. His twin brother, Michael, identical in every way except the cut of his hair, stood at his side, looking just as determined to get the hell out of there.

  “Good Lord, do they bathe in the stuff?” Michael asked, clearly trying to hold his breath against the scent of the elderly woman passing by.

  Andrew cleared his throat. “One would think. Now remember our plan. You find Benjamin and the Lionesses while I dance with Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, I know the plan,” Michael assured him. “And then we’ll say goodnight to the family and be on our way. Believe me, the only thing on my mind right now is getting out of here.”

  Andrew smiled at Michael and then took his leave to find his betrothed, Lady Elizabeth Crawley. The eldest daughter of the Earl of Devon, Elizabeth was a paragon of beauty and grace. Andrew admired her for her stunning looks, as did most gentlemen in London, including his brother. Much to Michael’s chagrin, Andrew had beaten him in the race for her hand.

  Right now she was weaving in and out of a Scottish reel, looking as if she had invented the dance herself. Andrew leaned against the nearest column at the edge of the ballroom and waited until the dance was finished.

  The waltz was next, after which he would say hello to his elder brother, Benjamin, and his sister-in-law, Phoebe. Then he and Michael would set off for a night of gaming, and who knew what else.

  “Excuse me.” A small voice took him from his reverie.

  He turned to his right to see a waif of a girl—well, woman, really—sitting on the bench next to him. Her hair was a fiery red, which was quite out of fashion, but her large brown eyes more than made up for that fact.

  “May I help you?” he asked, not meaning to sound so arrogant.

  The girl pursed her lips in annoyance. “You’re standing on my dress, sir.”

  It took a moment for Andrew to process what she’d said. He’d been too focused on her luscious pink lips to comprehend immediately. “Oh!” he exclaimed, jumping off her gown as if it were on fire. “My sincerest apologies, Miss...”

  “Hawthorne.”

  “My sincerest apologies, Miss Hawthorne,” he said with a smile, trying to put the odd girl at ease.

  “And you are?”

  Andrew swept her a bow. “Lord Andrew Wetherby, at your service.”

  ***

  Chloe swallowed hard as all the color drained from her cheeks. Oh, bugger!

  She stood and took a step toward him. “Lord Andrew, did you say?” she repeated, feeling like a ninny for having done so. He had very clearly stated his name, even if he had been a bit overdramatic about it.

  He gave her a wry smile and Chloe felt the heat rush back to her cheeks. “I did,” he finally answered.

  “Oh, well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord. I daresay we’ll be seeing a great deal of one another in the future.”

  Lord Andrew looked at her, clearly perplexed, which made him look quite adorable. She much preferred that to the arrogant eyebrow lift he’d already demonstrated seven times in the course of their short conversation.

  “I am Lady Elizabeth’s cousin,” she continued. “I’ve just arrived from Essex to play chaperone to her for the Season.”

  “Chaperone?” Lord Andrew predictably lifted his eyebrow again—the left one—and Chloe couldn’t help but be annoyed by it. She wondered if he might eventually get stuck in that position.

  The thought tickled her, and she twisted her lips to keep from laughing.

  “Something funny?”

  “No, no, I just...it was nothing.” Chloe blushed and looked away, feeling every bit the fool.

  Just then the music ended and Andrew turned away from her, clearly seeking out his bride-to-be. Chloe took the moment to regain her wits, chiding herself for being so flustered. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a handsome man before. Her own husband had been quite attractive.

  “Well, Miss Hawthorne, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance.” He gave her what one might consider a half-bow. “Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I shall seek out your cousin.”

  Chloe nodded, returning his half-bow with a half curtsey. “Of course, my lord.”

  And then she sat back down on her lonely little bench and watched Lord Andrew saunter gracefully across the ballroom.

  “It’s going to be a very long evening,” she muttered to herself. “A very long evening indeed.”

  ***

  “Well, well, my fiancé has finally shown his face at his own brother’s party.”

  Elizabeth glided toward him with a cheeky smile, her blue eyes twinkling in the candlelight. Andrew bowed deeply over her hand and planted a light kiss to her gloved fingers.

  “My apologies,” Andrew said, noting that was the second time in only fifteen minutes he’d apologized to a woman. That certainly didn’t happen often. “I was unavoidably detained.”

  “Aren’t you always?” Elizabeth asked with a toss of her flaxen curls.

  “The good news, my dear, is that I’m here now. Just in time for our waltz.

  “You’re not going to run off as soon as you’ve danced with me, are you?”

  Andrew feigned shock at the accusation, annoyed that Elizabeth was clearly on to his tactics now.

  “Spare me the dramatics, Andrew.” Elizabeth took his arm and steered him back in the direction he’d just come from. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

  “No need,” he said, tugging her toward the dance floor. “I’ve already met her, and I’m brimming with questions.”

  Elizabeth raised one delicate eyebrow at him. It made her look rather mannish and Andrew made a note to address the subject at a later date, hopefully with a modicum of tact. It never did to insult one’s betrothed by telling her she looked like a man.

  “Might I ask how you came to make her acquaintance?”

  “I didn’t request the introduction, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said flatly. “I stood on her dress. Accidentally, of course,” he clarified. “She asked me to remove my foot, I apologized and in the process, we exchanged names. She seemed to be quite acquainted with me, though I wonder why I've nev
er heard of her.”

  Elizabeth smiled and allowed him to lead her to the middle of the floor just as the waltz began.

  “Chloe comes from Essex,” she explained after they’d settled into the dance. “She is going to play chaperone to me for the Season.”

  “Yes, that much I know. But how can she play chaperone when the two of you are of an age?” he wondered.

  “Because Chloe is a widow, of course.”

  Andrew blinked several times and furrowed his brow. It was obvious the woman was in mourning, but she hadn't corrected him when he'd called her a miss. He just assumed she was mourning for a family member.

  “Well, don’t look so distraught, Andrew,” Elizabeth chided as he pulled her into a turn. “She was only married for two weeks before the poor sap came down with a fever.”

  Andrew cast a sidelong glance toward the bench where Mrs. Hawthorne sat. It was hard to believe someone so young was a widow, and he found himself wondering if she’d been in love with her husband.

  He shook his head at the thought. What on earth did that matter?

  “Did you know him?”

  “Who, Sam? Yes, of course. They were childhood friends, so anytime I went to visit, I inevitably came in contact with him.”

  “What happened to your Great Aunt Sally? I thought she was to chaperone again this year.”

  “She claims that her gout is too much to bear and so she is spending the season in Bath to take the waters.”

  “When did her husband die?” Andrew asked without thinking. He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to know.

  Elizabeth wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Great Aunt Sally's?”

  “No, of course not. Your cousin's husband.”

  “Oh. It’s been more than a year. Not that anyone would be able to tell. She insists on wearing those awful black dresses and silly caps everywhere she goes.” Elizabeth tsked in what most would construe to be sympathy, but what Andrew knew to be embarrassment. Elizabeth didn’t want to be seen with anyone who might be considered unfashionable.