by Cheryl Bolen
Dunsford could not imagine a lady being rude enough to express displeasure over a gift. Unless it was in very poor taste. “Whatever did you give her?”
Twigs shook his head ruefully. “I even asked Duchess for recommendations.”
The duke had a puzzled look on his face. “And what did my wife suggest?”
Twigs held an index finger to his chin. “Let me think of Duchess’s exact words. Oh, yes, a living, breathing little being. That’s what she said!” He looked even more dejected. “Can’t understand it at all. Cressy exceedingly disliked the gift, and I must say it was the prettiest little bitch you ever saw. Fluffy with brown spots.”
The other men roared with laughter. Dunsford was thankful these other men had shown up to take his thoughts away from worrying about Emily.
“Don’t see what’s so devilishly funny,” Twigs said. “Like big dogs meself, but Duchess did say little, so I thought Cressy would like the little ball of fur.”
“I’m sure there was nothing wrong with your dog,” the duke said. “It may be that Bonny—being so mad over Charlie—may have had a child in mind when she made the suggestion about a little being.”
Twigs eyed his lifelong friend as if he’d just sprouted a second nose. “A fine suggestion that was. Where, I ask you, am I to procure a little Charlie? It’s not as if I can walk into a shop and purchase a lad who looks like the Duke of Radcliff.”
“Perhaps her grace thought Mrs. Twickingham might like a lad who resembles you, my friend,” the duke suggested.
“Which brings up the same difficulties,” Twigs said, throwing his arms wide, “unless . . . do you suppose one could be had at a foundling home?”
The duke coughed and exchanged amused glances with the other men present. “I believe, old fellow, you are missing the point.”
Twigs looked from him to Dunsford to Pottinger but still showed no sign of comprehension.
Finally Dunsford spoke. “Perhaps, Twigs, your wife might wish to be in a situation similar to what my wife is presently in.”
A moment later Twigs nodded with understanding. “I see. Never thought of it that way. Have to ask her. Bloody glad her father ain’t in this chamber at present. Shouldn’t wish to have this discussion with him listening.”
“Oh, no, of course not,” the duke agreed.
* * *
All Alfred cared about in the next few hours was seeing to his sister’s comfort—which was exceedingly difficult, given the circumstances. He did manage to procure a small amount of laudanum. “Well, Petty, I’m going to be your favorite brother now. I’ve found something to help your suffering.”
“Silly,” Emily slurred. “You are my only brother.”
“Oh, so I am.”
“Please say you’ve found laudanum.”
“Just for my favorite sister. Sit up for a minute, love.” He administered the liquid. It significantly eased her pain, but it also stole any clarity of her thoughts and caused her to ramble.
Radcliff’s cook was almost useless. Perhaps she would show her mettle when the babe was actually making its appearance, but for now her only contribution was as a go-between with the servants when they needed something, like water.
Lady Sarah, on the other hand, won his profound respect. For someone who had never before been around the scene of a birth, she displayed a remarkable maturity mingled with tenderness.
He kept deferring to Lady Sarah’s judgment. “Do you think we’ve given her too much water?”
She shook her head. “Not the way she’s perspiring.”
Lady Sarah always made so much sense.
How right she had been when she told Em she would be cared for by people who cared about her. He, of course, loved his sister. And Lady Sarah treated her as lovingly as one would treat a sister. Her first concern was Em’s comfort.
He would never have thought about how hot Em must be on such a frigid night. But Lady Sarah had that rare gift of empathy. He was quite certain Em was in better hands with Lady Sarah than she would have been with their own mother.
Not long after the laudanum had taken effect, he’d had a brief peaceful spell while his sister rested.
“God, I hope the babe’s all right.” His voice softened and cracked. “But most of all, I pray Em will be all right.”
Lady Sarah patted his forearm. “She will.”
Somehow, he was relieved by her words, and his turned thoughts to a prospective union between Potts and Lady Sarah. He wondered what Potts had said to her just outside this bedchamber door.
After having the opportunity to observe Lady Sarah’s kindness, he had more reason that ever to regret foiling his mother’s plans and to envy Potts.
But he wished Potts well, really he did. The fellow deserved happiness.
As did Lady Sarah.
But it was difficult not to be filled with regrets.
It was just after midnight when Em’s suffering worsened. His grip on her hand tightened, and he spoke soothing endearments to her.
“Something’s wrong!” Em shrieked. “It wasn’t like this last time.”
Lady Sarah was lovingly stroking his sister’s brow with cool water. “Don’t worry, my lady. Your baby will be fine.”
Em thrashed about, breaking his grip. “No. It was different last time.”
“What do you mean last time?” he asked.
“Water. Please, I need water,” Em said.
Lady Sarah held a glass to Em’s lips as she tried to drink.
The cook came closer to the bed. “Tell her ladyship every time be different. That much I do know.”
Lady Sarah nodded and smoothed the damp hair from his sister’s brow.
“Why does she keep talking about last time?” he asked.
Lady Sarah whispered. “I believe Harriett is truly your sister’s child.”
Alfred reeled. It was as if a hundred thoughts collided in his brain at once. He hadn’t been imagining it when he’d seen some of his sister’s expressions and mannerisms in his niece. He thought back to the time she’d spent in the Peninsula with their aunt. He remembered that Lord Dunsford’s brother had died there. He must have been Harriett’s father.
Clearly, their mother did not know. She needed to. She needed to know that precious little girl was her own granddaughter and not treat her like an unwelcome bastard.
By now his sister’s pains were coming quicker, and she was panting and moaning. Then she screamed. He wished he could have borne the pain for her.
He was terrified.
“It do be her ladyship’s time, I do believe,” the cook said.
Chapter 9
By sheer virtue of being the only one present who had been at a birth before, the cook turned out to be helpful when Lord Dunsford’s heir made his appearance into the world at half past two on Christmas morning. She knew how to sever the umbilical cord and instructed Alfred Wickham on washing the newborn while she and Sarah attended Lady Dunsford.
“It’s a fine, big baby boy ye’ve brought into the world,” Cook said to the mother as she handed the screaming newborn off to his uncle.
To which the new mother erupted into tears. “Henry will be so happy.”
“He’s got all his fingers and toes,” her brother called out. “I’d say he’s perfect.”
Mr. Wickham had been wonderful throughout the hours of his sister’s birthing. Sarah couldn’t help but envy that actress who would gain him for a husband. What a fine man he was. Even if he did gamble to excess. And swordfight without a mask. And associate with women of questionable morals.
How unfortunate for Sarah that of all the men in the kingdom, only Alfred Wickham had ever appealed to her—and she had never appealed to him. Even though he had once wanted to kiss her.
At least one very special thing had been accomplished over this Yuletide. She had the privilege of assisting sweet Lady Dunsford at the birth of her son. It was an event she would never forget.
It became even more special after Mr. Wickham cleaned
up the little downy-headed darling and wrapped him in a soft blanket provided by the cook. He came to the bed and placed the sleeping babe in Sarah’s arms. She had never before held a newborn babe and was astonished at the rush of emotions provoked by this tiny little infant swathed in warmth. Tears pricked at her eyes, too, and she understood a mother’s instantaneous love for her offspring. When she handed him to his mother, she felt bereft. But incredibly happy for Lady Dunsford. How kind it had been of Mr. Wickham to allow her to place the tiny babe in his weeping mother’s arms.
“Please, my lady,” Sarah said, “don’t cry. You should be very happy to have such a fine son.”
“That’s why I’m crying,” Lady Dunsford confessed in a shaky voice. “Where’s my husband? He must see this most perfect little lad.”
“Your brother’s gone to fetch him.”
“Is my brother not wonderful?” she asked in a choking voice.
“Yes, he is rather.”
Lady Dunsford could not remove her adoring gaze from her tiny son. Her lips brushed over the blond fluff on his little head as she held him close. “He looks so much like Harriett looked when she was born.”
Moments later her husband hurried into the chamber, tears in his eyes as he kissed his wife.
“Look, my dearest,” she whispered, showing him the infant’s face, “is he not beautiful?”
Sarah, Wickham, and the cook quietly closed the door behind them to give the new parents privacy.
“Before you go to see Lord Pottinger,” Mr. Wickham said, “may I have a word?”
It had been such a long night she had completely forgotten that Lord Pottinger had asked to speak to her once the birthing had taken place.
As she and Mr. Wickham were moving downstairs, they passed the duke. “I know I express what Bonny would say were she here when I thank you two for all you did for Emily.”
“Can you forget, your grace, Emily is my sister?” Mr. Wickham said.
The duke nodded and eyed Sarah. “But Lady Sarah was not bound by ties of kinship. We do thank you, my lady.”
“It was a most rewarding night,” she said.
A satisfied look on his face, the duke nodded. “Goodnight, Lady Sarah, Alfred. Happy Christmas. I believe Lord Pottinger awaits Lady Sarah in the library.”
“Happy Christmas to you, your grace,” she said.
“It’s certainly been an eventful night,” Mr. Wickham said as they continued along the stairs.
She smiled up at him. “I’m not even tired. It’s too exhilarating. All your sister’s pain has been completely obliterated under the sheer happiness that precious babe has brought to her and Lord Dunsford. You do have a very fine little nephew, Mr. Wickham.”
“Yes, I do, and I believe Dunsford may be the happiest man in the kingdom right now.” He drew a breath. “That brings up a matter I wish to discuss with you. My niece.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “It’s not a matter I would ever discuss with anyone. An innocent child could be harmed.”
“Forgive me for even thinking you might see it otherwise.”
“Your mother doesn’t know, does she?”
He shook his head.
“Such a pity. She’s such a dear child.”
“My niece has always been very dear to me.”
Sarah set her hand upon his, unconscious about what she was doing until the deed was done. Even though it now felt awkward, it would have felt more awkward had she withdrawn it. “You’re a far better man than you wish others to know.”
“Not good enough for the likes of you, Lady Sarah. You deserve someone like Lord Pottinger.”
Her eyes rounded. “Lord Pottinger! Where did you get such a peculiar notion? He’s a very nice man, but I assure you I could never be induced to favor any suit put forth by him.”
Mr. Wickham closed his eyes as if in pain. “Then I fear you’re going to break my friend’s heart.” He turned on his heel and left.
As she made her way to the library, she began to tremble. Now she realized the topic which Lord Pottinger wished to address. She would have given anything to avoid it, but from many similar experiences she had learned the best way to break a man’s heart was not to let him down incrementally but swiftly. It would be better for her, too, to get this behind her rather than to keep dreading a meeting with the adoring man.
It did rather break her heart when he leapt from his chair and smiled spectacularly at her when she entered the chamber. His smile was so full of hope and love, and she knew she was about to crush it all. She knew, too, that she could not be sweet. She needed to be brusque. “I’m very tired. What is it you wanted to discuss?”
“I. . . I w-w-w-wanted . . . p-p-p-perhaps it can w-w-w-wait until tomorrow.”
She felt utterly wretched. The poor man was so nervous, he was stuttering more than he normally did in her presence. “No. You’ve waited all night. Speak now, man.”
“W-w-w-well, this isn’t quite how I’d envisioned it. You s-s-s-see, it’s not very romantic.”
“Why should it be romantic?” She hated herself for being so calloused.
“Because I had h-h-h-hoped to offer for you. I thought perhaps there was s-s-s-something s-s-s-special between us.”
She could have wept for the poor, sweet man. How she hated herself for hurting him. Her voice softened. “I do think you’re a very fine man, Lord Pottinger, but I can’t marry you.”
“You’re not in love w-w-w-with me, are you?”
Her eyes moistened as she shook her head.
“Is . . . is there s-s-s-someone else?”
She thought of Alfred Wickham. “There is, but he’s . . . promised to another.”
Lord Pottinger bit his lip. “I s-s-s-see. Such a p-p-p-pity. Neither of us can be happy.”
She nodded and moved to the door.
“Hap-p-p-ppy Christmas, my lady.”
“Happy Christmas, Lord Pottinger.”
* * *
As tired as he was, Alfred could not sleep. He kept remembering the feel of Sarah’s hand upon his. Had she been stroking man’s vital organ, it could not have been more erotic. Though it was perfectly innocent on her part, she could not have known how powerfully it affected him. Even hours later as he lay in bed thinking of her, need strumming through him, his breath grew short.
His feelings for her had been building until this last day, when the realization that he’d fallen in love with her had slammed into him like a shot from a cannon. How he had wanted to draw her into his arms and tell her what he’d never told another woman. But because of Potts, he could say nothing.
Alfred was not often in agreement with his mother. Until now. On the matter of Lady Sarah Milton, he now knew his mother was right. Sarah would have been the perfect mate for him. And he had done everything in his power to drive her away. How he wished he could turn back the clock and relive these past few days.
It would not have been easy to win the lady’s affections. After all, she had turned down an exceedingly wealthy marquess. What chance did a wastrel mister such as he stand with a coveted beauty such as she? True, he would one day be a viscount, but that was a very minor title. Her father’s rank was considerably greater.
There was the fact that she had been induced to come here this Christmas. Could that possibly mean that she could initially have been attracted to the notion of an alliance with him?
Dare he risk humiliation to declare himself to her? Under ordinary circumstances, he would risk anything for the prospect of such a reward.
But there were Potts’ feelings to consider.
Even if Sarah had rejected his friend—which Alfred was almost certain she had—Alfred could not turn around and try to claim the woman his best friend loved. It wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do.
Because Potts was the truest friend a fellow ever had and because they’d been friends three-fourths of their lives—as Potts liked to remind him—Alfred would not be able to act upon his love of Lady Sarah.
He could searc
h the three kingdoms and never again find the likes of Lady Sarah Milton.
It was enough to make a grown man weep.
Chapter 10
It was Christmas Day. Sarah had never spent a Christmas away from her family. She wished Mama would be able to come back to Hedley Hall. She sprang from her bed and raced to her window to see if it were still snowing. She was nervous as she drew open the silken draperies of the same rose as her bed curtains but was rewarded with the sight of the sun rising in a blue sky—and nary a snowflake in sight. Snowdrifts blanketing the ground as far as she could see would impede any travel, but she was certain the Duke of Radcliff would find a way to bring home his wife and visitors.
She did not wait for her maid but quickly dressed herself so that she could wait upon Lady Dunsford. Sarah liked being needed. And even more, she liked the idea of holding that babe. She had never known that she could be so smitten over a newborn.
Helping Lady Dunsford and making a cake of herself over the babe might serve to take Sarah’s mind off her own melancholy. She not only felt wretched over hurting dear Lord Pottinger, but she had come to realize that she would never know the happiness Lady Dunsford experienced with her husband and in motherhood for Sarah had never found an attainable man who could give her those things, and it was unlikely she ever would.
* * *
“I mean to take a sleigh and collect my wife and some of the other women,” the duke announced over breakfast.
“I’ll take the smaller one and get my mother,” Alfred said. “I’d like to be the one to tell her about her new grandson.” And he wanted to speak to her in private about little Harriett. Her treatment of her own granddaughter was unacceptable.
“Now, see here,” Twigs interjected. “I must be the one to get Cressy.”
“Ride with me in the big sleigh,” the duke said.
Twigs stuck out his lower lip. “Won’t look very gallant.”
Radcliff shrugged. “So it’s gallant you want? Then you drive the sleigh. Mrs. Twickingham will be duly impressed.”
Twigs smiled. “Do you think so?”