Scandalous Scions Two

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  * * * * *

  Will only let her rest when she was already falling asleep against his shoulder and could only rouse to a sluggish flare of passion.

  He lifted the covers over them and pulled her up against him. He was hot and solid against her back. She sighed and slept.

  She woke only a little while later. The lamps were still lit and the moon was low in the sky. It was very late, or very early.

  The other side of the bed was empty.

  Will had gone.

  * * * * *

  Will came home two days later, long after Lilly and Jasper had returned to Yorkshire. Jasper had waved aside Bridget’s pathetic explanation for Will’s absence and patted her cheek. “You’ll work it out. I have no doubt of that at all.”

  Bridget’s eyes burned with unshed tears. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “I know so.” He picked up Lilly’s hand. Lilly smiled softly. “I saw the way he looked at you.”

  “Lust isn’t love,” Bridget said, her voice husky, too upset to be embarrassed about speaking of such an intimate matter.

  “Not by a long mile,” Jasper agreed, his tone breezy. He wasn’t embarrassed, either.

  Lilly hugged her goodbye and they hurried to catch the train at Inverness, leaving Bridget alone.

  Bridget moved through the following two days, drained and bewildered. She didn’t know where she might start looking for Will, or even if she dared to try. Before she could summon the courage to ask Bakersfield where the nearest club or saloon would be, Will came home.

  He walked in the door without a hat, his coat hanging open and his shirt rumpled. He wore no cravat, no collar and no waistcoat. Nor did he appear to be wearing a jacket under his coat.

  Will stalked into the morning room, bringing with him the smell of clean, fresh snow, pine…and brandy.

  Bridget put her embroidery hoop aside.

  Will barely met her eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the fire. Then he sank onto the end of the sofa with a sudden movement, as if he was forcing himself to it. He gripped his hands together. His gaze lifted to her face. “We must talk, you and I. This…we…cannot go on like this.”

  Bridget nodded. “We must talk, yes, but not just about us, Will.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  Bridget forced herself to speak the secret that had been locked in her chest for days. “I am with child, Will.”

  He grew still. His hands stopped moving. Even his breath seemed to halt. His gaze fixed upon the rug beneath him.

  Then he threw himself to his feet with a deep gusty exhalation and moved to the window. He kept his back to her as he watched through the lace curtains. It was snowing again, the white flakes spitting and tapping the glass with little wet slaps, barely heard over the crackle of the fire.

  Bridget leaned back against the cushions, relaxing. She had spoken the dreadful truth. Relief touched her.

  Will’s shoulders worked under the coat, twisting as if they strained under an invisible load. “His bastard…” he breathed.

  Alarmed, Bridget sat up, her heart thudding. She stared at Will, trying to discern what that muttered comment meant. “Will, you knew this might happen. That is why you married me…and see, you were right all along.” She got to her feet. “You have saved me from complete ruin, for which you will have my gratitude, always.”

  His laugh was strained. “Your gratitude!” Still he did not turn to look at her.

  Bridget realized she was biting her lip once more and pressed her lips together to halt herself. She paused to reach for a calm that would not come.

  Always, this chasm separated them that she could not cross because she did not know what hid within it. The silence, the misunderstanding… “I thought we were friends,” she said.

  Will whirled to confront her. “What on earth does that mean?”

  “You will not talk to me, Will. You keep everything held inside you so I cannot tell what you are thinking or how to…to help you.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “That is why you married me! To help you!”

  “To help me get an heir,” he said bitterly. His gaze fell to her waist. “Instead, I get his.”

  “You knew that might happen! You said that was why we must marry, because it might and now it has!”

  “Yes, now it has and now I find I don’t like it at all.” His scowl deepened. “The idea of being cuckolded this way makes me ill.”

  Bridget sank back onto the sofa. “Will…how can you say that? Now?”

  The bitterness was back in his eyes. He shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. “I suppose…because it is true.”

  Bridget laughed and it was as strained a sound as Will had just made. “Finally, the truth!” She pressed her hands to her mouth, trying to halt the mad sound. Will was speaking. He was being truthful. Only this was not the way she had envisaged that moment at all. This truth hurt. It burned in her chest and made her belly clamp with a sickly feeling.

  “If you truly feel that way, what do we do now?” she asked. The words were an agony to speak, yet they must be said.

  Will turned back to the window. His tight stance made it seem as though he wished he was out there in the slush and the cold. “What’s done cannot be undone.”

  “You can even think of divorce? After what Jenny and Jack went through?” Bridget had watched Jenny’s public humiliation with horror that built with each passing day.

  Will glanced at her over his shoulder, one blue eye spearing her with anger. “Even if I could stomach the idea, divorce would not serve you. I married you to save your reputation, not destroy it for all time.” He turned away. “I just cannot stay here and watch another man’s bastard grow in your belly. That is asking too much of me.”

  Bridget closed her eyes. “Then, what of your heir?” she whispered.

  Will gripped the window frame and pressed his face against his arm. “The world will think I have one, now.”

  In all the weeks since the wedding, while Bridget worried over the outcome of the two revolting nights in Taplow’s house, she had not stopped to consider this irony—that if she was with Taplow’s child, Will would be forced to acknowledge it as his own to save her reputation. Taplow’s bastard would inherit Will’s estate and titles.

  “Oh, God, Will…I never thought of it that way,” she whispered. “I’m so…I’m sorry… To ask this of you…I didn’t understand.”

  Will straightened and pushed his hands back into his pockets. He faced her once more and his face was haggard. He looked far older than his actual years. He looked ill. “I thought of it before I even suggested marriage,” he said bleakly. “It meant nothing then. Now…I find I do mind. Very much. Too much,” he finished in a near-whisper.

  He looked around the room. “You should stay here at Kirkaldy. Tell the world you are confining yourself for the duration.”

  Her blood turned cold. “Stay…?” she breathed.

  “I’ll leave for Farleigh before lunch,” he said. “I hate the place but I won’t have to stay long. As soon as it is reasonable, I’ll head for London.”

  He would spend the season in London, Bridget realized. Will was going to return to the life he’d maintained before they married. Clubs and brandy and gambling.

  And women….

  Bridget clutched the arm of the chair, bending over it, as a hot miasma scrambled her thoughts and choked her throat. She wondered if she would actually be sick, for the taste in her mouth was coppery and hot. She tried to breathe, to control the nausea.

  “Thank you for apologizing,” Will said. He had moved to stand beside her chair. He had not noticed her illness. “I appreciate that.”

  “Not enough to stay, though.” She forced the words from her throat. It hurt to say them and her eyes filled with tears. She kept her face down, unwilling to look at him and have him see her fear and her upset.

  “For what it is worth, I am sorry, too,” Will continued, as if she had not spoken.
“I did not foresee this as part of our bargain. I am surprised to find I am more sensitive to insults upon my manhood than I had supposed.”

  She closed her eyes. Stop him. Say something! Say whatever he needs to hear to make him stay!

  No words would come.

  Will’s hand rested on the back of her shoulder for a moment. The heat of his fingers imprinted upon her flesh and she would feel their light touch forever.

  “Goodbye, Bree,” he murmured.

  She listened to the door shut, clutching the chair arm with a desperate grip, her fingernails tearing holes in the upholstery.

  She was a failure. A ruined woman whom no man, not even Will, could bear to be near.

  The slew of self-accusation and guilt enveloped her in heat and sound roared in her ears.

  Then she knew no more.

  Chapter Nine

  Kirkaldy Manor, the Highlands, Scotland, September 1869.

  Bridget’s child was born on a dry, heated afternoon, after twenty-eight hours of sweat and pain.

  She was indifferent to the experience, as she had been to anything since February. This was simply one more task to set herself to. She gritted her teeth and endured.

  It did not occur to her to write to her mother and ask her to attend the birth, as many first-time mothers might. Bridget was a fallen woman, only saved from public downfall by the shield Will had propped in front of her. However, she knew the truth. So did Will.

  It was right that she go through the birth with only the midwife present. Why should she be comforted by friends and family? She didn’t deserve them.

  Afterward, when the midwife laid the baby in her arms, Bridget looked down at the tiny child and wept with despair.

  It was a girl.

  * * * * *

  As soon as she could manage it, Bridget wrote to Will, who would be back in Farleigh now, for it was hunting season. She did not have the energy to reach for polite phrases. She scratched out the stark sentences, her pen digging holes in the sheet.

  Will:

  You must come to Kirkaldy immediately. I do not ask for myself. The matter I must speak to you about concerns you alone.

  Bridget.

  It would take three days for the letter to reach him in Hertfordshire. She did not dare wonder how many hunting-related social events he had promised to attend that he would have to see to, before detaching himself from Farleigh. Then, the long train journey to Scotland.

  That is if her letter stirred him at all. She easily imagined him reading the letter, crumpling it in one hand and tossing it into the nearest fire, before picking up his brandy glass and getting on with his drinking.

  Therefore, Bridget tried to concentrate instead on returning to normal duties and the always heavy load of running Kirkaldy, while learning the responsibilities of motherhood. She continually listened for the thud of one of the exterior doors being thrust open and the swirl of fresh air and the scent of an active man that always accompanied Will when he arrived anywhere.

  Instead, Will’s arrival came late at night, unannounced, with no banging. He appeared in the nursery, like a ghost wrapped in shadows. Bridget thought at first that she was hallucinating, for she was nursing Elizabeth and nearly asleep herself. She blinked, to disperse the illusion.

  Will moved closer, his gaze upon the child in her arms. Elizabeth had fallen asleep, her tiny bow mouth puckered and her eyes shut tight.

  “So, the child is born,” Will said. He spoke quietly. His gaze did not move from the baby.

  Bridget’s heart leapt about, a caged animal looking for escape. He was here. It wasn’t her imagination. She had not thought his return would be like this. She had wanted to be able to brace herself and ease up to the announcement. Instead, now it was thrust upon her and she was unprepared.

  With an unsteady hand, she reached for Elizabeth’s cap and removed it, to reveal the head of soft downy hair. She stroked her fingers over the blonde lengths. “The child is yours, Will,” she said softly.

  He froze. “Mine…” he whispered. Then he shrugged. “Black-haired men father blond children all the time.”

  “Perhaps those children are not theirs,” Bridget suggested. She’d had days to think it through, to search for every and any objection or argument anyone would make. “Only, that isn’t the point. In the light of day you can see that she looks like you, Will. It is unmistakable.”

  He gripped the high side of the cot, his fist tightening. “She?”

  “Yes,” Bridget said.

  Will grew still once more. His breath came harshly as he reasoned it out. He was an heir himself. He had spent his life dealing with the peerage and considering blood lines and inheritances. The pressure for him to produce an heir had driven him to marry her.

  He hung his head, his breath bellowing out in a wheezy sigh. He had seen it, now.

  “I have not met my side of the bargain,” Bridget told him. “I have not yet given you an heir.”

  He nodded, his gaze upon his feet. Without a word, he turned and walked out the door.

  * * * * *

  Will returned late the following morning. His eyes were bloodshot and his jacket hung over his arm, his cuffs and collar stuffed in a pocket. His cheeks above the normally neat beard were rough with stubble.

  He dropped sideways into the chair at the head of the dining table, where Bridget was partaking of tea and a scone, while examining the weekly expenses report prepared by Mrs. MacDonald.

  Will tossed his jacket toward the sideboard. It fell short and settled on the floor in a rumpled heap of worsted wool. He studied it, as if he were deciding whether to pick it up or not.

  Bridget put her cup back on the saucer. “Would you like tea, Will? There’s plenty.” The cook, Mrs. Newton, insisted upon serving the big family teapot filled with her strong Irish blend every day, even though Bridget was the only one to drink it.

  Will put his head in his hands, his fingers gripping the thick locks at the back of his head, as if his head hurt him. It probably did. Will could normally drink twice the amount that would render any other man comatose. For him to show the effects of drinking must mean his night had been a prodigious one.

  He groaned.

  Bridget got up and poured a small glass of brandy from the decanter that had sat untouched for months. She put the glass in front of him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Here,” she said.

  She pulled the bell pull and sat again. She sliced and buttered another scone and slathered it with apricot jam, which Will liked. She put the plate beside the brandy.

  He straightened up enough to eye the brandy glass with a baleful expression.

  “Eat the scone instead,” Bridget told him.

  Bakersfield appeared at the doorway and his brow raised when he saw Will there.

  “Could we have another cup and saucer and a second plate, too, please, Bakersfield?”

  Bakersfield nodded and went away without a word.

  Will stretched out his hand and picked up one half of the scone. He brought it to his mouth, bit into it and chewed slowly.

  Bakersfield returned with the china she had requested. He put them on the table between Bridget and Will. “Is there anything else, my lady?” His tone was stiffer and more formal than usual.

  Will’s gaze shifted to look at up him, even though he remained hunched over his knees, the scone cradled on his hand.

  “Thank you, no,” Bridget replied.

  Bakersfield moved away again, his gaze not once moving in Will’s direction.

  Will turned himself on the chair, moving carefully. He and dumped the scone on the plate beside the untouched half. “He doesn’t approve.”

  “Did you think anyone would?” Bridget asked. She poured tea and pushed the milk jug and sugar closer to Will. Then she returned to examining the list of expenses. Will wouldn’t answer that. He never answered directly.

  “The truth is, Bree, I wasn’t thinking much at all, last night. Well, for most of it, I wasn’t.”
/>   Startled, Bridget considered him. He busied himself pouring milk and adding sugar and stirring. Excessively.

  He was avoiding her gaze.

  The insight allowed something inside her to shift and melt. Tension eased in her chest. “Then you did do some thinking,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.

  Will picked up the cup by the bowl, not the handle. He drank, draining half of it, then leaned back against the chair with a sigh. “I suppose there is no way around it. We have to try again.”

  Her body tightened. Her heart fluttered. She shifted her thighs on the chair, pushing away the fevered images that leapt to mind.

  “I agree,” she said. It came out stiffly.

  He nodded. “I’ll have my things sent up. I can hunt as easily here…besides, the deer are bigger.”

  Bridget put her hands in her lap, hiding their sudden tremble. “If we are to do this, then I would ask that…” She realized she was biting her lip and pushed her mouth into a tight line, holding it still.

  Will’s gaze was steady. “What is it? No drinking, I suppose?”

  She made herself say it. “No women, Will.”

  His eyes widened.

  “I know I have no right to ask that of you. You could argue that it is the height of hypocrisy and I would not be able to refute it. I am asking anyway. It is what a proper wife would demand and it would look strange if I did not.”

  Will turned the whole half of his scone around and around on the plate, watching it circle. “There haven’t been any women since the wedding,” he said softly.

  Her heart pounded. She could feel the pressure of the beat in her neck and behind her eyes. Her breath was shallow and fast. Her first instinct was to laugh in disbelief. A tiny whisper of caution held the response back.

  Will was being truthful with her. If she laughed, if she didn’t accept what he said, he would close up again. She knew that as surely as she knew that a mistreated dog would never return to its master.

  His chin lifted. His eyes met hers. He was measuring her, expecting her to dispute his statement.

  She chose her words carefully. “Then you have been more of a gentleman than I deserve. You have honored my reputation, even during the Season. Thank you for that.”