by Emma Wildes
Damien swore softly. “The tendency of the English aristocracy to not enlighten our young
women on practical subjects always astonishes me. I’ve been living too long in a place where
death is more common than the celebration of life, so I’ll be blunt. Brianna, are you by any
chance breeding?”
Was she what?
A small inadvertent gasp escaped her lips. Did he mean . . .
Her brother-in-law rocked back a little on his heels and looked amused. “That hadn’t occurred to
you?”
It took a moment, but then she shook her head and licked parched lips. “Until now, no,” she
confessed. “It makes you sick?”
“In some women, at first. They sleep more, also, I believe, for growing another human being
takes some energy, and of course, the most significant sign of all is missing your monthly
courses.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, but she still blushed. A very vivid color, if his reaction was any
indication. Her face was on fire.
She felt like an idiot. This was worse than her mother telling her to endure her wedding night
without complaint. That a young unmarried man like Damien knew more than she did about this
subject was mortifying, and his implication that Colton might have guessed was somehow even
worse.
Why hadn’t her husband said anything to her? She managed a wobbly nod. “I suppose it’s
possible.”
“I would suspect that to be the case.” Damien’s mouth twitched. “My older brother is a little
reserved, but he is still a man. May I beg you to give birth to a boy and rid me of the shackles of
being the heir to a dukedom? In Spain it isn’t such a concern, but the war won’t last forever. I
hate to imagine I might be forced to postpone my return to England just to avoid the pointed
pursuit of ambitious young ladies.”
“You wouldn’t ever be amiss in your duties to the Crown.” Brianna sat up a little, grateful to feel
the nausea subsiding. “And as far as an heir goes, I will do my best.”
Damien stood. “Colton will be delighted.”
“I suppose most men are.” It still bothered her. If her husband thought she might be pregnant,
surely he would have mentioned it. Now that it had been brought to her attention, she realized her
menses were late by at least a few weeks. She remembered how he’d known she felt unwell when
they were at Rolthven, and his attentiveness took on a new significance.
It was rather like he was spying on her.
Damien insisted on escorting her back to the ducal apartments, and when he left, Brianna rang for
her maid. When Molly appeared, Brianna asked without inflection, “Has the Duke inquired about
me lately?”
Soft-spoken and deferential, the young woman looked suddenly uncomfortable. “What do you
mean, Your Grace?”
“Rest assured I am not angry, just curious. Has he asked you any questions about my state of
health?” Brianna sat on the edge of the bed, trying to not clasp her hands together too tightly.
Molly pursed her mouth and nodded hesitantly. “When you slept rather late whilst we were in
Essex, he inquired if you seemed more tired than usual, Your Grace. It’s perfectly natural in your
condition. We are all very happy for you both. ’Tis a blessing.”
We? How wonderful. Everyone in the household was attuned to her state of conception except
her. Brianna was overwhelmed, speechless, until she managed to say, “Thank you.”
“Would you like some weak tea to settle you, perhaps?”
She managed a nod.
After Molly left, Brianna still sat with her hands folded in her lap, her mind whirling in tune with
the unsettled somersaults in her stomach.
Was she really going to have Colton’s baby? A lump lodged in her throat. She was happy. Why
would she cry?
He hadn’t come to her bed once since their return from Rolthven. Was this why? She’d been
feeling so lonely and confused by his behavior lately, which was part of the reason she’d tried to
talk to Damien.
That hadn’t really been successful either, she realized. Damien had very neatly sidestepped every
single one of her questions in a smooth, effortless way only he could manage. She’d ended up
being the one answering personal questions.
Brianna sat forlornly on the edge of the big bed. She still didn’t know what was going on with
Robert, and though Colton’s abstraction might be due to his anticipation she was going to have
their child, she had a feeling that wasn’t a satisfactory excuse for his recent distance.
It was wrenching to admit she had absolutely no idea how to handle this development.
What would Lady Rothburg do, Brianna wondered, squaring her shoulders and shaking off her
melancholy with determination, casting back over the book.
As infuriating as the average male can be, usually he has a good reason for his actions. Not one
we would necessarily agree with, but to him it is valid and motivates his behavior. Using
discretion is necessary, for no man appreciates a woman prying into his life, but it is only to your
advantage to know what compels him to act a certain way.
It is not a cliché to say knowledge is power; it is the simple truth.
It made sense. First things first: she needed to find out if she truly was carrying a child before she
confronted Colton about his sudden distance.
Chapter Eighteen
When things go wrong in matters of love, as they do all too often, simply trust your instincts. You
will know what to do.
From the chapter titled: “The Sun Cannot Always Shine”
“Do you mind telling me what the hell we’re doing here?” Robert turned to his brother, his face
set as he recognized the street outside the carriage windows, the fashionable address only blocks
from their family home.
“I might have intimated to Lady Marston I’d call this afternoon.” Damien looked unrepentant at
his blatant ploy. “Besides, I need to talk to Sir Benedict. My new orders are in. Just a quick stop,
so don’t look so alarmed.”
“This is a very unoriginal tactic,” Robert pointed out sardonically. “I should have been more
wary when you asked if I wanted to go with you to Tattersalls. I occasionally forget the little fact
that nothing you do is straightforward. I’ll wait here in the carriage.”
“In this weather?” Damien squinted out the window. “Deuced uncomfortable, if you ask me.”
Outside, it was cold, wet, and about as cheerful as an ancient dungeon, with rain falling in steady,
thin sheets. Robert crossed his arms over his chest and gave Damien an irritated look. “I’ll live.
Don’t be long or I’ll have the driver take me on without you.”
“How do you think Rebecca will feel to know you’d rather shiver in the damp than see her?”
“Encouraging her is the last thing I want to do. Let it go.”
His brother gifted him with one of his infamous assessing looks. “You do realize that her
emotions should count, too. Not just your selfish need to be self-indulgent and pursue your
hedonistic interests without censure. A bright, beautiful young woman from a good family has a
romantic interest in you. I am going to have to stop defending your intelligence should you let
this opportunity pass by.”
There was so much to find offensive about the statement, Robert wasn’t sure which caustic point<
br />
to address first. He opened his mouth to defend himself, then snapped it shut.
“I sent flowers earlier. I just signed the card NORTHFIELD. Her mother will think they are from
me. Rebecca will hope they are from you.”
“Are you completely mad?” Robert demanded explosively. “Stay out of this.”
“Robert, since we’ve returned from Rolthven you’ve been so out of sorts I hardly recognize you.
Your temper is as foul as a Parisian gutter.” Damien leaned back in his seat. “Deny it. Everyone
has noticed. Brianna hunted me down the other day to ask about it. Look, brother, you don’t want
the change in your life, fine, but I put it to you that your life has already changed. Where is the
charming, roguish Robert Northfield who flits through life with devil-may-care panache and has
a different woman in his bed every night?”
“I. Do. Not. Flit.” Robert ground out the words with singular emphasis.
“Not any longer, true. I am going to guess lately you haven’t even entertained any of those oh-sowilling beauties usually vying for your attention.”
“Who I bed or do not bed is not your concern,” Robert shot back.
The trouble was, Damien had made a shrewd deduction, blast him. Robert hadn’t pursued any
sexual contact with a woman since before that damned house party.
He hadn’t been in the mood, which was an anomaly in his licentious life.
“You are my brother. Your happiness is my concern whether you give me permission or not.”
Damien adjusted a glove and glanced back out at the house. “Consider this. We both arrive for an
afternoon call. Rebecca’s mother favors me as a suitor, so our visit is welcome. It allows both her
and Sir Benedict to adjust to your presence in their drawing room. A proverbial foot in the door,
if you will.”
“You have heard the story.” Robert said it through his teeth. “Good God, man, if I walk through
the door, the chances are he’ll have me bodily removed. I don’t want to subject myself—or more
important, Rebecca—to such a scene.”
“I doubt that will happen.” Damien went on with the same casualness. “I also suggest you waltz
with Miss Marston at least once tomorrow night at Phillips’s ball. Just take it slow and don’t get
the gossips twittering. When the Marstons get the sense your intentions are honorable, I believe
they will be more accepting than you think. After all, they could have forced her to marry before
this and didn’t. That suggests to me that they care about her choice in the matter.”
Robert was still pondering Damien’s initial assertion. “What makes you think Sir Benedict won’t
throw me out on my ear?” Robert gazed suspiciously at his sibling, wondering just what Damien
might have been up to in the past week.
“Trust me.”
“It isn’t that I don’t trust—”
“Robbie, the Duke of Wellington takes my word when the lives of thousands of soldiers hang in
the balance. Do you not think I can be given some confidence from my own brother?”
There didn’t seem to be any possible answer to the question except for a brief nod, so Robert just
sat there and barely tipped his head.
“If”—Damien raised a finger—“you prove to be a model of decorous behavior in order to court
their daughter, and Rebecca accepts your suit, I think their objections will fade.”
“A model of decorous behavior,” Robert repeated, amusement warring with outrage. He wanted
either to laugh or to hit something. “Oh, that sounds appealing. Besides, I am not sure I know
how. I am not sure I want to even try.”
“But you aren’t sure you don’t want to either, which says quite a lot.” Damien looked just a shade
smug and indicated the door. “Shall we?”
With an oath, Robert exited the carriage and moments later found himself ensconced in the
Marstons’ formal drawing room, only half listening to his hostess make brittle small talk. He tried
to come up with appropriate responses, but his attention was all on Rebecca.
Robert, who could blithely walk away from any woman, couldn’t even look away. What the devil
was wrong with him?
She looked delectable in a pale pink silk gown that showed off her dark, glossy hair and those
captivating aqua eyes. She sat in a graceful—but obviously self-conscious—pose on the very
edge of her chair, and when Damien excused himself after a brief interval to go speak with her
father, her eyes widened slightly.
Sardonically, Robert realized that while he had a reputation as a rakish libertine who could lure a
woman into a compromising situation with ease, making polite conversation with a proper
matron and her innocent daughter was completely out of the realm of his capabilities. The only
good news was they appeared to feel as awkward as he did.
He managed some commonplace responses to a few questions before he asked one of his own.
He turned to Rebecca. “I have been meaning to inquire as to where you acquired the music you
played so well when we were at Rolthven. I recognized some of the pieces, of course, but not all
of them. I believe my favorites were the ones I hadn’t heard before.”
For whatever reason, Rebecca grew pink. Confound it. And here, he finally thought he’d
introduced a subject he knew she found interesting.
“Do tell, Lord Robert,” Lady Marston asked in an icy voice before her daughter could answer,
“speaking of that evening, where did you learn to play the cello so divinely? I had no idea you
had such talent.”
The words were polite. Her tone of undisguised disdain was not.
“My brothers and I all had music masters,” he said with deliberate vagueness, his gaze still fixed
on the young woman sitting so nervously across the room.
“The cello is one of my favorite instruments.” Rebecca adjusted her skirt fussily.
He murmured in a noncommittal tone, “Mine too. I can play the violin and am passable with the
flute, but it remains my first choice.”
“Your sister-in-law, the Duchess, is a charming young woman, isn’t she? We had a lovely time.”
Another pointed switch in subject.
Very well.
“Brianna is most certainly both gracious and beautiful. My brother is a lucky man.” He smiled at
Rebecca. “I understand you have been friends since childhood.”
“They were inseparable as little girls,” Lady Marston informed him, cutting off her daughter’s
reply. “A bit on the mischievous side, the both of them, but that has all changed. Like most wellbred young ladies, they outgrew any tendencies to impropriety. Look how well Brianna married.
Your brother is the soul of respectability. A true gentleman, not just in name, but in deed. Lord
Damien also has an impeccable reputation.”
Under other circumstances he would be amused to be so obviously left off the list of his family’s
respectable males. But he wasn’t amused at all.
The implication was clear enough. Any association with him would be the height of impropriety
for a well-bred young woman. That it was true didn’t help matters. He couldn’t defend himself,
and what was worse, Lady Marston seemed to know it.
In the end, he didn’t try. “Both my brothers are fine men, though I might be biased on the
subject.” He hoped he looked bland.
“They hold you in the same high regard,” Rebecca said after sending her mother a quelling
glance.
“I hope so.” He smiled at her leap to his defense.
“Yes, well, family members do tend to be blind to the faults of other members, don’t they?” Lady
Marston looked at him pointedly, the remark so direct that Rebecca made a small sound, like a
low gasp of dismay.
He hadn’t held any illusions about the nature of his probable reception here, but he had expected
maybe a little less bluntness.
“Yes, but then again, they do tend to know each other better than anyone else. All too often
public perception and the truth about someone’s character are quite different,” Robert remarked
evenly.
“That’s true,” Rebecca agreed quickly. Too quickly.
“Perhaps in some cases.” Lady Marston didn’t look particularly swayed by his comment. “But
every rumor has some basis in fact.”
Robert fought the urge to look at the doorway. Where the devil was Damien?
This close, all he could think about was the soft curve of Rebecca’s mouth and how it had felt
under his, the gentle clasp of her hands, the scent of her hair, and bloody hell if the way she
looked at him didn’t tell him she remembered it also.
And quite obviously her mother hadn’t missed it.
Rebecca’s lack of sophistication was disconcerting and yet endearing at the same time. Some of
the ladies he usually associated with could carry on a flirtation under the noses of their husbands.
Hell, he’d flirted back under the very same noses. Others were experienced widows, or kept
women—like that infamous Lady Rothburg who had written an instructional manual on how to
lure your husband back or some such nonsense. Robert didn’t frequent brothels, nor did he pay to
have a mistress on hand, but he never lacked for female company if he wanted it.
Seduction was an art. He’d studied it, perfected his technique, and all of that did him no good
when sitting in the stilted atmosphere of the drawing room of an ingenuous young lady who
deserved every courtesy, every flowery word and romantic gesture of a proper courtship.
Damien was right, he probably could seduce Rebecca—the offer of a clandestine meeting at
Rolthven came to mind—except he’d passed that chance by and would probably never get her
alone again. Besides, he was opposed to the idea. Giving in to a visit to her parent’s drawing
