by Darcy Burke
Poppy had turned but now swung her head back toward him. Bianca did the same. They both studied him a moment before linking arms and departing the drawing room.
“Why do I wonder when we’ll see him again?” Poppy asked.
“Because it may be a very, very long time,” Bianca said darkly.
Poppy feared she was right.
Chapter 9
After bidding farewell to Truro—and apologizing for failing to make any progress with the duke—Poppy and Bianca climbed into the Buckleigh coach and started toward Hartwell House. Unfortunately, they would not have good news to share. Poppy wanted to go back inside and throttle her brother.
“Now you’re the one who looks as though she wants to commit murder,” Bianca said. When Poppy looked at her in alarm, Bianca laughed. “You accused me of that the day you came to take me to Thornaby’s house party.”
Poppy relaxed against the squab. “So I did. Well, now I understand.” She understood many things, including the effect of Felicity Garland.
“I think Felicity must have something to do with his change,” Bianca mused, tapping her finger against the side of the coach.
“I was just thinking the same thing. Do you suppose she would tell us if we asked?”
“It’s worth trying,” Bianca said. “In the meantime, we must come to accept that our brother may be gone.”
“I’m not ready to give up on him.” Poppy couldn’t believe she was saying that. However, since she couldn’t have children of her own, she was aware of how small their family was. They needed to be there for each other, even when one of them was, to quote Gabriel, a miserable pig.
They arrived at Hartwell House and carried in the baskets of treats from both the Buckleigh and Darlington kitchens. Mrs. Armstrong greeted them and ushered them into the drawing room, where the children were gathered for their afternoon story.
A small girl, perhaps five years old, named Susan ran to Bianca and threw her arms around her legs. “Lady Bianca! Did you come to read to us?”
Bianca laughed. “Why, yes.” She looked over at Mrs. Armstrong, who nodded.
Mrs. Armstrong glanced sideways at Poppy. “I never read to them when Lady Buckleigh is here. Why would they want me when they can have her ladyship?”
“Yes, Bianca is quite good at doing all the voices and imbuing her oration with excitement.”
“This also allows me a chance to speak with you about Judith. And Dinah.” Mrs. Armstrong led Poppy into the sitting room. “I’m so looking forward to having Judith back. Are you certain Dinah is well enough to be on her own?”
Poppy removed her cloak and hat, setting them on the edge of the settee. “I think so. Dinah has taken to motherhood quite naturally.”
“That’s what Judith said in her last letter. I’m delighted to hear it—shocked, but delighted. Judith also said Nicola is a darling babe.”
“She is indeed,” Poppy agreed, somewhat bracing herself should Mrs. Armstrong wish to discuss their shared inability to bear children.
Mrs. Armstrong took a seat near the hearth. “And you think she’ll make a good teacher here?”
Poppy set her gloves on her cloak. “I do. I’ve spent a great deal of time with her over the past weeks, and I like her very much. Her transition since giving birth has been nothing short of extraordinary. If her behavior with Nicola is any indication, she will be wonderful with the children. She was merely afraid. She didn’t think she should be a mother.”
“The poor dear. I shall like having her here—and the babe. I’m glad things have all worked out where she’s concerned.” Again, her gaze lingered on Poppy in such a way that Poppy anticipated she would say something about Dinah having a child while Poppy could not.
Hoping to avoid the topic, Poppy went to the fire to warm herself. “It’s cold today.”
“Yes, it’s good of you to come out.”
Relaxing, Poppy redirected the conversation. “We visited our brother in the hope of persuading him to reinstate his support of Hartwell House. I’m sorry to say we were not successful.”
Mrs. Armstrong sighed. “I do appreciate you trying. We shall have to continue to make do. I learned long ago not to expect things.”
A current of frustration whipped through Poppy. She pivoted toward Mrs. Armstrong. “It’s not right. You should be able to expect support from the community, especially from those most in a position to help.” Though Poppy had no knowledge of the Duke of Hartwell’s accounts, she couldn’t believe that Calder couldn’t afford to help, nor could she believe their father had mismanaged anything.
“Your outrage on our behalf is heartwarming.”
The more she thought about her brother’s unaccountable stinginess, the angrier she became. “My father would not be pleased. I don’t understand Calder. He didn’t display even a bit of remorse.” Poppy began to pace, just a few steps, back and forth in front of the fireplace. “When I think of him alone in that huge house while your rooms are leaking and you have barely enough beds—not enough when Dinah comes.”
A wave of light-headedness washed over Poppy. Her legs wobbled, and she had to grab the mantel for support.
Mrs. Armstrong was beside her in a trice, her arm clasping around Poppy’s waist. “Here, sit down.” She guided Poppy to the settee. “Are you all right?”
“Just a bit dizzy.” A flush rose up Poppy’s neck. “And perhaps overheated. I think I was too close to the fire.”
Placing a hand on Poppy’s forehead, Mrs. Armstrong pressed her lips together. “You don’t feel too warm. Should you lie down?”
“I think I’m fine.” The dizziness returned along with a surge of nausea. Poppy slapped her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes, leaning back against the settee.
“Oh dear, I’ll be right back.” Mrs. Armstrong bustled toward the door.
“Would you mind bringing a few biscuits or cakes?”
“You want to eat?” Mrs. Armstrong asked in surprise.
“A nibble, perhaps.” She’d felt unsettled like this yesterday and the day before, and a few bites of a biscuit had set her to rights.
Poppy closed her eyes as she waited for Mrs. Armstrong to return. After a few minutes, the sound of the woman’s shoes on the floorboards drew Poppy’s eyes open.
“Here.” Mrs. Armstrong placed a cold cloth on Poppy’s brow. “This should help. And here’s a Banbury cake.” She handed Poppy a small triangular cake dotted with currants.
Taking a bite, Poppy chewed slowly then took another bite. After four nibbles, she set the cake on the plate Mrs. Armstrong had placed on the table next to the settee. “Thank you, that’s better.”
Mrs. Armstrong sat back in her chair, her gaze never leaving Poppy. “How long have you been feeling like this?”
“A few days, but the sensation is mostly fleeting, occurring in the afternoon for a short while. I haven’t been sleeping particularly well.” Because of Gabriel. He wasn’t sleeping in their bed, and she knew he was suffering.
“That must be it, then.” Mrs. Armstrong sounded almost…disappointed. She turned her gaze to the fire.
“Did you suspect something else?”
“It was silly, and I shouldn’t mention it.” She slid Poppy a nervous glance. “It’s just that…as soon as you arrived, you seemed different. I didn’t want to think anything of it, but then after this…” She waved her hand. “Please pardon me.”
Alarm pricked at Poppy’s neck. She sat straight, taking the cloth from her forehead, then leaned toward Mrs. Armstrong. “Should I be worried?”
“I don’t think so, but it can’t be. I mean, it could, I suppose…”
Now Poppy was beginning to grow frustrated, and with that came another wave of nausea. She pressed the cloth to her cheeks.
Mrs. Armstrong’s eyes sparked with concern. “Are you feeling ill again?”
“A bit. If you have information that would help me avoid this, I would appreciate you sharing it.”
“Forgive my audacity, but
when did you last have your courses?”
Thinking back, Poppy counted. The illness faded from her belly, and a strange tingling spread through her limbs. The room became a bit fuzzy, then snapped into sharp focus. “Too long ago,” she whispered. She’d counted and tracked her bleeding for well over a year now. Her cycle was always the same. Always.
Until now.
Mrs. Armstrong moved to the settee next to Poppy, taking her hand. “Do you feel different in other ways? Tired? A tenderness in your breasts?”
Yes, but again, she’d attributed that to Gabriel. She was tired because she wasn’t sleeping well. And her breasts ached a bit because she missed him touching them. But that was absurd, she now realized.
She was, after all this time, with child. She knew it as clearly as she knew Mrs. Armstrong was sitting beside her.
Poppy lowered the cloth to her lap, careless that it was making her skirt damp. “What do I do?”
“Rejoice.” Mrs. Armstrong grinned, then wrapped her arms around Poppy in a fierce hug.
Hugging her back, Poppy began to laugh. Then Mrs. Armstrong joined in. Soon they were fighting to draw breath and dabbing at their eyes.
“Lord Darlington is going to be thrilled,” Mrs. Armstrong said, beaming.
Poppy couldn’t wait to tell him. This would draw him from his melancholy, and they could look to the future together.
The future. The birth of their child.
Gabriel would be terrified.
She thought of how Nicola’s birth had affected him, the memories it had coaxed forth, the damage those had done. “I don’t know how to tell him,” she whispered, feeling his fear as if it were her own.
Mrs. Armstrong blinked in surprise. “Why?”
“He’s…afraid. His mother died after giving birth. As did his sister.”
“As did your mother.” Mrs. Armstrong nodded. “Obviously, you will have to tell him.” Her tone was wry but caring.
Poppy wondered if she could wait until she had to, until her condition became evident. She didn’t want to worry him, especially if she wasn’t truly pregnant. Or worse—if something happened and she didn’t stay pregnant.
Now his fear was her fear. She couldn’t tell him.
And yet, when she thought of how he’d kept Dinah from her for fear of causing her pain, she knew there could be no secrets between them. Pain and fear and loss and grief, they were part of life and they’d promised to share them with each other, to face and fight them together.
Poppy nodded at Mrs. Armstrong. “I’ll tell him. Soon.” In the meantime, she would confide in Bianca, who would be thrilled. Poppy prayed everything would turn out right.
Mrs. Armstrong gave her an encouraging smile. “You’ve been through so much. You deserve this happiness.”
While that might be true, Poppy couldn’t help but think Mrs. Armstrong had deserved it too, but hadn’t been so fortunate.
Yes, there was pain and disappointment, but there was also love and acceptance. She looked around at the magnificent home Mrs. Armstrong—and her husband—had built, and she knew no matter what happened, she would be fine. No, she would be wonderful.
Life was a gift, and she would be eternally grateful for it.
Brooding had never been Gabriel’s strong suit, and yet of late, he felt as if he could win a prize for gloominess. He stared into the fire, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingertips.
Poppy was home after spending last night at her sister’s. He’d been disappointed when she hadn’t returned after visiting Hartwood and Hartwell House, but could he blame her? He wasn’t exactly good company. In truth, he oughtn’t be surprised if she never came back.
But she had.
Grumbling, he lifted his glass only to find it was empty. Hell.
Pushing up from the chair, he went to the table next to the bed in the chamber he’d moved into a week ago. After Dinah had given birth to Nicola, simultaneously raising his worst demons and killing his last hope.
Was it any wonder he’d spent the past week in a stupor?
And how much longer do you plan to continue?
The voice in his head sounded like Poppy. He snorted as he reached for the bottle only to find it was empty. Bloody hell.
He set the glass down with a clack and crossed the room. Opening the door, he sucked in a breath at the sight of his wife standing over the threshold.
She wore a red velvet dressing gown that hugged her curves and outlined them to perfection. Her dark hair was gathered into a loose plait that hung over her right shoulder, the end of it curling against the swell of her breast. He wanted to tease her nipple with the silken strands. The erotic thought brought his cock to a half stand.
“May I came in?” She gave him a tentative look that made him feel like a beast.
He moved to the side, and she slowly walked in. He held the door as he watched her backside sway beneath the rich fabric. Mouth watering, he closed the door.
He was worse than a beast. Lusting after his wife when he wasn’t even worthy of her.
She turned to face him, her chin high. “When are you returning to our bed?”
He blinked. She meant to cut right to it, then.
“Soon.” What the hell did that mean?
She tipped her head to the side. “Why did you leave it in the first place?”
“You know why.” The words were little more than grunts. The kind a beast would make.
“If I knew why, I wouldn’t have asked.” She gave him a perturbed stare and crossed her arms over her chest. “I know you’re upset about what you remembered. And probably about not being able to raise Nicola as our own. I’m upset about those things too.” She moved toward him, and he tensed. He’d successfully avoided thinking too long about either of those things. The brandy had helped.
“I’m deeply troubled,” she continued, her body swaying toward him and not stopping until she nearly touched his chest. “And I don’t want to be troubled alone.”
“Poppy.” He said her name haltingly as he fought to keep hold on his equilibrium—and his sanity. “I can’t do this.”
She arched a brow at him. “I demand you do. You are my husband. You promised to be with me in sickness and in health, in good and bad. We are in this together.”
Emotion roiled inside him—he gave in to the easy one: anger. “You didn’t want to share your grief with me. Weeks you moped around here without talking to me. We weren’t together then.”
She flinched, and he felt horrid. “No, we weren’t. I wish I had talked to you. Talk to me, Gabriel. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“No.” The denial squeezed past the rock in his throat.
“Then tell me something else. Tell me you miss me. You love me. You want me.”
“All of those things,” he rasped, his fingers itching to touch her, to claim her.
“Show me.”
She’d said that to him weeks ago when he’d finally broken through her grief. Neatly, she’d turned the tables on him. God, he loved her.
He clasped her back and brought her roughly against his chest. His gaze held hers, riveted on the way her dark pupils enlarged into the blue-gray irises as her arousal grew.
“I’ve missed you.” He reached between them and plucked at the clasps holding the gown closed.
The fabric fell open, and his mouth went dry. Her curves were so discernible because she wore nothing beneath the scarlet gown. “I love you.”
He pushed the garment from her shoulders, sliding it down her arms, as he drank in her loveliness. From the column of her neck to the generous swell of her breast to the dip of her waist to the flare of her hip, he was entranced.
Picking up her plait between his thumb and forefinger, he dragged the end across her bare nipple. It rose to a stiff peak as she moaned, casting her head back and closing her eyes.
His cock raged with need, his body coursed with desire, his mind raced with passion. “I want you.”
Her eyes came open, and she took hi
s free hand. “Then take me.”
She led him to the bed, where she climbed on top of the mattress and spread herself before him like a sumptuous buffet. There were too many delectable courses. He didn’t know where to begin.
He still held her hair. Watching her, he swirled the end of the plait around her nipple, going in wider circles with each rotation. She came up off the bed, arching for more. He leaned down and kissed her other breast, his lips and tongue laving and sucking her flesh.
Then he abandoned her hair and cupped her breast, taking her in his hand and squeezing as he drew her other nipple into his mouth. Her cries grew louder. He gave her more, tugging on her and sucking hard.
She gasped, her hand clasping his neck. “Softer.”
He lightened his touch—hands, fingers, mouth. Gently, he cupped both breasts and skimmed his thumbs across the nipples. She cried out his name and dug her fingers into his scalp.
There was something…off. She felt different, and she was behaving slightly…different. Her breasts felt heavier, almost larger, and she was so sensitive. Almost too sensitive…
He stilled. “Poppy, are you all right?”
She blinked her eyes open, taking a moment to focus on him. “Yes.”
“Are you certain? Your breasts are different.”
Her eyes widened. “You can tell?”
“Tell what?”
She hesitated, and panic began to bloom in his chest. “They are different. Because I’m with child.”
The room went sideways. Gabriel reached for something and found the post of the bed. Clasping it tightly, he waited for the world to right itself. Only it couldn’t.
She was pregnant.
The day he’d feared, the day he’d been relieved would never come, had arrived. He was going to lose her.
She sat up on the bed and put her hands on his waist, holding him tight. “Gabriel, it’s going to be all right.”
He shook his head. “You can’t know that. How…”
“I think you know how.” Her mouth curled into a smile, and all he could think was How can you smile right now?
“But why, after all this time?”
