And then she noticed how the other women were eyeing them. Well, eyeing Edward. Rosamund was headed their way.
I’d better make haste if I’m going to take Thomas’s advice.
“Let’s go to the orchard,” Jo said, picking the first goal she saw on the horizon.
Edward nodded and fell into step with her—silent step—as the dogs trotted ahead.
Perhaps he would tell her what the problem was once they were away from the house.
“Did you have an uneventful journey?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Is Thomas a good traveler?”
“Yes.”
“And Bear? How did he manage?”
“Well enough.”
She was going to scream. Getting words out of him today was literally like pulling teeth.
Well, not that she’d ever pulled teeth, thank God.
When they reached the orchard and stepped in under the concealing branches, she put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
The dogs seemed to sense this was going to take a while. They flopped down next to each other on the ground.
“Edward, what is the matter?” Thomas had said the problem wasn’t their impending nuptials, but did Thomas really know? “Have you changed your mind about marrying me?”
He sighed. “No, of course not, Jo. I have to marry you.”
Her stomach lurched, and she closed her eyes. Of course, that’s it. He feels trapped.
Well, he was trapped. He was too honorable to turn his back on her and his child.
I misled him. I told him I couldn’t have children. I wasn’t lying. I thought it was the truth. Oh, why in the world would I think Edward could love me?
She felt his hands on her shoulders. She looked up and saw the pain in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Jo. I know you don’t want to leave the Home and come live with me.”
But I do want to live with you!
She realized with some surprise that, while she wasn’t precisely happy to be leaving the Home, she also wasn’t dreading it.
All she’d been thinking about was being with Edward.
“I wish I could say you didn’t have to marry me, but you do.” He looked away. “I should have been more careful. I know you said you couldn’t have children, but I knew Havenridge’s reputation.”
She thought she was going to puke. “Don’t . . . don’t you want this baby, Edward?”
He looked shocked. “Of course, I want the baby, Jo. I want it more than anything. I’m just sorry that you feel trapped by it.”
“Trapped?” He was the one who was trapped.
“I had hoped you would find you loved me . . .” He laughed weakly. “Hell, I thought when I was shopping the Marriage Mart that love didn’t matter. That it was never going to be part of the bargain. That I didn’t need it. But then I met you and . . .” He shrugged.
“I’m sorry if I sound like a mewling babe, Jo, but I wish you did love me. I hope that maybe you’ll still come to love me some day, after you get used to all the changes in your life. I will try to earn your love.”
He wasn’t making any sense.
She caught his face between her hands so he couldn’t look away. “Edward, what are you talking about? Of course, I love you.”
He stared at her. “You do?”
“Yes. Why would you ever doubt it?”
“But you . . . Well, you said you loved me at Darrow, but you also said you weren’t sure, that you needed time to know if you loved me enough to change your life for me. And you didn’t mention love in your letter nor when you told me about the baby.”
Oh. She never had said the words, had she? Well, she would fix that omission at once.
“Edward, what I felt for you—what I feel for you—was too much to put in a note. I needed to tell you in person. But then, just before you arrived, Livy convinced me I was carrying your child, and everything else flew out of my head.”
She’d forgotten how important it was to actually say the words—to have him hear them.
“Of course, I love you.” She saw hope begin to brighten his eyes. “I never imagined I could feel such a love. I . . .”
What else did he need to hear?
“I would marry you if you were still just a solicitor.”
She laughed. “Well, I suppose it would have been easier to decide to marry you if you were just a solicitor. So, I will say that I’ll marry you even though you are a duke and I’ll have to face the ton again. I love you that much!”
He didn’t look entirely convinced. “But would you marry me even if you weren’t pregnant?”
“Yes! I had already decided that I loved you—that I loved you enough—and would marry you before I knew I was carrying our child.” She put her hand on his chest, just above his heart. “You are my life, now, Edward. You and Thomas”—she moved her hand to her belly, a gesture she’d seen so many pregnant women make and now, for the first time, truly understood—“and our baby.”
It was as if the sun had broken out from behind thick clouds. The shadows vanished from Edward’s eyes and he grinned, leaned closer . . .
She put a finger to his lips to delay the kiss she knew was coming. “But I still mean to keep an eye on the Home, you know, if only through letters—and visits. We will visit, won’t we?”
“Of course.”
And then he kissed her and she knew that she was truly home.
Epilogue
Ten Months Later, the Duke of Grainger’s Country Estate
Jo sat in the Grainger schoolroom, Lord James Michael Henry Russell—all of seven weeks old—at her breast.
Pen and Caro and their families had arrived yesterday for James’s christening. This morning, the men had taken Thomas and Harriet—and Freddie and Bear—out for a morning romp while the women stayed behind with the younger children.
Now Pen was at one end of the room, sitting on the floor building towers of blocks for one-year-old Pip—or, more properly, Philip Arthur Edward, Viscount Hurley—to knock down. Caro was at the other end, trying to keep the eight-month-old Honorable David George Randolph St. John from pulling up on anything that would topple over on him.
Jo sat in the middle and smiled, feeling James’s strong pull on her nipple. He had a lusty appetite.
As did his father . . .
How much my life has changed in less than a year!
“How is the Benevolent Home for Mothers and Boys doing, Jo?” Pen asked as Lord Hurley clapped his hands and did a little dance of joy before sending the block tower tumbling.
Pen started building it again.
“It’s already full.” Jo shook her head. The new Home had been in operation only six months. “I guess I underestimated the need all these years.”
Edward had acquired Harvey Miller’s failing farm—Jo would have been quite happy to have the miscreant who’d tried to drown Freddie drown in River Tick, but Edward had a kinder soul. Well, and he’d pointed out Harvey was likely to drown himself in Widow’s Brew with the money from the sale, a thought she took great—perhaps even fiendish—delight in.
Edward had supplied the funds and legal advice, but Livy had managed everything else—she really did have an excellent head for business. And for managing people. She’d put Rosamund Lewis in charge of the new Home. Jo had been extremely skeptical, but it was working out surprisingly well. Apparently, once Rosamund had a responsible, consuming occupation, she lost all interest in stirring up trouble.
“Oopsy!”
That was Caro. The Honorable Davey had let go of the chair he’d been holding on to and had tried to walk across the room. He’d landed on his rump, a momentary look of surprise on his face, but had recovered quickly and crawled over to grab his prey, a red ball.
“He’ll be walking soon,” Pen said.
Caro nodded, but, as always, kept her focus on the topic currently under discussion. “It wasn’t so much that we underestimated the need, Jo. We didn’t have the resources to expand.”
“True.” They’d been struggling to keep just the one Home going.
The Honorable Davey lost interest in the ball and decided to interfere with Viscount Hurley’s fun. He managed to grab one block, which he promptly put in his mouth, before Caro captured him.
The viscount’s lower lip pushed out as if he were going to protest the thievery, but Pen distracted him with another tower and a tantrum was averted.
“Now that you’re a duchess, Jo,” Caro said, plopping her son back down by her chair, “you have influence. You”—Caro looked at Pen—“we can work to change matters so there are more places for women in need to go.”
Pen nodded as she balanced a round block on a square one. “Harry means to speak in the House of Lords on the matter. If your husbands joined their voices to his”—she looked at Jo—“especially the duke, perhaps matters will improve.”
“Yes. Nick has also—blaugh! Give me that!”
The Honorable Davey had found a tasty bit of floor fluff to sample.
While Caro tried to fish the now soggy fluff out of her son’s mouth, and Pen built another tower, Jo looked down at James. She hadn’t felt any sucking for a few minutes.
Ah. He’d had a hearty meal and had dropped off, eyes closed, milk dribbling down his chin, lips pulling in and out in fleeting little smiles.
Lud, he’s such a miracle.
She stroked his fuzzy little head, studying the delicate shell of his ear and each perfect little finger of his tiny hand resting on her breast.
All mothers must think their babies miracles to some degree, but perhaps she could be forgiven for thinking
James a special miracle. A year ago, she’d known with the same certainty as she knew the sun would rise in the east and set in the west that she’d never be a mother, and now, here she was—a mother, a stepmother, and a wife.
She smiled at her sleeping baby. A very happy wife. That was as much a miracle as the rest.
Her second marriage was nothing like her first. Well, Edward was nothing like Freddie. He—
Crash!
The noise startled James. His eyes flew open and his tiny, faint brows angled down. She put him to her shoulder and patted his back as she turned to see what had happened.
Viscount Hurley was laughing uproariously, blocks scattered on the floor all around him. The Honorable Davey, dirt successfully extracted from his mouth, was crawling briskly over to investigate, his hands and knees slapping against the floor. This time when he grabbed one of the blocks to chew on, the viscount did not object.
“Shall I build another tower, Pip?” Pen asked her son.
Viscount Hurley giggled and clapped his hands.
A year ago, Pip had been as tiny and helpless as James—and Davey had not yet been born. In no time at all, her baby would be sitting by himself, crawling, walking. In just a few years he’d be as big as Thomas was now. And then, someday, as big as Edward and perhaps a father himself—
“Bwaaapp!”
Jo looked at her baby, who gave her a big, toothless smile.
“That was quite a burp,” she said.
“Sounded like a juicy one, too.” Caro came over, a rag in her hand. “Oh, yes. He’s christened your dress.” She dabbed at Jo’s back.
Jo held her infant son up in her hands and touched her forehead to his. “You’re the one who’s to be christened, my lord. Not me. Now I’ll have to change.”
Pen looked up from building another tower and laughed. “Oh, don’t bother. He’ll just puke on you again, you know.”
Sadly, that was too true.
Caro nodded. “Davey was a messy burper. I took to wearing a rag over my shoulder all the time. Not as stylish as a Norwich shawl, but far more practical.” She raised a brow. “And I’ll wager quite soon his other end will be emitting something.”
Jo laughed. “I’ll not take your wager as I’m sure I’ll lose—”
An extremely alarming sound emanated from James’s hindquarters just as the men—along with Thomas, Harriet, Freddie, and Bear—came into the schoolroom.
The fathers all picked up their sons—except Edward.
“Here you go.” Jo held James out. “Just the man I most want to see. Your son needs you.”
Edward laughed. “I am not a first-time father, madam, to fall for your tricks.”
That’s right. When Thomas was a baby, Edward had only himself and a nursemaid.
It didn’t help that Freddie had come over and was sniffing James’s bottom.
Thomas wrinkled his nose. “James smells.”
“Yes, he does,” Edward said. “Can you go find Agnes?”
“Here I be, Yer Grace.” Agnes, their very capable, experienced nursemaid, bustled into the room.
She, er, scented the issue at once.
“Oh, yer a stinky little bug, ain’t ye, Jamey-boy? Come with me. We’ll have ye clean and smelling sweet agin in no time.” She whisked Lord James away.
Thomas had gone off to show Harriet his soldiers—being certain to keep them away from the babies—and the other parents were busy with their children, so Jo and Edward had a moment of privacy in the busy, crowded room.
Edward looked down at her. “I do love you, Jo,” he murmured, “and I would have changed James for you”—he grinned—“except for the fact that I employ the inestimable Agnes MacLarin, who will do a much better job than I could ever hope to.”
Jo laughed. “You don’t fool me, Edward. I know you are an expert at cleaning up dirty little boys.”
Heat flared in his eyes. He waggled his brows. “And at making them.”
She grinned. “And how good are you at making girls?”
“I shall be delighted to try to find out”—he bowed—“in the proper time, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Mama, come see what I’ve done with my soldiers,” Thomas called over—and Jo’s heart melted.
“And thank you for being a mother to Helen’s son and making us a family,” Edward whispered.
She looked up at him and smiled, her heart too full for words, and then she went over to see what her older son wished to show her.
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Chapter One
A Friday evening in August, Duke of Grainger’s estate
She’s very beautiful.
Harry Graham, Earl of Darrow, stood in the Duke of Grainger’s music room and listened to Lady Susan Palmer, the Earl of Langley’s daughter, talk about . . . something. Ah. A dress she’d seen at someone’s ball—Lady Norton’s?—during the Season.
She had a very English sort of beauty that he’d missed in his years on the Continent. Porcelain skin. Blonde hair. Blue eyes.
Dark blue, not the light, clear blue of Pen’s . . .
“And then I asked Lady Sackley for the name of her mantua-maker though I already knew the answer. I was just trying to make conversation. And she said . . .”
How was Pen? She must be married and a mother several times over by now.
He’d hoped to see her when he’d come home to England—just as old friends, of course—but he’d discovered she’d left Darrow not long after he had.
He hadn’t asked any more questions. It might have looked odd for the new earl to be inquiring about a tenant farmer’s daughter. Someone might remember how much time they’d spent together that summer before he’d left to fight Napoleon.
Not that there’d been anything particularly scandalous about their affair. His brother, Walter, had certainly sown his share of wild oats among the local maidens, many of which had taken root. He’d had so many bastards, people had given them a name—“Walter’s whelps.” It was easy to pick them out—they all had the distinctive Graham streak, a blaze of gra
y hair among otherwise dark locks.
He frowned. He didn’t like to compare himself to Walter on any front, but particularly this one. He wasn’t a monk, but he hoped he treated his paramours with more respect than Walter had. At the very least, he was careful not to gift them with a child.
Walter hadn’t been the only one frequenting the maidens’—and matrons’—beds. Felix, the blacksmith’s son, had given him stiff—ha!—competition. It had been so bad that far too often, no one, including the mother, knew which man was a new baby’s father until the Graham streak showed up, if it did.
It had been better for all concerned when Felix was the father. Then, if there was a husband involved, the man might never realize he’d been cuckolded. Harry still remembered all too vividly the time one of the tenants had come, pitchfork in hand, to find his older brother. Usually, the Graham streak appeared by the time a child was two or three years old, but this man’s firstborn son’s hair hadn’t shown its silver blaze until his tenth birthday.
“Exactly! I’m so glad you agree with me, Lord Darrow.”
His attention snapped back to Lady Susan. Good Lord, he had no idea what she’d been rattling on about. He was losing his touch. He’d never been so unaware of his surroundings when he’d been working for the Crown.
He had to keep his mind focused on matters at hand. He’d promised Mama he’d propose to the woman, after all. He was planning to pop the question tonight.
Lady Susan laughed. “To tell you the truth, I was amazed Madame Merchant—”
“Marchand,” he said, correcting her and giving the name its French pronunciation. Apparently, she was still droning on about dresses.
If I take her into the shrubbery, at least she’ll stop talking.
Though, on second thought, he wouldn’t bet on that. Even if he attempted a kiss, he’d likely not slow her verbal torrent. “Madame Marchand. She has her shop just off Bond Street.”
“Oh, yes. I suppose you are correct.” Lady Susan sniffed. “As I was saying . . .”
He kept one ear on Lady Susan’s monologue while his thoughts drifted off again, this time to the French dressmaker. He’d visited Bernandine a few times when he was in London. He liked to practice his French—and other skills—with her. But once he married . . .
Cheers to the Duke Page 24
