* * *
Leaving his home in the country, his refuge, only became more difficult the less he did it. This time, it had been a full year since Gerard had left his manor behind for more than a week. The manor, with its shining marble and elegant lawns, was more like a fortress to him. Within its walls he could lose himself in business, going days at a time without thinking of anything more personal than ship manifests and the long, tidy columns of his ledger books.
London, to him, was a place teeming with humanity. People courted in London, they danced, they kissed, they fell in love and married. Children were born. Homes were made. The city represented a life that he had extracted himself from violently so long ago.
Bridget had told him, years ago, that retaliating against a world that had taken Christine from him by hardening his heart against every tender thing was a childish and ridiculous way to grieve. But it worked. As long as he stayed out of London.
He gripped onto a newspaper in the carriage, twisting it in his palms so harshly that ink stained the fingers of his gloves. His heart raced as he struggled to keep calm and impartial. But every step of the horses brought him closer to the past that he had been hiding from for so long, and the feeling of foreboding that he had been fighting these past few weeks only grew stronger with each passing moment.
This is ridiculous. Get a hold of yourself, Gerard. You’ve done this before.
Gerard promised himself that he would be pleasant this time. Bridget needed it. She hadn’t gone into detail in her letters, but her anxiety about giving birth was evident in every word she had sent him. She needed the old Gerard, who would be at her side with a calm word and a protective glance whenever she needed it. To stand around in her home being aloof and unsociable would only cause her more strain. He knew that he owed it to her to be on his best behavior.
He tried a smile, watching his translucent reflection in the window of the carriage. It didn’t look good. His lips pulled into a straight line that made him look as though he were listening to a bad joke. He sighed, then tried again. His reflection smiled back at him sarcastically and he gave up.
As he drew nearer to London, he began to recognize places where he had spent his young adulthood. There was the road leading to a boyhood friend’s manor. And there was the dressmaker’s shop where he had chaperoned Bridget so many times. Christine’s home was coming up quickly and, try as he might to ignore the marble edifice that spoke of such painful memories, he could not but revisit that day when he had seen her last.
She had been wearing a white gown with lace at the wrists. He had always loved her wrists, so thin and frail and milky white, with a single freckle on the back of her left hand that he had kissed so many times. No amount of years could pass that would erase from his memory the details of her. Her voice, the flecks of gold in her eyes, the way she sighed so gently when he kissed her.
Gerard brought his hands up to his face, covering his eyes as though he could block out the memories that way. The creeping dread that he had been living with as the trip to London drew closer mounted into a panic as he passed by Christine's home.
There was no way that he would be able to escape thoughts of her the entire time he was in the city. There would be no refuge from the sadness at missing her, and the frustrated rage at never bringing her killer to justice. The excitement that coursed through his veins at the sight of that house where, on the veranda, he had sat with her and kissed her in the moonlight, would have no outlet until he could leave the city once more.
He opened the mangled newspaper and stared blankly down at it. His eyes scanned a single sentence over and over, not taking in the words at all. His hands were shaking.
Stop this nonsense. Calm down.
By the time he arrived at Stonehill, he had managed to stop his trembling, though his mind was still a tempest of anger and fresh grief. As the groom hopped down from the carriage and opened the door for him, Gerard remained seated. He felt winded, as though he had run from Christine’s home to Stonehill, and he wanted to be sure that he appeared calm and collected by the time he stepped out.
Stonehill was an imposing manor with white pillars, calling back to the Greeks, lining the front of the house. Bridget had done well for herself in her marriage to Jonathan, though money had not been an object in the match. Bridget and the Duke were in love, and all the wealth and pomp in the world could not dim the simple joy of their marriage. The two of them would have been just as happy living together in a poor cottage as they were in this stately manor.
He took a couple more steadying breaths, then, with all the force of will that he could muster, he trained his face into a pleasant expression and descended from the carriage.
He looked around, realizing with a start that there was no one outside to greet him. Not Bridget, nor her husband, not even a lone butler.
Gerard straightened his waistcoat and placed his hat upon his head, gathering his wits one final time before ascending the stairs to the door with as jaunty a step as he could muster. Glancing up at the windows, he thought he saw the movement of a curtain being rapidly dropped into place as he knocked on the door.
A servant, most likely.
There was, at first, no answer to his knock. He waited a moment, adjusting his hat. Then, finally, he knocked a second time. Even then, it was a few moments before the heavy door swung wide to reveal the face of, not a butler, but Bridget’s maid Dorothy.
She beamed at him in a moment of exuberance. Gerard returned her bright smile. Dorothy had been like a second mother to both himself and Bridget since they were children and seeing her again brought back many happier memories. She was beginning to show her age.
“Your Grace!” she called, laughing as she ushered him inside. “What a time to arrive! Alfred is busy tending to the Duke right now. If I hadn’t happened to be passing the hall just as you knocked, we’d not have known you were here!”
“Why, what’s happening?” Gerard asked, taken aback at the sense of hurry that quickened the woman’s voice. He noticed then that her mobcap was slightly askew and there was a fine sheen of sweat at her temples.
“The baby! It’s coming as we speak!”
“What, right now?” Gerard exclaimed, his eyes going wide.
“Yes, yes! Come along now and sit with the father-to-be.”
“Yes, of course. Bring me to His Grace at once. Is my sister all right?” Gerard deluged the aging maid with questions as he followed her up the grand staircase to the upper rooms.
“Oh yes, she’s doing fine. It started this morning when it was still dark. It started out slow but it’s quickening now. I'd guess that there will be a new baby in the world by dinner time.”
As they reached the top of the stairs, Gerard heard a plaintive wail that gave way to a pained shriek that sent a shiver down his spine.
“Good heavens,” he muttered, looking down the corridor where the sound had come from.
“She’s quite all right. Quite all right. It’s supposed to sound like that. Come along, quickly now.” Dorothy said, hustling him along in the opposite direction from the source of the screaming.
“You will let my sister know that I’m here, won’t you? Perhaps it might help her?” He wasn’t sure how much comfort his presence in the house could bring to his sister at such a moment as this, but it was all he had to offer just then.
“Of course, I will. She’ll be glad to hear it.” Dorothy said, glancing behind her as another cry went out from the other end of the hallway. “The Duke is just in here. I must get back to Her Grace.”
As Gerard entered a sunny parlor, the maid dashed away. Inside, Jonathan was standing irritably, his waistcoat askew and his hair at odd angles as he leaned against the mantelpiece.
“I do believe there’s a baby coming.” Gerard said, as he shut the door behind him against a fresh scream.
“Gerard!” Jonathan said, swinging around. The tall gentleman crossed the room in three strides before clapping Gerard in a brotherly embrace. G
erard thumped the father-to-be on the back and laughed.
“You look like you’ve been in a fight,” Gerard exclaimed.
“That I have! These blasted fools won’t let me anywhere near my wife. They say she doesn’t want to see me, but that’s nonsense. Of course, she wants to see me. I’m her husband for, God’s sake. Listen to her!” Jonathan raised his arm in a sweeping gesture.
“Well, did they let you see her the last time?” Gerard asked.
Jonathan and Alfred, the butler, exchanged glances.
“What?” Gerard asked.
“Last time she broke a priceless vase over my head when she threw it at me from the bed,” Jonathan divulged in a whisper.
A rare grin spread over Gerard’s face. “No, I don’t believe it.”
“She did. Only don’t tell her I told you. She’s embarrassed about it now. Which is why I know that she does want me with her this time.” This last bit was directed at the butler, who merely shook his head slowly.
“Sit down, Jonathan. Have a drink. Have a cigar.” Gerard took Jonathan’s arm and led him to the settee, making the stressed gentleman sit down while he poured him a glass of amber whiskey.
Jonathan took the glass and swallowed its contents in hurried gulps. Through the heavy wooden door, the sounds of Bridget’s trials were muffled, but not completely obscured. Jonathan let his head fall back and groaned as another cry rang out.
“This is torture. I can’t bear another moment of it,” he moaned.
Gerard, pouring himself a glass, shook his head. “Don’t let her catch you saying that. She’s the one doing the work. Unless you’ve got other priceless vases to spare.”
Gerard was attempting to put on an air of casualness, but in truth his own nerves were being jangled by the sounds of his sister’s ordeal. This was certainly not the welcome he had been expecting when he arrived at Stonehill.
“Perhaps some fresh air would do you some good. Come, show me the gardens. I’m eager to see them,” Gerard lied. He couldn’t give a fig about the gardens at that moment, but he thought that getting out of earshot of the Duchess might calm his nerves.
“I cannot leave. I don’t want them to have to search for me when the baby arrives. I will be waiting right here, ready to rush to her side,” Jonathan said resolutely.
“That’s very noble of you, but I got the impression that there still may be some time yet. And Alfred will know where we are. They won’t need to send out a search party.”
Jonathan shook his head. “I cannot do it. I have to stay here.”
Gerard glanced at Alfred who, behind his master’s back, shrugged weakly.
“All right, old chap. We’ll stay here. But let’s at least have a game of cards or something. Sitting here straining our ears won’t make the babe come any sooner or make it any easier for Bridget.”
Jonathan seemed highly reluctant to do anything other than press his ear to the wall listening for any sign of distress from his wife, but with time, he was convinced to play a round of cards.
Time passed interminably, marked only by the distant wails and the sounds of cards being flicked onto the wooden table. None of the gentlemen could hold a conversation, despite several attempts by Gerard to cajole Jonathan into a nice, distracting chat. With time, all attempts at speaking ceased and silence prevailed.
The shadows in the parlor grew long, and Alfred was just getting up to light the lamps in the room against the impending twilight when suddenly a knock came and Dorothy’s face appeared in the doorway. She was flushed, and her mobcap hung limply down her back, but the smile on her face erased all fear. Jonathan jumped up, almost toppling the chair behind him.
“It’s a girl, Your Graces,” Dorothy exclaimed. “Her Grace is asking for you!”
Jonathan was the first to reach the door, and he fairly sprinted down the corridor to his wife, with Gerard trailing behind him.
The scent of blood and sweat lingered in the air of the bedroom, but the sheets had been changed and Bridget was swathed in fresh linens, her blonde hair cascading beatifically over her shoulders. Her divine appearance was at odds with the very human scents, and the animal sounds she had been making all morning.
Gerard hung back as Jonathan surged forward, tears in his eyes.
“A girl,” he murmured, lifting the squirming bundle of swaddling from his wife’s exhausted arms.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Bridget breathed. Her voice was hoarse, but impossibly gentle at the same time.
“She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.” Jonathan uncovered the baby’s feet and hands and seemed to be counting her fingers and toes as Gerard approached the bed.
“What timing!” Bridget laughed, reaching for her brother. He bent down to kiss her forehead and lay a hand on her shoulder.
“Yes, it seems I arrived just in time. How do you feel?”
“Tired. But happy. So happy.” Her eyes were glazed with tears of, Gerard could only guess, relief. “And hungry!”
Gerard chuckled and turned to address Alfred. “Bring the Duchess up some food right away. Can’t you see she’s wasting away?”
Alfred smiled, nodding his head before hurrying out.
“Look, Gerard,” Jonathan said, coming around the bed to stand next to him. “Look how beautiful she is.”
“She looks like her father,” Bridget quipped, as Jonathan placed the newborn babe in Gerard’s arms.
Gerard held his breath. The baby was far too small, far too delicate, for his own blundering arms to hold. Her eyes were dark gray and looked around the room in an expression of mild alarm. Her tiny fingers flexed and grasped at the cloths she was wrapped in.
“What shall her name be?” Gerard asked quietly.
“Anne,” the mother and father said in almost unison.
Chapter Four
“They’ve named the babe after the Duchess’ late mother,” Dorothy explained later that night, as she and Elizabeth sat together in the kitchen next to the fire.
Elizabeth focused on her knitting, the methodic click of her needles soothing her after a long day of keeping Lord Limingrose occupied and well away from the drama unfolding in his mother’s room. “It’s a lovely name.”
“For a lovely baby. She has her mother’s bright, round eyes,” Dorothy continued.
Elizabeth smiled gently. Dorothy was bursting with as much pride as if she had borne the child herself. Elizabeth supposed that the woman felt almost like a grandmother to the baby.
“Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, you are to bring the Marquess up to meet his sister and see his mother,” Dorothy said. “Before lessons begin.”
Elizabeth nodded. She had never seen a babe this young before, and the thought filled her with an odd sense of unexpected sadness. She hadn’t ever given much thought to the idea of having children of her own. She’d always been quietly resigned to the concept of helping to raise other, wealthier ladies’ children instead.
This twinge of longing for a baby of her own surprised her.
She had mostly spent the day outside with her student. He had been banished from the house once the Duchess’ labor became obvious. The prevailing wisdom had been that to hear it would have been too distressing for the young child.
Once, though, in the early afternoon, Elizabeth had hurried indoors to fetch Lord Limingrose’s paint box and in crossing the house, she had heard a moment of the Duchess’ labor. A howl like an animal rang out through the marble foyer and it seemed to rattle inside Elizabeth’s own chest. That primal wail, like the call of some wild, universal instinct, awoke in Elizabeth a deep sense of admiration and even, oddly enough, jealousy.
In the nursery, as she had rummaged around looking for the paints, she had heard the sound of a carriage rattling down the drive. Curiosity got the better of her and she had pushed the curtain aside slightly to look down. The black carriage gleamed like obsidian in the sunlight but when it pulled up to the steps, no one came out. Elizabeth’s eyebrows had furrowed, waiting. The groom seemed
somewhat perplexed as well, standing there waiting for whoever was inside to descend.
As soon as Elizabeth had seen the gentleman step out, she knew at once who he was. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the Duke of Hadminster. He was as beautiful as the rumors had suggested, and more so.
The sun glinted off of his glossy coal-black hair for a moment before he placed his hat atop his head. In that short moment before his countenance was obscured by the brim of his hat, Elizabeth had taken in the proud lines of his face, the aristocratic brow and high cheekbones, and even, though she would blush to admit noticing, the sensual curve of his lips.
His stride was purposeful, his long legs carrying him gracefully up the steps to the door. He knocked, though the sound of it was obscured by a fresh wail from the direction of the Duchess’ chamber. No one had heard him knock. Elizabeth hovered there by the window, wondering if it would fall to her to answer the door if the butler wasn’t aware that the Duke had arrived.
Wild Passions of a Mischievous Duchess Page 3
