The Marquess's Final Fling: Christmas Belles, Book #4

by DeLand, Cerise

  His daily life went from joy to joy. And he knew for the first time in his life, the number of his blessings.

  On the first of June, he took his wife and daughters to London. His father was to marry Gertrude, the Countess of Marsden, and neither he nor Penn wished to miss the ceremony in Saint George’s. Penn was very great with child and during the wedding, he worried that she stood much too long. But good-hearted and hale as she always seemed to be, she did not complain but grinned throughout the morning. At the wedding breakfast, she began to flag. He saw it in her weary eyes and, when he asked, she admitted she needed to rest a few minutes.

  Uncaring for his father’s guests or what they would think of his quick chivalry, he swept her up into his arms and carried her up the stairs into the suite that had once been his. There, he laid her to the bed and wished her sweet dreams.

  She nestled into the pillows and curled her hand around his nape to draw him close and kiss him. “Do you know I love you quite ferociously?”

  “I do,” he readily admitted. And so he left her to close the door upon her and sink against it in despair.

  He licked his lips, fighting his urge to curse against the horror that dogged him.

  She would live. She must!

  Because without her, he knew not how he would.

  * * *

  Penn had never felt better in her life. She was happy, which was too small a word for the life she lived with Theo day in and out. She grew very big with her baby, and she admired her form, ever more intriguing as each month went by. Years ago, after her second marriage without any signs of pregnancy, she’d given up hopes of conceiving. She’d consulted two midwives, one in Bath and one in London. They examined her and both declared her fit to bear a child. Their confirmations bore no weight when, months after marrying her third husband, she had not missed her monthly flow. She gave up hope.

  Her blossoming figure delighted her. Even more so, she was ebullient that she could present Theo with a child. And if this one was boy or girl, she knew he would welcome the baby. She had come to believe what he said: He could live without an heir, but not without her. Then too she saw him with his daughters and rejoiced in this man who could love without reserve and could show it in his daily regard of all.

  She also saw his fear for her safety. He did not mention it. Nor did she honor it with any words to grant it any credence. She felt his gaze upon her as they dined or sat reading in the library or strolled in the gardens. He took to asking her each morning if he might bring her breakfast in her room. Or bring her a shawl or hot chocolate or a book or…any other little thing she might need. His solicitude warmed her.

  As her time grew nigh and she began to feel the tingles of false labor, she would beckon him from across the room and place his hand upon her belly.

  “It’s normal,” she told him time and again. “The midwife tells me it is preparation.”

  * * *

  As cooler nights and days turned the leaves to gold and flaming reds, Penn told Theo they would not wait long for their new addition to their family. One night near the end of September, she descended the stairs on his arm for supper when suddenly she bent over with the force of pain up her spine.

  “Take me up, please, Theo. I think it is time.”

  His eyes went wide. He could not altar his expression. But he let her lean heavily upon him until they reached the landing. He paused her there where she caught her breath. Sweeping her up into his arms, he took the remaining flight to their suite. There he laid her to the massive bed he’d ordered made for them months ago and went to summon a footman to call the midwife.

  His man was gone and back with the woman within the hour. Theo had investigated her reputation, coming as she did from the next village not his own of Tain.

  Mary Watts was a sturdy woman, perhaps fifty years of age. She came with more than two decades of experience and told him in no uncertain terms when first they met that she brooked no silliness from expectant fathers.

  “I’ll allow ye in the birthing room, but if ye turn white, ye will go. No noggins broken, I say. Father or nay. Agreed?”

  He took her on the spot. She had two assets which he’d verified with mothers who’d had her in attendance. She’d helped women birth babies who were breach, babies who were corded round the neck and babies who did not at first breathe. Had she lost any women to hemorrhages? Not lost any, no. But she’d saved two who’d been nicked by other midwives who had not taken care with their hands at the birth.

  When the woman asked for privacy while she examined Penn, he kissed his wife on the forehead and left.

  Sitting at his dining room table alone, he stared at her empty chair beside him. He could not sit here and do nothing, so he rose and went up to the nursery, to his daughters. There he sat down in his chair in their bedroom and told them that they would soon have a brother or sister. Suzanna looked at him quizzically but nodded. Violet stared at him with desperate eyes.

  “Mama,” she said because she’d asked to call Penn that soon after their wedding, “won’t go to heaven like our last mother, will she?”

  Suzanna, who did not understand death or their talk of heaven and mothers, must have understood their tone. She gazed at Theo with fear in her eyes.

  “Come here,” he told them both and put one on each knee and hugged them close. “Mama will not leave us.”

  And in the saying, he believed it.

  The hours when he walked the hall outside their suite, the groaning of Penn as she labored to birth their child did not diminish his new belief. He could not put logic to his new conviction. Indeed, he did not wish to examine it. But accept it he did.

  And in late morning, as the sun rose high toward noon, he heard no more from Penn. He struggled to his feet, his sleepless night wearying him, and he focused all his hopes upon the closed door.

  He heard the wail of a baby, sank once more to his chair, his head in his hands.

  The snick of the door opening forced him to his feet. “Yes?”

  The woman strode forward, a bundle in her arms, fussing at a high keen. “Your heir, milord.”

  One glance at the child and Theo felt tears burn his eyes. “He’s well?”

  “Aye, milord. His lungs tell us so.”

  He rushed for the bedroom and his wife.

  She lay peaceful, her head thrown back across the pillows, her glorious blonde-red hair framing her tired face.

  He stroked her brow. “My love,” he whispered. “You were brave.”

  Her eyes drifted open. “And so were you, my darling.”

  “Never.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “You trusted me to do this well. I’d say that’s very brave.”

  “Nonetheless, we’re not doing this again.”

  She pulled back, aghast. “Oh, you talk nonsense, my lord! If you think you can stay away from my bed now, you are a madman.”

  He laughed through his tears.

  She cupped his cheek and wiped them away. “Come lay down beside me, Theo. I need you here as I always will.”

  Epilogue

  December 25, 1817

  Tain’s Gate

  Yorkshire

  Penn hurried from the boys’ nursery, hoping Violet and Suzanna had not yet awakened. This Christmas morning, she and Theo had two special gifts for their daughters and she was eager to join her husband to present them to the girls.

  Penn had first looked in on her oldest son and had fed her second. She’d arisen early to nurse their second boy, born three months ago here in their home. Reginald joined his older brother Winston in the small cozy room just off the main bedchamber. Tended by two nursery maids, the boys were happy little fellows. Their pleasantness, their lack of fretting, and their willingness to sleep had been an added boon to their parents.

  Penn entered the master sitting room and quietly closed the door. Theo had been up late after a visit with his tenants in the village. A fire had begun in one of the cottages day before yesterday and spread to two mor
e. Destroying the first home and badly damaging the other two, the fire had crushed many Christmas spirits. Theo, seeing that, had brought the one homeless family here to live with the servants until all of them could build a new cottage.

  She tiptoed into their bedroom headed for her boudoir when she spied her husband seated in a chair. And smiling.

  “Good morning to you, Marchioness.” He wore the vermilion silk banyan he’s worn when first they’d loved at the Countess of Marsden’s house party two years ago. As then, he also wore a broad smile.

  She curtsied. “My lord.”

  He beckoned her with a cup of his fingers. Then patted his thighs.

  She sat, sank her fingers into his thick blonde locks and kissed his lips with leisure.

  “You taste like my best Christmas gift,” he told her with a wink.

  “And you, sir, taste like tooth powder.”

  “I’m considerate,” he proclaimed.

  “I’m grateful,” she acknowledged.

  “Are we well this morning?” His gaze drifted toward the nursery.

  “Very. Well fed in Reggie’s case. And still sleeping in Winston’s.” She nestled against her husband, content to rest here on his shoulder.

  “Are you tired?” He stroked her hair and her shoulder. “Do you wish to return to bed to sleep?”

  “No. I’m wide awake. Let’s get our gifts for the girls.”

  “We can.”

  She would have risen from his lap.

  But he detained her with a hand to her own. “Those puppies will wait—and the girls are still asleep. I wish to give you your Christmas gift first.”

  “Oh, Theo.” She brushed her lips on his. “My dear man, you must not spend money on me. I want for nothing. Nothing money can buy.”

  “You are the sweetest woman in this world, Penelope Henley.”

  “I emulate the man I married for sweetness.” Then she kissed him with all the ardor that her daily life imparted to her.

  “Ah, but what I have purchased for you, you have long coveted.”

  She sat straighter. “Is that so? I cannot think of a thing.”

  From beneath his chair, he lifted a box. Long, not too tall, white paperboard, tied closed with a wide pretty chocolate-colored ribbon.

  “I promised you this long ago but in the intervening years, you’ve not been of a form, shall we say, to accept them.”

  She took the gift box in hand, shook its contents and said, “More than one gift?”

  “True.”

  “Now I am curious.”

  “Go on.” He pursed his lips and gazed upon the box.

  “I can use these?”

  “I think so.”

  “Often?”

  “I’d wager you’d like to, yes.”

  “Do I wear them?” she asked, because he was prone to buying her diaphanous silk nightgowns from Paris and sheer muslin chemises made in Florence.

  “Most definitely.” His turquoise eyes danced with mischief.

  His playfulness on such occasions told her much. And they delighted each other with this cat and mouse guessing game. “Do I wear them to court?”

  He sputtered in laughter. “One. For the other, I’d venture that would not be wise.”

  “Ah.” She tapped a fingernail to her lips. “To tea?”

  He squinted.

  “Hmmm.” She pulled the end of the ribbon and let it drift to the carpet. “Would your father like them both?”

  Theo barked in laughter. “No!”

  “Would Gertrude?”

  He gave her an approving nod. “Most definitely.”

  “I will wear them when they arrive tomorrow.”

  He mashed his lips together. “Perhaps best to show Gertrude in private.”

  “I see,” she said and lifted the top of the box.

  But the box was full of butter yellow chiffon. And on top, nestled in the folds of the fabric lay a square flat jewelry box.

  “Theo,” she whispered, tears coming to her eyes. “What did you buy, my darling?”

  He merely waited for her to lift the lid of the case.

  Inside sat a parure of gold and diamonds composed of hundreds of tiny gems in a necklace, with matching earbobs and bracelet cuff.

  They took her breath. And for a long minute, she could not speak. But at once, she bent to his lips. “How I love you.”

  “I know. You show me every minute of each day.”

  “And what I have for you is so small by comparison.”

  He pulled her close, his face taut with devotion. “Not so, my wife. What you have for me is everything to me.”

  She swept tears from her cheeks. “They are quite remarkable. I shall be the talk of London when I wear them.”

  “You are already, Penn. ‘The Marchioness of Tain,’ they say, ‘opens a new building for her expanding orphanage.’ ‘The lovely Marchioness went to their foundry last week.’ ‘Did you know she talks with Tain’s workers and has his tenants up to the house?’ They know you, my darling, as a woman to be heralded. They know you as a woman who leads others by example.” He lifted her chin. “They know you as the love of my life. All my life.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome. But come now,” he urged her, and put the jewelry case to the nearby table, “there is more beneath the stones.”

  She spread the chiffon. There before her was ivory muslin fabric, sheer, trimmed with a dab of lace at what appeared to be…a waistline.

  She checked her husband’s face, noting an odd anticipation. “What is this?”

  She lifted the garment from the box. Dear me. And laughed at the width and outrageously sheer fabric. “I can see my hand through this, Theo!”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Am I that short?” She frowned at the length of the two legs.

  “I took measurements of your gowns before I ordered them,” he said with certainty.

  She shook out the garment, regarded it with narrowed eyes and had to chuckle. “Who helped you choose this present, Theo?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Prinny’s tailor?”

  Theo nodded. “A fine man.”

  “And the lady who suggested these to you?”

  “Ah, well. She thought it useful. Especially now since the birth of Reggie, you would fit into the lines of this.”

  She flung her arms around him. “Oh, you wonderful man. I shall write to Lady Bridgewater tomorrow.”

  “And try them on now?” He was so hopeful.

  “Do we have time?” She wondered about the puppies and their daughters.

  “Try them on,” he said. “I long to see how you look. You always promised me you’d wear trousers.”

  “But my hips and my stomach have been much too large to fit into pants.”

  He stood and slid her from his lap to curl her close and kiss her. “Now, before I take you to bed, you’d better try these on. Don’t you think?”

  “Do you mean try them, before you make me pregnant again, dear sir?”

  He kissed her deeply. “If that is so, I no longer fear the outcome. But if it isn’t, I always welcome you in my arms, my darling wife.”

  “It’s about time,” she said with glee. For had not their love story always been about time? And patience. Serendipity. Understanding. And love.

  THE END

  AUNT GERTRUDE’S RED HOT CHRISTMAS BEAU

  A nibble!

  The Right Honorable. The Countess of Marsden

  Marsden Hall

  North Steyne

  Brighton, England

  His Grace the Duke of Harlow, K. G.

  Harlow Manor

  Riddington

  Yorkshire

  December 1, 1815

  Your Grace~

  Now that we’ve sent that rascal Bony to the far reaches of St. Helena, I’m ready for festivities for the Season! I hope you are also.

  To marry off my darling nieces, I’ve invited my fondest friends to my Christmas house pa
rty on the North Steyne in Brighton from December 21 through December 28. Twenty-six or more will lodge in the house. More than one hundred also have responded they’ll attend my ball Christmas night. Should you accept my invitation—which, of course, this is—you will be most welcome among them.

  I do hope you will attend us here for the duration! I’ve planned the usual diversions. Greenery gathering, though we do not wish to prick our fingers! Cards and dice, though I will ensure my darling Marjorie does not pick your pocket too deeply! A musicale to allow the young ladies with talent to regale us. Charades, too. Do plan to partner me in that game as—perhaps—Romeo to my Juliet? Darcy to my Elizabeth?

  I know it has been five long months since we “played” at anything together. However, I do presume to invite you to join me during this gathering. I need a partner. You.

  Yes. You see I am quite frank!

  Why?

  First and foremost, my step-son the earl, Colonel Lord Marsden, remains with Wellington in Paris as part of the Occupation. While I wish for his return—especially to do what his heart commands and woo my niece Marjorie—I have no final word from him that the Duke will permit him leave of absence.

  Secondly, but not less important, I must declare once and for all, Your Grace, I need you here with me. For Christmas, I wish you close.

  I can imagine your marvelous turquoise eyes wide and your white brows arched high with surprise at my declaration of desire. But I am compelled. Driven. Indeed, needy, Your Grace. Needy!

  No, I have not written you since I left you in that quaint little hotel room that afternoon in Margate in August. I wished to contemplate what we did there. I’ve concluded that what I felt then for you, Your Grace, was a fondness as radiant as the summer sun. I feel it still each time I recall us as we lounged like libertines on the terrace while the sea crashed upon the shore and took our breaths in such raptures.