The young woman stared straight ahead, wondering how best to answer. “I was betrothed once,” she finally admitted. “But I despised my father’s choice for me, and I—”
“My lady, we should be getting back to the carriage,” the maid suddenly interrupted.
Randall bristled at hearing the maid’s comment, just as Miss Fitzwilliam was about to impart a crucial bit of information. Had Simmons done so on purpose? “We should be coming up on the carriageway momentarily, my lady,” he said with a pat on the white-gloved hand that rested on his arm. “I suppose you have already met your new cousins?” he ventured, wondering if the lady had paid a call on the Earl and Countess of Norwick and their new twin daughters.
“Cousins?” Miss Fitzwilliam repeated, appearing a bit confused. “Oh! You mean the twins,” she said suddenly. “No. Not yet, as I’ve just recently come to London. But I shall do so in the next ... week or so,” she added at Randall’s look of surprise.
“Does Norwick even know you’re in town?” he asked suddenly. Although his only interaction with the new earl had occurred only the hour before, he would know more about the man when Parliament resumed in November—or perhaps at a Society event even before then.
Miss Fitzwilliam seemed to deflate before his eyes. “He does not,” she replied with a shake of her head.
At this tidbit of information, Randall allowed an audible sigh. “Do not delay in making your presence in London known to Norwick, my lady. You require protection,” he warned. From men like me, he almost added. Instead, he said, “And he can provide it.”
When they cleared a stand of hedgerows, the carriageway appeared straight ahead. A barouche, a single Yorkshire Trotter, and a driver and stood ready and waiting for the young lady and her maid.
“I shall call on the earl this week,” Miss Fitzwilliam promised as she regarded the marquess, apparently surprised that their walk had taken them in a large circle around the hedgerows. She stepped up into the barouche with the help of the driver. Once she was seated, the young woman gave Randall a nod.
“It was very good to make your acquaintance, my lady,” Randall said with a bow. “I shall look forward to a dance with you at the first ball.” When he realized the maid hadn’t yet stepped up into the carriage, he dared a glance to his right and found her nose-to-nose with the horse. Apparently she admired the Trotter, for he witnessed her whispering so only the horse could hear her words. The horse knickered and tossed its head as the maid stepped away.
Rather touched by her action, Randall held out his hand in her direction. After a slight hesitation, she took it, her gloved hand sending a jolt of something through the marquess’ arm. He tightened his hold on her fingers in response as she easily stepped up into the conveyance. Her look of sudden surprise and quick glance in his direction had Randall thinking she might have felt the same something he had. He thought of holding on for a moment more, but realized he had to let go. And just as quickly as the something took hold of him, it left him. The moment was lost as quickly as it had occurred.
Apparently surprised by his comment about dancing with her at the first ball, Miss Fitzwilliam afforded him a nod. “As do I with you,” she said as her maid took her seat in the back of the equipage.
Randall tipped his hat when the driver returned to his seat and set the horse in motion.
Puzzled by their conversation, especially by the maid’s reticence, Randall wondered about Constance Fitzwilliam. And he wondered more about her maid. Wondered because, damn it to hell, he was quite sure he wanted to get to know far more about her. Everything about her. Maybe even ask for her hand in marriage.
What was it about maids? he wondered suddenly. Prior to meeting Lady Lily, he hadn’t given a maid a second glance. Now he found himself curious enough to make a damn fool of himself.
Then he remembered Lady Lily’s missive.
You can marry for love.
Perhaps he could.
Chapter 9
Anticipation of a Birth
Nearly nine o’clock in the morning of September 15
While he waited for his wife to join him in the breakfast parlor, Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, read that day’s edition of The Times. He was rather pleased to see the notice of the marriage of Lady Lily Wellingham to Mr. William Overby, the union effectively ending any speculation as to which the young lady would choose to marry during the Little Season. Although he had to admit to a bit of surprise at learning she had married a clerk—four aristocrats had been rumored to want either her hand in marriage or her dowry—Grandby thought her choice of a commoner a better fit. Although she had been the darling at balls during the two Seasons she had attended ton events, Grandby wondered how the ladies of the ton would have received her if she had married an aristocrat. Some of the women could be quite cruel with their words and their gossip, and given her illegitimacy, he thought she might suffer the cut direct among her fellow young matrons.
If Lady Lily hadn’t made a decision as to a spouse, Grandby was quite prepared to arrange a suitable one on her behalf. Given how his life would be changing any day now, though, he was rather relieved the matter was out of his hands.
He glanced at his chronometer, surprised that his countess, Adele Slater Worthington Grandby, hadn’t yet appeared for breakfast. About to summon a footman to check on her, he was rather startled when one suddenly appeared, breathless, in the doorway.
“My lord. The countess says to beg your forgiveness, but she won’t be joining you for breakfast this morning,” the young man managed to get out before having to inhale to catch his breath.
Grandby blinked. “Oh. Did she say why?” he asked, hoping she wasn’t feeling any worse than she had the night before. She had complained of backaches and swollen ankles, conditions he found he could help alleviate with a bit of sexual intercourse and by rubbing her feet. Despite her repeated admonishment of his advances—“I’m as big as a house, Milton. Honestly, how can you stand to be in the same room with me?”—Grandby found he rather liked his wife in her current condition, all soft and round and ready for his arousal no matter the time of day or night. He had to admit to feeling a bit exhausted, however; he had never engaged in this much intercourse, even when he was an unmarried earl bedding a different widow every Season.
The footman colored up and stammered a bit before he said, “She’s going to have a baby, my lord!”
Grandby set aside his newspaper and nodded. “I’m well aware of Lady Torrington’s condition,” he replied with a grin. Have been since March, he nearly added.
Swallowing, the footman nodded. “Today, my lord.”
Having taken a drink of his coffee, Grandby nearly choked as he comprehended the words. “Now?” he countered, rising quickly from the table. “Send for the midwife—”
“The butler is seeing to it,” the footman interrupted.
“Then see to it word gets to Lady Norwick,” Grandby ordered, knowing Adele would want Clarinda Fitzwilliam at her bedside. The Countess of Norwick was Adele’s best friend and confidante, and she had just delivered twins a few weeks ago.
“Another footman has already been dispatched to Norwick House, my lord,” the tall man countered.
Grandby frowned. “What? Am I the last to know?” he asked in alarm.
The footman, deciding he really shouldn’t attempt to answer the question, simply bowed and took his leave of the breakfast parlor.
The earl wasn’t far behind, making his way to the stairs just as Clarinda Fitzwilliam appeared in the vestibule of Worthington House. She cradled a blanket-wrapped baby in one arm.
“Clare!” Grandby called out, changing his direction of travel in order to make his way to greet her.
“Grandby. So good to see you,” the new mother said as she held out the baby. “Here. Take her so I can get out of my pelisse, won’t you?”
Blinking, Grandby was suddenly in possession of a three-week-old girl. Although he was the godfather to twenty-one—no, make that twenty-two—wom
en of various ages, Milton Grandby hadn’t held a baby in his arms in over twenty years. He had seen this one before, as well as her twin sister, but both were in their perambulator and snoozing on their morning walk with their mother and uncle.
The baby, although awake, didn’t seem the least bit bothered at being handed off to a man who was probably old enough to be her grandfather. “Which one is she?” Grandby asked as he adjusted his arm so her head was better supported. This isn’t so hard, he thought, rather pleased with himself that the newborn wasn’t howling at the sudden change in view. Perhaps his own baby, apparently on the way at any moment, would feel the same.
He could only hope.
“That is Lady Diana Dorothea,” Daniel Fitzwilliam said as he stood in the vestibule helping his wife remove her pelisse with one hand while he held another bundle in his other arm. Having helped deliver one of the twins—the midwife had assisted with the first and then left the bedchamber while Clarinda gave birth to the second—Daniel was a far more involved stepfather than most aristocratic fathers were. “And this is Lady Dahlia Davida,” he said as he held out his bundle. “We’re quite sure we haven’t used up all the names beginning with a ‘D’,” he added with an arched eyebrow, apparently daring the fellow earl to make some pithy comment.
“Of course not,” Grandby replied, although, if pressed, he was quite sure he wouldn’t have been able to come up with any other names for girls beginning with a ‘D’. It was rather fortunate that none of the names he had in mind for his about-to-be-born child began with the letter ‘D’. If it were a boy as Adele kept claiming it would be, he would probably name him George after his father and his father before him. But if it were a girl as he’d been hoping for since he discovered his wife was expecting last March, he would name her Angelica.
Rather surprised both girls were wide awake, Grandby was about to ask how the new parents were faring when a servant appeared at the top of the stairs. “Oh, milady, ’tis so good to see you. She’s been asking for you. And the midwife still hasn’t arrived.”
Clarinda gave Grandby an arched brow, gathered up her skirts, and made her way up the stairs. “I trust you can entertain Diana for a while,” she called out, knowing her husband would help if need be.
Having been at Worthington House many times in the past, Clarinda knew her way around and headed straight for the mistress suite. She hurried in without knocking, a bit startled to find Adele leaning up against pile of pillows.
“Thank the gods!” the Countess of Torrington said as her lady’s maid wiped her brow. “I was about to send for Milton to help, but I have a feeling he would faint,” she managed as her face screwed into a grimace.
“I don’t know how much help I’ll be,” Clarinda said just as Adele let out a rather unladylike howl. Alarmed, Clarinda moved to lift Adele’s chemise. “How long has it been since your water broke?” she asked, her brows furrowing.
Adele dared a glance at the mantel clock. “A few hours now,” she said, her voice weak. “I am too old for this, Clare,” she added before her face took on an expression of pain.
“Nonsense. You’re younger than Queen Charlotte was when she had her last. Do you feel like ... pushing?” she asked, remembering what she had been through with the quick birth of her twins.
“Anything to get this boy out,” Adele countered.
Another servant appeared, this one apparently more familiar with childbirth than Adele’s maid. She carried several linens and a bowl of water, setting them aside before seeing to Adele.
“You look as if you know what to do,” Adele commented.
“Aye,” the woman nodded. “Twins?” she questioned as she settled herself.
“Yes,” Clarinda replied. “Three weeks ago,” she added when the servant suddenly turned to regard her.
“Oh, congratulations, milady, but I was addressing Lady Torrington.”
Clarinda stared at the servant for several seconds before returning her attention to Adele. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked in surprise. The two countesses were the best of friends, went on frequent walks in the park together, and took turns hosting other Mayfair matrons for morning or afternoon tea. Although Adele had said nothing about having twins, it would certainly explain why the countess had grown so large in the last few months.
Adele blinked. And blinked again as she shook her head in alarm. “No one said I was having twins,” she replied just before another contraction had her crying out.
Wide-eyed, Clarinda looked to the servant. “You get the first. I’ll get the second.”
Within a half-hour, the Grandby twins made their debut.
Chapter 10
The Morning After
Half-past nine o’clock in the morning, September 15
Warmth and comfort and the scents of sandalwood and brandy were pleasant aids to sleep, but at some point, their hypnotic effect wore off, and Eleanor slowly awakened. Light showed from around the edges of the heavy velvet drapes covering the windows.
Unfamiliar drapes.
And the soft mattress beneath her was far more comfortable than usual. Goose feathers, she thought with a wan smile. The heavy arm around her middle was also unexpected, as was the soft snoring she heard above and behind her. When she was suddenly aware of the soreness at the apex of her thighs, she bolted up. She would have left the bed entirely but for the arm that kept her anchored to the bed.
“Let go of me!” she nearly shouted, pulling the bed linens so as to cover her nakedness.
Charles lifted himself onto an elbow and reluctantly released his arm from around Eleanor. “Shh,” he hissed, his annoyance quickly dissipating as he took in the sight of his bedmate’s sleep tousled hair and bare shoulders. Despite the wide eyes staring at him—either she was very afraid or very angry—Charles found himself rather happy. And aroused. Although he usually awoke with a slight headache and a cotton mouth, he found he felt rather refreshed this morning. “Good morning, beautiful,” he murmured, moving toward her with the intent of kissing her.
Eleanor scootched farther from him, taking the bed linens with her as she attempted to take her leave of the bed entirely. The movement had the bed linens sliding off of the earl, which left him almost completely uncovered. “Oh!” she cried out at the sight of his bare chest and the instrument of his manhood bobbing from a nest of dark curlies. She covered her eyes with one hand as she attempted to toss back part of the covers in his direction, which left her mostly exposed. “Oh!” she cried out again as she nearly fell off the bed.
Capturing her around her midriff before she could tumble off the bed, Charles had to stifle a chuckle. “I’ve got you,” he said as he pulled her into the middle of the bed. He hoped she would cease her struggles—she was making a mess of the bed—but she didn’t.
Charles sighed and rolled Eleanor, who was still squirming in an attempt to free herself from his hold, so her body was atop his as he collapsed back onto the mattress. “Now that’s better,” he murmured, one of his arms holding her bottom immobile while a hand moved to pull her head down until his lips could reach hers. He kissed her then, effectively silencing her protest.
His joy at the feel of her lips against his was short-lived, however, for Eleanor suddenly gave up her fight and slumped atop him. He ended the kiss as quickly as he had begun it, his hand lifting her head away from his so he could see her face.
Even in the dim light from around the drapes, he could see tears brightening her eyes. “What is it? Have I ... did I hurt you?” he asked in an urgent whisper. He had never had a woman cry whilst in his bed. Titter and laugh, yes. Scold him on occasion, of course, because he behaved like a rake. But then, that was his reputation. One lady of the evening had even bitten him, although she could be excused since he had asked for it. Something about having learned about vampires and such ... but never had a woman cried in his bed.
Flipping her over so her back was on the bed linens covering the mattress, Charles held himself over the top of her body as
he studied her face. She seemed familiar, and not just because he had seen her the night before, all prim and wide-eyed innocence. He had met her somewhere else, some place in the past, but he couldn’t quite remember where or when.
Noting she didn’t look at him—her attention was directed to her left—he followed her gaze to the twisted pile of mussed bed linens and a telltale bloodstain therein. The events of the night before came crashing back.
I’ve never done this before.
Christ! Charles lowered his face so it rested between her breasts.
“You ruined me,” Eleanor whispered, one of her hands coming to rest on the back of his head as a sob escaped.
Charles felt her body shake beneath him, felt her heart beat race against his cheek. “I did,” he acknowledged, barely moving his head as he attempted to nod. He inhaled slowly, reveling in the scent of her skin, the feel of her soft breasts, the rise and fall of her chest with each labored breath. Finally lifting his head, he regarded her for a moment. His brows furrowed. “I am sorry, my lady, but in my defense, you could have said something. You should have pushed me away. You didn’t exactly warn me.”
“I was frightened out of my mind!” Eleanor countered, her sudden ire evident in her response.
The earl frowned. “There was no need to be frightened of me,” he countered, sounding a bit offended. “I’m a very agreeable man ...” At her roll of eyes and pointed look, he realized she meant something else. “Oh. That,” he murmured. “Yes, I suppose to the ... uninitiated, my prick can be a bit ... intimidating,” he reasoned, cocking an eyebrow with his response.
“Intimidating?” Eleanor repeated, her mouth rounding into a rather large ‘O’. “It hurt!” she cried out.
The Love of a Rake Page 6
