by Sara Portman
All the fear and panic that had been building inside her congealed into a thick, heavy weight.
He was leaving.
She couldn’t believe it. He was leaving. What if the duke had told him to leave?
“Bex.” She called his name before she could stop herself.
He halted immediately and turned, his gray eyes lifting to where she stood on the landing, gripping the banister, unable to do anything but stare down at him in devastation and pleading. She had hoped to see joy, relief in his gaze, but she saw only trouble and regret. Her throat constricted. She opened her mouth to speak again, but nothing came. What more was there to say?
If he had not come for her, what more was there to say?
She was the greatest fool that ever lived. All of his words came back to her in a rush. I am a cad. I am a man with no purpose. How many times had he cautioned her against expectations? How many times had she insisted she understood?
She stared down at him still, arrested, unable to voice the questions she knew he read on her face—in her wounded expression.
He stood as still as she, as though time had stopped for them both, because it could do nothing but move forward into an unwanted place.
He moved first. It was not a dramatic motion. He simply closed his eyes. They closed only briefly, but it broke the spell that trapped them.
Then he opened his mouth as though to speak, only he didn’t. He said nothing, but turned his back to her, placing his hand on the doorknob. He turned it, opened the door, and walked out.
Betrayal stabbed through her even as she knew it for a lie. He had not betrayed her, because he had made no promises. He had not abandoned her, because he had not offered to protect her.
Her ability to move recovered, she sank to an undignified heap on the top step. She gripped the rails of the banister and stared in abandoned horror at the empty foyer. Tears washed over her cheeks, unchecked and spilling onto her dress.
This, she realized, was ruination. It had nothing to do with rumors or reputation or practicality or purpose. It was the loss of one’s life, because somewhere deep inside a light she didn’t know burned had gone dark.
She leaned her forehead against the carved wooden rails and sobbed.
She almost didn’t hear the knock through her grief, but it became more insistent and penetrated through the lament of her mind.
Her head lifted and she stilled.
Knock.
Yes! Hope coursed through her. He had changed his mind. He had changed his mind.
She rose in an instant and scurried down the steps, nearly tripping in her haste. She finally reached the door and flung it wide.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lady Constance peered disapprovingly at Lucy from the front step of Worley House. “Hmmm. It is worse than I thought. Invite me in, ma chere. We cannot have people on the street seeing you like this.”
Lucy blinked. She moved aside to allow Lady Constance inside, then stepped over the threshold to the place Lady Constance had occupied. She looked up and down the street.
He was gone. Her hopes once more dashed, she came inside, determined that she would not allow them to be resurrected. It was far too painful.
“Take me to the drawing room, ma petite, and order me tea,” the comtesse said, as though somehow sensing Lucy, in her state, required basic instructions to function.
She obeyed, and the two found themselves seated in the drawing room, a tray of tea and cakes between them.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Lucy told her simply. “Ruined reputations are like fever. If you come too close, you may catch it.”
The comtesse dismissed this with a wave and a shake of her head. “The French are so much more realistic about these things, ma chere.”
“Are they?” Lucy asked. She wondered if perhaps she should go to France.
“Is this what you have been doing?” Lady Constance asked. “Moping all the time? And why are you waiting at the front door? Have you been standing sentry waiting for him to come to you? Should I assume, then, that he has not come?”
“He was just here,” Lucy said, choosing to answer the last of the list of questions, as it seemed the most significant at the present.
The comtesse leaned forward. “Really?
“He was not here for me,” Lucy explained. “He saw the duke; then he left.”
“He did not ask for you?” Lady Constance asked.
“No.”
“Did he know you are here?” She shook her head. “Disregard my question. Of course he knows you are here.”
Lucy swallowed, working valiantly not to cry. She failed. She could feel the tears on her cheeks. “He knows. He saw me, on the landing. He…he didn’t have anything to say.”
“Is that so?” she asked, pursing her lips in disapproval.
Lucy nodded.
Lady Constance huffed and changed positions in her seat. She changed subjects just as abruptly. “You should know that I’ve decided to retire to the country at the close of the season, after all.”
Lucy lifted her head at this. Had Lady Constance’s nephew finally found the decency to invite her? “You have? Where will you go?”
She gave a delicate shrug. “I’ve let a country house. In Hertfordshire.”
In Hertfordshire? Lucy tried to gauge the other woman’s thoughts, but her expression was the same relaxed mien with which she discussed all things, significant or meaningless. “Will you be near to Annabelle?” she asked.
The comtesse looked at her directly then, her smile turning nostalgic and perhaps a bit sad. “We cannot give up on those we love, ma chere, simply because they are fools. Sometimes we must force wisdom upon them, even as they resist.”
Lucy felt an unlikely smile form at Lady Constance and her philosophy. Did she truly believe she could overcome her niece’s prejudice with sheer persistence? If anyone could, she supposed, it was this woman. “I hope that you are right, Lady Constance, and your niece will change her mind.”
The comtesse sighed. “If she does not, it will not be for want of effort on my part.” She reached a hand out to hold Lucy’s. “You should come with me when I go.”
Lucy shook her head. “You don’t need a paid companion, Lady Constance.”
The comtesse drew her hand back in affront. “I did not offer to pay you, child. I was inviting you as my guest. You need to leave London. The whole thing will settle down if you are away, and you are not well enough known, or of high enough rank that the scandal will spread far.”
It was precisely what Bex had told her to do. Only Bex had not offered to go with her. Tears threatened behind her eyes and she blinked, keeping them at bay. “Thank you, my lady, that is very kind of you to offer.” Perhaps she should do it. She had decided to return home after Emma’s child was born, but somehow the idea of home didn’t seem comforting in the way that it should. Perhaps she needed a change. And perhaps she needed several more doses of Lady Constance and her particularly pragmatic wisdom.
“Pardon me, miss.”
Both women turned to see Agnes in the doorway of the drawing room, urgency in her expression.
“Her Grace is asking for you. I believe her time has come.”
Her time? The baby! Lucy leapt from her seat and hurried toward the door, belatedly remembering the comtesse. She turned back. “I’m so sorry, Lady Constance, but I must go. May I consider your offer?”
The comtesse had risen as well. “Of course, of course.” She made a motion as though to push Lucy toward the door and Lucy did as she was bade, rushing from the room.
“Are you coming as well, my lady?” she heard Agnes ask.
Lucy paused to look over her shoulder. Lady Constance had followed her into the hall and was not descending the steps to the foyer, but following her to the second-floor landing leading to the bedchambers.
Lucy didn’t take the time to remind the woman that Emma might not, in fact, desire the presence of the Comtesse de Beauchene at the birth of her child. She only raced up the steps, hurrying to reach her friend.
The duke had reached Emma first. When Lucy walked into the duchess’s bedchamber she was in bed, propped comfortably with pillows into a seated position. Lucy rushed to her side. The duke stood at the opposite side, holding one of Emma’s hands, a look of sheer confusion and panic painted across his usually certain features. His confusion deepened as he faced the new arrivals.
Emma, who appeared considerably more serene than her husband, attempted to pose the question evident on the duke’s face. “Lady Constance, how did…that is, what is…er.” She exhaled. Her brow furrowed. “Hello.”
“Hello, Your Grace,” the comtesse said cheerily, pausing just inside the bedchamber door. “Don’t mind me at all. I am only here comforting Lucy.”
Emma’s eyes darted to where Lucy stood at her side. “What is wrong? Has something happened?”
Lucy’s answer was interrupted when her hand was squeezed in a grip so tight it threatened to break her fingers. She watched helplessly as Emma’s face contorted with a seizing pain. Alarmed at the extent of her friend’s discomfort, her eyes went to the duke’s.
He was no less concerned. “Has the physician been called?” he barked to no one in particular.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The housekeeper bustled into the room followed by Emma’s lady’s maid and Agnes. The women carried a basin of water, clean linens, and a small tray of bread and barley water.
Emma’s grip on Lucy’s hand released, and Lucy looked down at her. “Are you all right?” she asked, knowing the question was a useless one. She knelt at the bedside so that she could look directly at Emma. “How long have you been having the pains?”
Emma exhaled slowly, recovering from the passing pain. “All day, I suppose. I wasn’t certain of it when it began this morning, because they were so mild. By midday, I could tell it was happening, but I also knew it would be quite some time and I didn’t want to alarm anyone.”
“Not alarm anyone?” the duke asked, throwing his arms into the air incredulously. “You have been suffering all afternoon and said nothing?”
Emma patted his arm. “It’s fine, dear.”
“It is not fine,” he blustered. “How can we care for you if you don’t tell us what is happening? You cannot be so stubborn, Emma.”
She waved a hand at him and turned back to Lucy. “Why is Lady Constance comforting you, Lucy?”
Lucy shook her head. Anything troubling her was unimportant in the face of this momentous occasion. “It was nothing,” she insisted. “Lady Constance was simply visiting to tell me about her plans after the season. They are not important now.”
Emma studied Lucy with sharp, knowing eyes then turned to the comtesse and asked without preamble, “Is she lying to me?”
Lady Constance was equally frank. “She is, dear.”
Emma lifted a staying hand and lay the other on her rounded belly, exhaling slowly as she was gripped with the beginnings of another pain.
The duke fell to his knees at her side. “Is there nothing we can do to make this less agonizing?” he asked, his voice plaintive and impatient.
“The pains are preparing her,” the housekeeper said calmly, still folding and sorting her linens. “She must open for the child.”
Helplessly, Lucy allowed Emma to painfully squeeze her hand again, while she used her other hand to rub Emma’s back, cringing as her friend curled forward around the pain.
The duke barked at Agnes. “Go and wait for Dr. White. Bring him up directly when he arrives.”
Wide eyed, Agnes nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.” She hurried from the room to do his bidding.
Emma exhaled again and settled back into her pillows as the seizing passed. She lay her head back and closed her eyes. They were still closed when she spoke. “I shall hear the truth now, Lady Constance.”
“Surely none of that matters just now,” Lucy objected.
The duke rose. “I agree. Emma, you require our full attention.”
Emma opened her eyes and faced her husband. “There is nothing you can do for me now except provide a distraction.” She turned to Lady Constance and nodded.
“Lucy was distraught by the visit of Mr. Brantwood,” the comtesse said, and Lucy cringed.
Emma looked to her, surprise and hurt on her features. “Mr. Brantwood came to see you and you weren’t going to tell me?”
Lucy shook her head. “No. He didn’t come to see me.” Tears threatened again, and she hated them. Of all the meaningless things to be worried about at that moment. She felt so selfish and horrid when Emma was in such pain.
“He saw the duke,” Lady Constance clarified.
Emma turned accusing eyes to her husband then. “You? Mr. Brantwood came to see you?”
The duke looked to Lucy. “How did you know?” he asked.
“I saw him arrive,” Lucy said softly.
“Why has no one seen fit to apprise me of anything that happens?” Emma demanded.
“He only just left,” Lucy insisted. “Lady Constance arrived almost immediately afterward and then we were called here.”
Emma’s brow knit in confusion. “He didn’t see you at all?”
Lucy’s eyes lowered. “He saw me, on the landing, but he didn’t speak to me. He had not come for me.”
“What did he want?” Emma asked, this time directing her question toward her husband. “Why did he come and why didn’t he ask for Lucy?”
The duke knelt again, stroking Emma’s hand as he spoke soothingly to her. “Surely none of this matters now, darling. Do not worry yourself. You need to rest between the pains. Keep your strength.”
Emma snatched her hand back. “I am not exhausting myself by conversing,” she snapped. “And if I am worried, it is because my husband will not answer my questions.”
The duke’s mouth opened and shut silently, so nonplussed was he that his attempts to be soothing to her nerves achieved the opposite effect. “I…only…you are…”
“Here is Dr. White,” Agnes announced, hurrying into the room with a gray-haired gentleman of slight build and kind features. He smiled widely, and he was the only one in the room, save Lady Constance, who did not appear near to panic.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he said to Emma.
“Good afternoon, Dr. White. Thank you for coming so quickly. I believe I shall be having a child today.”
“Excellent,” he said, beaming with approval at her. He removed his coat and crossed the room to the washbasin, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he went. He was still washing his hands when Emma was gripped with another pain. He did not alter his pace.
“She is having another pain, Doctor,” the duke ground out.
“Yes, when was her last?” he asked, taking time to dry his hands on a clean cloth that the housekeeper provided.
“Just before you arrived,” Lucy offered, glad to be of some little help.
The doctor came and stood at Emma’s bedside, calmly observing her in the throes of her agony.
“Can you do nothing to help her?” the duke demanded.
“We shall help her deliver a baby, Your Grace. That will stop the pains.”
Lucy didn’t quite care if the doctor applied calm and common sense. Her friend was hurting and he only watched. “Is there some position that would be more comfortable or something we can do to hurry it along?” she asked.
“The duchess can move as she would like,” he answered, still as calm as though he were there on a social call. “Whatever position she finds best.”
Emma sighed again in the signal they had
all come to recognize as the waning of the contraction, and Dr. White moved closer to her. “I should like to examine your progress, Your Grace, if that is acceptable to you.”
Emma looked up at him with sharp, clear eyes and asked, “Will I likely deliver a child in the next several minutes, Doctor?”
His mouth quirked into an amused grin. “No. I imagine you will not.”
“Then the examination can wait,” she clipped. “My husband and I were having an important discussion.”
One brow arched in curious surprise, the doctor receded, allowing the duke to step forward and face his wife’s ire.
“Emma, this is not the time…” he began.
Her hand sliced into the air, cutting off his objection. “You said you want me to be calm. Tell me what is going on, and I shall be calm.”
Lucy could not deny the simple logic in her friend’s words, nor could she deny her own burning curiosity to know what Bex’s purpose had been in meeting with the duke. She watched, anticipation building, as the duke considered Emma’s request. When his shoulders slumped in defeat, she knew he had decided to tell. Her own posture stiffened.
The duke glanced briefly at Lucy before he answered his wife, and Lucy knew the look meant the visit affected her somehow. She had expected as much, but the confirmation twisted her stomach nonetheless.
Lucy felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to learn its owner. Lady Constance had come to stand at her back, intuitively understanding how difficult this was for her. The simple act of support had Lucy reconsidering her resistance to heading into Hertfordshire with the comtesse at the end of the season.
“Well?” Emma prompted, hours of discomfort having diminished her stores of patience.
The duke glanced at Lucy again. His mouth formed a grim line.
“We are here, dear!” Lady Ridgely, Emma’s beloved aunt Agatha, rushed into the room and directly to Emma’s bedside. “How are you, dear?” she asked, motherly concern dominating her features. She did not wait for the answer, but turned to the physician. “How is she, Doctor?”
