by M C Beaton
“Some old crone, no doubt, some female Biddle,” commented Lord Harry.
“Not a bit of it. He has married a widow of thirty.” Isabella blushed. “They are expecting a child!”
“Good for Biddle. He must be sober or he’d never have managed it.” He threw aside the newspaper. “What would you like to do today, my love? Go for a drive in the Bois? Make calls?”
Isabella looked at him shyly. “I would really like to stay indoors with you. We have had little opportunity of late to …” She blushed again.
He stood up and walked round the table and drew her to her feet. Then he lifted her up in his arms and gave her a long, slow kiss. “My brave and gallant Isabella,” he said, carrying her through to the bedroom and setting her down.
“I am not brave at all,” said Isabella. “I was so very frightened, and one day when you did not return from the battlefield, I screamed and wept frantically and made a terrible scene.”
“But you rode out to look for me all on your own!”
“That was because of Mrs. Malloy. You remember, the sergeant’s wife. She came up to me and said, ‘What are you screeching and caterwauling about. Faith, get out there and look for him.’ ”
He held her close, thinking he would never forget that day. He had been knocked unconscious when his horse had been shot from under him. He had recovered consciousness, lying among the dead under the blazing sun, dizzy and sick and faint.
At first he had thought he was dreaming when he had struggled upright and had seen the elegant figure of Isabella, picking her way through the bodies, leading her horse by the reins, her white muslin gown fluttering about her, and wearing a ridiculous straw hat crowned with flowers.
“But you came,” he said, untying the tapes of her gown and letting it slide to the floor. “I am going to retire from the army now, and we will go home and raise a family.”
“To Tregar Castle?” asked Isabella.
“No, my sweet. My mother’s housekeeping would drive you mad. We will find a place of our own. Now about these children we are going to have …”
