by Mia Marlowe
“One of the reasons the Duke of Clarence courted me, aside from my dowry, is because I come from a fertile family. I’ve never considered not having children.”
“Well, fine then.” If she was willing to take the risks, who was he to deny her? Some women wanted a baby more than breathing. “If you feel that strongly about it, of course we’ll have children. Avail yourself of my services at any time,” he said, trying to inject some levity into a conversation that had veered badly into the serious range. They were supposed to be on their honeymoon, for pity’s sake. Surely any serious disagreements should be tabled until they returned to society and real life descended upon them. “I am at your disposal, madam.”
“I think not.” She pulled her cloak’s hood up, obscuring her face. “Not with a man who doesn’t want to get me with child.”
Rhys rearranged his own clothes as the coach made a lumbering turn and slowed. He started to reach for her. “Forget I said that.”
She batted his hand away. “I’ll never forget you said that. It changes everything.”
Chapter 27
At her disposal. Ready to service her, was he? As if she was a mare in season.
Olivia huffed loudly and moved back to the forward facing squab. Sidling closer to the door so not even the hem of her cloak touched Rhys, she feigned interest in the quaint rock bridge arching over the tumbling brook, which the coach would be crossing shortly.
What did the man think they were doing?
She wasn’t just another one of his conquests. She was his wife. And they weren’t animals. When they came together, it wasn’t just a coupling, a servicing, a swiving—oh! How she detested that wicked word now. What they did in the bedchamber—and out of it!—was supposed to mean something.
It had meant something to her.
How strange that something so intimate could be accomplished without really knowing what was going on in the mind and heart of the other person. Her chest ached that he could be so flippant about something so precious. So…sacred.
“Would you mind not scowling so?” Rhys said.
“Why? Are you afraid my face will grow that way?”
“No, but I am afraid you might scare the servants at Braebrooke Cairn. We’ve turned down the lane already. As soon as they see a coach coming, they generally turn out to welcome any of the family back.”
She rolled her eyes. “Heaven forefend I terrorize the help.”
“Olivia, if you want to be angry with me, be angry, though God knows, I don’t understand why. All I ask is that you don’t harm any innocent bystanders.”
“Never fear.” She shot him a poisonous glance. “I make it a policy only to harm the guilty.”
“Let it go for now, would you please?” Rhys said as the coach lumbered to a stop at the top of a circular drive. “We’re here.”
Here turned out to be a gray stone tower that looked as if it might have sprung naturally from the rising wall of rock behind it. There was an adjoining manor house of the same weathered stone, though it looked to be several centuries newer than the tower.
Which means it’s only slightly younger than dirt.
Braebrooke Cairn boasted no moat. However, it presented as forbidding an aspect as any castle. The riotous brook they’d driven over earlier burbled along before the house with only a stone footbridge spanning it. Since the property’s rearguard was that sheer rock wall, it was as defensible a position as any fighting man could wish.
She sneaked a glance at Rhys as he handed her down from the coach. The way his jaw was set, she judged he was ready to continue their fight whenever she was ready to begin it again. But she couldn’t fault his stilted courtesy. He placed a hand at the small of her back and shepherded her over the footbridge as if harsh words had never been spoken.
A row of servants formed up on either side of the massive oak door. The maids nervously adjusted their mobcaps and dipped in jerky curtseys as Olivia and Rhys passed them by. Rugged menservants, fresh from the stable, doffed their caps and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. There were no gilded-lily liveried footmen or formally attired butlers, no lady’s maids with starched aprons. But when Rhys called them each by name, the servants of Braebrooke Cairn grinned shyly back at him.
Only one old fellow didn’t fidget like the rest. Despite the iron gray hair and beard, he stood tall, with his hands clasped behind his back, his brown and green kilt hanging unevenly to just below his knees. Rhys walked toward him.
“Hello, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Master Rhys.” The man nodded in acknowledgment, meeting Rhys’s gaze steadily as though he considered himself any man’s equal. “Welcome back to Braebrooke Cairn, laddie. Ye’ve been away too long.”
“He’s known me since I was in short pants,” Rhys said to Olivia as an aside. “As far as Ferguson is concerned, I’m still a youngster.”
“That ye are. And as green a twig as they come. But ye’ve a right sweet blossom on yer arm.” Mr. Ferguson sketched a bow that would have been deemed elegant and courtly a generation earlier. “Alpin Ferguson, at your service, miss.”
“It’s missus,” Rhys corrected. “May I present my wife, Lady Olivia? Olivia, this is Mr. Ferguson, Braebrooke Cairn’s steward.”
“Ah! Lady Olivia, is it? A thousand welcomes, then. Tell me now, how did this blatherskite manage to sneak up on a pretty little thing like yerself?”
Olivia’s mouth dropped open. Her mother would never have countenanced such familiarity from a servant.
“In case you hadn’t guessed, Ferguson doesn’t stand on ceremony,” Rhys said.
“No need of it, this far back of beyond.” Mr. Ferguson waved a hand toward the door to usher them inside. “Will ye be pleased to come in and rest in the parlor whilst we’re about preparing your rooms?”
“Room,” Rhys corrected. “We’re on our honeymoon.”
Mr. Ferguson smiled, displaying a mouthful of horse-sized teeth. “Weel, now, isn’t that grand?”
They started into the manor house with Mr. Ferguson and the rest of the servants in their wake. Olivia had one foot on the lowest step leading up to the door when a voice from just inside stopped her.
“Rhys! Is it really you?” A pretty young woman appeared framed in the doorway. She patted her honey-blond hair, swept up in a bun that seemed to have come half-undone. Several tendrils teased her chin and dangled at her temples. The effect framed her oval of a face as artfully as if it had been planned. Her cheeks glowed with robust health. The high waist of her gown did nothing to disguise the growing bulge in her belly. Olivia wished she could look as good on purpose as this woman did by seeming accident.
“Sarah!” Rhys bounded up the steps, picked her up, and swung her around. Their laughter echoed off the nearby tower and set Olivia’s teeth on edge. Surely he wouldn’t have kept one of his previous lovers at his family’s Scottish estate.
Then she reminded herself that she really knew very little about her new husband.
Who knows what a rake might do?
When he finally put the strange woman down, she palmed his cheeks and kissed him squarely on the lips.
“Excuse me,” Olivia said, stomping up the steps to join them at the threshold. “I’m Olivia Warrington, and that’s my husband you’re kissing.”
Sarah’s rosebud of a mouth formed a perfect “oh.” “Rhys, you’re married! Well, isn’t that wonderful? And she’s so pretty, too.”
The woman threw her arms around Olivia and kissed the air by both of her cheeks.
“Olivia, may I present my baby sister, Sarah? Or should I say Lady Blakesby?” Rhys said with formality. “Sorry I missed the wedding.”
Sarah reached over and squeezed his hand. “I understood and, in the interests of family harmony, I appreciated your thoughtfulness. Father would have been…difficult otherwise.” She sighed and her eyes glistened, but she blinked back the unshed tears. “But my wedding didn’t seem right without you.” Then Rhys’s sister turned to Olivia and hugged he
r tightly. “No titles between the two of us. Please call me Sarah and I shall call you Olivia.”
“Sarah’s a demonstrative sort,” Rhys said with a laugh, “but we tolerate her pretty well in any case.”
“Tolerate, indeed.” She gave his chest a playful swat. “I’m your favorite sister and you know it. Don’t keep your bride standing there in the cold, you big oaf. Come in, come in. Your teeth are chattering, Olivia. Honestly, men never think of practicalities, do they?” Sarah said, waving them in.
Once they were all inside, she linked arms with Olivia and steered her out of the cold foyer and into a cozy parlor where a fire crackled merrily, driving away the eternal chill of the gray stone walls.
If the exterior of Braebrooke Cairn was forbidding, the interior was designed for homey comfort. The room was furnished with serviceable pieces instead of fashionable ones. The chair by the fire was overstuffed and, after their jostling coach ride, Olivia longed to sink into it and disappear into its softness.
Stacks of books graced the side tables. A slightly shabby settee was draped with a multi-hued blanket, and a tea service, whose elegance was out of place in the rustic parlor, was laid out on a low table before it.
“Here’s what’s wanted to warm you up.” Sarah settled herself near the tea service and poured out. “One lump or two?”
“Two, please,” Olivia said, thinking an extra helping of sugar would warm her all the quicker.
“Ah, that’s how I take it too. I wonder what else we have in common besides this rakehell,” Sarah said, lifting a brow at her brother. She grinned at Olivia as she plopped two brown lumps into her cup. Then she stirred in enough milk to turn the tea creamy-looking and handed the delicate cup and saucer to Olivia. “And of course, Rhys takes his with one lump. Oh, how he’s needed a woman to take him in hand and teach him how to enjoy civilized pleasures. I suppose I needn’t tell you he’s already mastered the uncivilized ones.”
She actually winked at her. Olivia decided she liked Rhys’s quicksilver sister very much indeed.
“Because he’s mastered those uncivilized pleasures, I believe it proves he’s trainable,” Olivia confided. “I have hope for him.”
Rhys snorted, but Sarah laughed.
“I do too,” she said. “Oh, Olivia, I’m so glad to meet you. Now, Rhys, there’s someone I want you to meet, too.” She twisted her ungainly form around and directed her next words over the back of the settee. “Alex. Hide-and-seek is done for the moment. Come out, lovie.”
A rustling came from behind the cushioned settee. As Olivia watched, a child emerged, little bum first, then a pudgy body. Finally, a golden head wiggled out from its hiding place. The little boy scrambled to his feet and stood clutching the arm of the settee. He stared at first Olivia, then Rhys, thrusting a thumb into his mouth for reassurance.
“Alex. My firstborn,” Sarah said with pride.
“Alex.” Rhys squatted down so he was more nearly at eye level with the lad and smiled. Then he looked back up at his sister. “You named him Alexander?”
That was Rhys’s middle name. Olivia remembered hearing it at their wedding ceremony.
“I did.” Sarah sniffed and swiped a quick tear from her cheek. “I guess it proves you’re my favorite right back.”
“Didn’t your husband object?”
“A wise man doesn’t cross the woman who’s just brought his heir into the world,” Sarah said, folding her arms across her chest.
Olivia would have bet that Sarah’s husband, whoever he was, didn’t cross her on much of anything. Then she reminded herself that she’d sworn off gambling of any kind. Intemperate wagers were the reason she now found herself married to a man she barely knew, after all.
Sarah turned her attention back to her son. “Come now, say hello.”
The child took his thumb from his mouth long enough to wave, then popped it back between his rosy lips.
“Hello, Alexander,” Rhys said to the boy. “I’m your uncle Rhys.”
He extended his hand to the child.
“We’ve been practicing this. Go on, son,” Sarah said. “Shake your uncle’s hand like a big boy.”
The toddler waddled over and put his small hand in Rhys’ large one. Then he pumped it three times. The expression on Rhys’s face was one of complete fascination.
Olivia’s chest ached. That look proved he’d be a good father. He genuinely seemed to like children.
He just didn’t want hers.
“That’s excellent, lovie,” Sarah said with a little clap. “Now you can go hide again. Father’s probably done counting by now and he’ll be looking for you.”
Rhys stood as his nephew turned and scuttled back behind the settee.
“Lord Blakesby is here too?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t very well venture to Scotland with a toddler at my skirts and one on the way without my husband, would I?” she said, patting her swelling belly. “Blakesby has a keen eye for architecture, and Father wanted him to take a look over the place to see if Braebrooke Cairn could do with some updating. When could it not, I ask you? But when the marquis decrees, the world must obey, so here we are. Oh, Rhys.” She stood and hugged him again. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“That had better be your long lost brother,” came a masculine voice from behind them. A handsome sandy-haired man with a prodigious mustache strode into the room and extended a tentative hand to Rhys. “Jonathan Blakesby. You must be the infamous black sheep.”
“Guilty as charged, my lord. I’ll try not to taint your family while I’m here.” Rhys shook his hand gravely. Both men were trying to make light of the fact that Rhys was not received by his family, but nonetheless, a ripple of unease circled the room. Rhys turned to Olivia. “My wife, Lady Olivia.”
She stood and dropped a curtsey. “Lord Blakesby.”
“Charmed.” Lord Blakesby flashed a genuine smile and made a correct bow over her hand. “Blakesby will do.”
Silence reigned for a few heartbeats, and Olivia felt a frisson of the tension between her husband and Lord Blakesby. Rhys had told her he was in disgrace, that his mere presence with them would render his family equally unacceptable in the eyes of Polite Society. If little Alex was connected with the uncle who was rumored to have been a traitor, it could dim his prospects considerably. Even the sister who loved him best wasn’t immune to the pressure for the sake of her son’s future. No wonder Rhys hadn’t wanted children of his own.
Rhys’s dishonor hadn’t seemed real until this moment when she saw with her own eyes the not-so-subtle shunning he suffered.
“We didn’t realize any of Rhys’s family would be here,” she said, crossing over to stand beside him. She slipped her hand into his and he squeezed it gratefully. Olivia decided perhaps she’d been fortunate not to grow up in a fashionable aristocratic family if even Rhys’s own siblings were obliged to treat him as if he bore the pox. “Perhaps we should return to Barrowdell.”
“Nonsense,” Sarah said. “This is Rhys’s home as surely as it’s mine. Besides, who will know that we’ve even seen each other, much less lived under the same roof? I certainly don’t feel the need to tell Father, if you don’t.” Then she fished her hiding son from behind the settee and scooped him up into her arms.
“It’s time for your nap, your lordship,” she said to the wiggling boy. “Would you care to join me, Olivia, while I bed this little fellow down? Surely after that, Mr. Ferguson will have your rooms ready.”
“Room,” she heard Rhys grumble as she followed Sarah out. “Not rooms. Blast it all, doesn’t anyone remember we’re on our honeymoon?”
Chapter 28
After the women left, Blakesby had stood Rhys to a drink. Good Scottish whisky was a welcome change after Mr. Symon’s demonically high-proof absinthe, but the conversation with his brother-in-law left a good deal to be desired. Unlike his jocular discussion with Horatio Symon over shared liquor, there were long bouts of silence, punctuated by awkward attempts on Blakesby’s par
t to ferret out the truth of what happened to end Rhys’s military career.
Finally, Rhys had said bluntly, “Whatever you’ve heard about my time in France, I didn’t do it. However, I’ve undoubtedly done worse since.” He upended his jigger on the serving tray. “Don’t worry. Olivia and I will be on our way tomorrow.”
Blakesby had protested and insisted they stay. Braebrooke Cairn was a rambling big estate. There was plenty of room for two families to be in residence, but Rhys knew the baron was merely being polite.
He supposed he couldn’t blame Blakesby. If their roles had been reversed, he’d try to shield his family from association with scandal too. Maybe if Blakesby had been a duke or a marquis, someone a bit higher up on the aristocratic social scale, he’d have been willing to backhand convention and embrace his wife’s wayward kin.
But Blakesby was only a baron, a lord on the bottom rung of titled nobility. If he hoped to expand his family’s influence and wealth for the next generation, he needed to present a spotless face to the beau monde world in this one.
A face that wouldn’t bear connection with a possible traitor. It didn’t matter to Polite Society that Rhys was innocent. The mere whiff of scandal was enough. Blakesby didn’t come right out and say it, but the man fairly tied himself into pretzel-like knots trying not to.
After that, Rhys had stomped out to the stable, hoping to ride off his frustration, but the only horses in the stalls were sturdy little Highland ponies. They were hardy, hill-bred stock and were supposed to be unmatched for surefootedness on rough terrain. But he was used to riding Duncan, his big Thoroughbred gelding, a generously sized horse even by the large breed’s standard. Rhys suspected he’d feel as if his feet were about to drag the ground on one of the ponies.
He wished his father-in-law had thought to send along a groom to act as an outrider for the coach. He could have brought Duncan along. He hoped Mr. Thatcher was taking good care of him back at Barrowdell, but it didn’t do Rhys much good here at Braebrooke Cairn. A reckless gallop across an open meadow or a hell-for-leather dash along a wooded path was what he needed to blow out the cobwebs and clear his head. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be had.
