“I am. And you its mistress, I should hope. Our children shall be the first to occupy the nursery …”
“Children?” Jane countered in alarm.
From the sound of her voice, Andrew realized he had to tread lightly. They hadn’t yet discussed children, but he hadn’t seen to using a French letter the nights he had spent with her, either. Just because Jane hadn’t borne a Stoneleigh heir didn’t have him concerned in the least, though. From what his uncle had told him, Michael Fitzpatrick was rarely in the same house with his wife. “Should we be blessed with any,” he added with an arched brow.
Jane relaxed atop him again, although the smile didn’t return to her lips. “You would welcome more?” she asked in a small voice.
“Of course,” he replied, his fingers working their way to the sides of her ribs.
“And if I cannot … have children?”
Andrew managed a shrug. “I am father to three, two of them my own flesh and blood,” he replied quietly. “So I will not be disappointed if I do not father another.” After a moment, he added, “But do not be surprised if in nine months, you are round with my child and about to give birth.”
Jane allowed a grin, once again relaxing atop his body. “I rather doubt it will take nine months for me to know I am about to give birth,” she replied, her eyelids heavy. In a moment or two, she was sound asleep.
Beneath her, Alex closed his eyes and allowed sleep to take him once again, oblivious to the racket of movers and dray carts and horses down below.
Chapter 33
An Earl Spies an Earl on a Mission
First, we would recommend you not drive in Park Lane in a phaeton at full gallop. ~ The new editor’s first article in the May 21, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
May 14, 1818, Aimsley House
Following a rather satisfying meal in the breakfast parlor with his countess, Mark Comber, Earl of Aimsley, escorted Patience to her salon at the back of the house and bussed her on the cheek. A tea tray had already been delivered, curls of steam rising from the pot.
“Where is our daughter, do you suppose?” he asked, realizing she should have been in the breakfast parlor with them. Given her absence, the two of them had enjoyed a rather quiet breakfast where Patience fed him bits of bacon while he kissed her between bites. They had never done anything like it before, and he found himself hoping his daughter would be skipping breakfast more often in the future.
Then he remembered it was a Thursday. Their daughter hadn’t been at breakfast on a Thursday morning in two months.
Patience settled into her favorite upholstered chair and gave a sigh. “She left early this morning for one of her early morning walks in the park,” she replied. “I think she’s contemplating what to do next,” she added with an arched brow.
Although Patience had always thought her only daughter would be married long before she turned twenty, Emelia had other plans. The girl could have continued school at Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School in London, as most of the daughters of the aristocracy did in their teens, but Emelia had insisted she be allowed to attend finishing school elsewhere. Having grown up with brothers, she had become a bit of a tomboy. Realizing she had no hope of surviving life with other young women raised to be perfect copies of their mothers, Emelia figured she had better take her leave of London and attend a school where she wouldn’t be recognized as the sister of Adam and Alistair Comber.
Four years in Geneva had afforded her an education as well as an appreciation for how others outside of the ton lived. It did not, however, provide a string of suitors interested in making her a married woman, although Patience wondered if Emelia would have been open to such offers. Now that she was back in London, most thought her too old to make a suitable match.
Although not particularly beautiful, Emelia was still pleasing to the eye, carrying herself with the confidence of a woman who had lived on the Continent and exuding a happy character that attracted young matrons to her at her first few ton events.
That is, until just after Lord Weatherstone’s garden party. Suddenly, Emelia seemed a bit withdrawn. Nervous. Unhappy, almost.
Patience had nearly asked her about what might have happened to bring on such a change in her countenance, but then she remembered the letter from Mr. Pepperidge. The blackmail. Of course her daughter would turn sullen given the demands of the publisher of The Tattler. Today would be the last day of her scheduled meetings with Mr. Pepperidge, though. The last day of supplying gossip that was either untrue or so insipid, it wouldn’t garner anyone’s attention.
“I don’t expect there’s really anything to worry about,” the earl commented, thinking just then he might have to give his daughter her dowry and send her out in the world to be a spinster if a certain someone didn’t exercise his option to ask for her hand. It had been eight weeks since the Weatherstone’s garden party.
Patience gave her husband a slight shake of her head. “I suppose not. You may get a visit from an interested party any day now, though,” she said with a bit more hope than she felt. After all, Emelia was riding in the park with Lord Fennington every week. Even if the girl didn’t seem to believe he was courting her, who knew if he was or wasn’t?
Perhaps he was considering her for matrimony.
“As long as she doesn’t do something to warrant a mention in that damned Tattler rag,” Mark replied with an arched brow as he took his leave of the salon and headed to his study.
Patience was about to assure him that Emelia was incapable of doing any such thing and then thought better of it.
She knew from Mr. Pepperidge’s letter that Emelia had done something. She had kissed Lord Fennington in Lord Weatherstone’s gardens.
Patience couldn’t help but smile at the thought.
About to take a seat at his massive oak desk, Lord Aimsley paused and instead glanced out the window facing Park Lane. The early morning fog had lifted and the sun shined brightly, so it should have been no surprise to see a red phaeton racing down the street, the gray mare pulling it nearly at a full gallop. Mark Comber was surprised, though, when he realized a woman he was fairly sure was his daughter was seated on the high-perch bench and holding onto the Earl of Fennington.
Holding on as if her very life depended on it.
But then, it probably did given how fast the Percheron was running.
Thinking the earl was merely giving Emelia a ride back to Aimsley House, Mark moved to his desk, took a seat, and got to work on an open ledger.
Chapter 34
A Proposal Goes Awry
Returning to the scene of the crime is not recommended, dear reader. ~ The new editor’s first article in May 21, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
Meanwhile …
When the red phaeton was nearly in front of Lord Weatherstone’s mansion, Felix Turnbridge struggled to slow down the headstrong Juno as they pulled up to the curb. He was down from the phaeton in two steps, offering Emelia assistance in another five, and feeling ever so relieved when she allowed him to simply lift her down from the phaeton by placing his hands on either side of her waist.
Holding out his arm, he forced himself to walk slowly as he led her to the front door of the residence, a butler opening the door even before they had gone up the front steps and past the Ionic columns flanking the door.
“We’re in need of the gardens,” Felix said, pulling a calling card from his waistcoat pocket.
Obviously having heard the same plea in the past, the butler simply stepped aside and allowed them in. “This way,” he said as he led them to a set of glass doors at the back of the ballroom. “The fountain is down and to your right,” he added as he opened the doors.
“Thank you,” Felix said with a nod as he led Emelia through the doors and down the flagged terraces. He slowed his steps as the heady fragrance of late spring flowers filled his nostrils. “Do you remember where you were when I kissed you here?” he wondered as they passed by several hedgerows, the tall shrubs making up a
faux maze through the back half of the gardens.
Emelia glanced about, surprised at how different the gardens looked in the morning light. “Here, I think,” she said as she led them between two hedgerows.
“And the last time you were in these gardens?” he asked, knowing she had been here during Lord Weatherstone’s ball despite her claim that she spent the entire evening in the ballroom.
She allowed a shrug. “Here, as well. I was watching Lady Jane, and then Lady Lucida, and then Lady Victoria as they were being kissed by Lord Bellingham,” she said as she pointed to an opening in the branches.
The earl’s eyes widened at hearing the list of women Stephen Slater had kissed that night during the ball. “It wasn’t the Earl of Bellingham, you know,” Felix said with a hint of amusement.
Emelia gave him a quelling glance. “I know that now. It was his brother, Stephen,” she agreed, remembering the comments about how the two Slater boys looked so much alike they could trade places—and apparently had for a time.
Her cousin, Victoria, was now married to the bastard of the Marquess of Devonville. Apparently, three times was the charm when it came to kissing.
“Aye. The bastard,” Felix murmured, a slight grin lighting his face. He lowered his forehead to hers and took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down and consider what he was about to do.
“Are you about to propose marriage?” Emelia asked suddenly.
Felix blinked. “Well, I was about to, yes,” he admitted carefully. “Why did you think we came back here?” he wondered suddenly.
Emelia had to suppress a giggle. “I thought you were wont to steal a kiss again …” Her comment was cut off as his lips captured hers in the same kiss he had bestowed on her that day of the garden party.
The same sensation of excitement had her entire body arching up against his, the same tendrils of pleasure had her pulse racing. This time, though, Felix had his hands at her waist, as if he had to hold onto her for balance.
When his lips pulled away, it was because he had to take a breath—take a breath and then kiss her again before finally pulling away to take one of her hands in his. “Will you do me the honor of being my wife? Of having my children, and of being my countess?” he asked before kissing her knuckles.
Emelia stilled herself for a moment, her thoughts about the earl rather scattered. He could certainly kiss well, she considered, which had to count for something in a relationship that entailed the need to produce an heir. He would probably be a generous lover in their marriage bed, seeing to her pleasure before he took his own.
Although she wasn’t really supposed to know of such things, she was three-and-twenty. The whispers and titters of matrons younger than she had her well-versed in what happened in a marriage bed.
On the other hand, though, the man had blackmailed her. Had tricked her into sharing bits of gossip. Had made her life a rather uncomfortable one these past two months.
Was he really the one she wanted to spend the rest of her life with?
“You never told me why you blackmailed me,” she finally answered with a shake of her head.
Felix blinked. And blinked again as he straightened. “I wanted you to have a reason to meet with me,” he replied simply. “My way of courting you without your knowing it. And I suppose I wanted to be sure you weren’t like the others.”
Emelia shook her head. “Whatever do you mean?”
Sighing, Felix realized he wasn’t explaining himself very well. “I cannot abide a malicious gossiper,” he stated. “I had to be sure you weren’t like the rest of the gossips,” he added quickly. “And you aren’t. You don’t even know how to gossip. And I don’t think you want to know. You’d be incapable of it as you always seem to see the best in your peers.”
Taking a step back, so that she was nearly pressed against the back wall of the gardens, Emelia shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t see the best in you right now, though, my lord,” she murmured.
Felix swallowed. “Wh …what?” The word came out sounding a bit strangled, and his expression was once again the one he displayed the week before, when he had left her on the park bench.
“You blackmailed me. You’ve made these past two months nearly intolerable. Two months that should have been enjoyable because I haven’t been in London in an age, and all because you were testing me?” she half-questioned, her ire increasing with each point she made.
Felix shook his head. “It wasn’t like that,” he countered. “I … I grew fond of you. I found myself looking forward to our meetings …”
“Oh, did you now? You looked forward to them whilst I dreaded them,” she replied, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. “How dare you?” she whispered with a shake of her head.
Before Felix quite knew what was happening, Emelia slipped through the slight opening in the hedgerow. Stunned at her sudden disappearance and realizing he couldn’t begin to fit through the same opening, Felix exited the hedgerow maze the way they had gone in, looking left and right as he did so. “Emelia!” he called out. Oh, damn it all to hell. I’ve gone and made a cake of this, he realized as he headed toward the fountain, hoping he would find her there.
But Emelia wasn’t by the fountain. Nor was she near the statue of Cupid nor under the apple tree. Thinking he might find her behind another hedgerow, Felix made his way along every one, glancing this way and that, but to no avail.
Emelia was gone.
Crestfallen, the earl made his way back to the house, the butler opening the French doors before he reached them.
When the butler seemed concerned at only seeing Felix, the earl regarded him for a moment. “I take it Lady Emelia already left?” he half-asked.
The butler shook his head. “She has not come through these doors, my lord,” he replied. When his gaze shifted sideways, Felix frowned.
“Is there another way out of the gardens?”
Nodding, the butler said, “There is a door to the alley, at the very back of the gardens.” He didn’t admit there was also a gate at the front, figuring no one but the gardener ever used it.
Felix sighed, feeling ever the fool. “She’s gone then,” he murmured.
The butler gave a shrug. “But probably not far, my lord.”
About to take his leave of Lord Weatherstone’s house through the front door—he remembered he hadn’t hobbled Juno and feared she and his phaeton might be long gone by now—he paused when he realized what the butler had said.
“Whatever do you mean?” he asked suddenly.
Straightening to his full five-foot, six-inch height, the butler said, “The Aimsley residence is just two doors down, my lord,” he said as he pointed south.
Felix nodded and thanked the man, deciding he would pay a call on the Earl of Aimsley.
Something I should have done first, he thought to himself.
Chapter 35
If Only, If Every
When is a comedy not? When someone needs a drink. And if it spills? Although crying over spilt milk only makes the mess larger, we do recommend an occasional cry. It soothes the soul and bothers the male persuasion like nothing else.~ The new editor’s first article in May 21, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
A few minutes later …
Patience Waterford Comber, Countess of Aimsley, was enjoying a cup of tea in her salon overlooking the back gardens when a sudden movement there caught her eye. Startled, she set aside her cup and saucer, wondering what—or who—had entered the modest garden from the alley. Not yet ten o’ clock in the morning, she rather doubted a thief would attempt entry into the house at this hour of the day.
Hurrying to stand before the window, she pulled back the sheers to see her daughter leaning against the back gate. Obviously in distress, Emelia held one arm across her middle and one hand over her face as she slowly slid down the gate into a heap of muslin and superfine.
Running from the salon—there was no door to the backyard from the room—Patience rushed through the hall a
nd into the conservatory, passing her husband’s study on the way.
Startled when he realized someone had rushed past the open door of his study, the Earl of Aimsley stood up and was about to look out when his butler suddenly appeared.
“My lord, the Earl of Fennington is paying a call. Should I let him know you’re in residence?” Hummel wondered as he held out a calling card. The earl took it, his brows furrowing as he studied the words on the card.
“Yes,” he murmured, glancing around the threshold. “I suppose he’s brought Lady Emelia home.”
The butler blinked before giving his head a quick shake. “Lady Emelia is not with the earl, my lord.”
It was the Earl of Aimsley’s turn to blink. “Who was that … running by just now?” he asked, thinking it might have been Lady Emelia, hoping she wouldn’t be caught in the company of the Earl of Fennington.
Hummel blinked again. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord. I’ve just come from the vestibule.”
The earl nodded, deciding he would allow the butler a bit of leeway. Emelia was Hummel’s favorite, and the man was no doubt protecting the young woman. “Leave him in the vestibule for a few minutes. I need to check on the females of the household,” he ordered and turned to be sure there was a decanter of brandy on the console behind his desk.
Christ! It’s not even noon, and I need a drink!
Lady Aimsley hurried to join her daughter at the back gate of the grounds of the Aimsley House and lowered herself to the ground next to Emelia. “What is it, Emmy?” she asked, her short breaths a testament to just how quickly she had made her exit from the manor house.
Emelia whimpered in response. “I’ve made a cake of it, Mother,” she replied with a sniffle, a hanky finally appearing from her pocket.
“Did Fenn propose?” Patience wondered in a quiet whisper.
Emelia regarded her mother with an arched eyebrow. How did her mother know someone had proposed? “The Earl of Fennington.”
The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 25
