While the face mirrored that which haunted his dreams, without fail, her body had undergone some rather pronounced changes. Even though she was clothed, he noted her breasts had grown considerably, and he was quite pleased with that prospect. But her protruding belly gave him cause for concern.
Jason had seen myriad increasing women in his lifetime, and he could not recall a single pregnant female that presented so...huge. It was only last fall that Everett had teased Sabrina, in regard to her girth, suggesting she had eaten a whole pumpkin. Alex appeared to have swallowed an entire patch, as her lap had all but vanished beneath her burden. Yet, to him, she had never been lovelier.
“Damian, for the love of Christ stop shouting—”
“The child is mine.” Jason had spoken before he realized he had uttered a single word.
The study grew silent as a tomb.
Alex blinked and then mouthed, No.
The center of attention, he sighed and tugged at his cravat, which was a nervous habit he had acquired as a midshipman, while serving a captain who had insisted every crewmember wear the neck cloth.
“What did you say?” Damian narrowed his stare.
Jason squared his shoulders and braced himself. “Alex carries my child.”
“Are you telling me you claimed my sister’s maidenhood without first taking the vows?” Damian rested hands on hips. “Form your response carefully, as it may be your last.”
“Yes, I own her bride’s prize.” Jason speared his fingers through his hair, which was another norm he had tried but failed to break. “And I am prepared to do the honorable by her.”
“No, you will not.” Alex stood and hugged her belly. “Because I refuse to marry you.”
Now that was the one declaration Jason had fully expected upon arrival at Penhurst. “Alex, we must—”
“Lady Alex, to you.” Her notorious temper resurfaced with a vengeance and alleviated his concern for her health, to some degree.
“We have long since moved beyond formalities, love.” How he wished he could have spared her the shame and humiliation of her circumstances. No wonder she had retired to the country.
“I am well aware of our past affiliation, Captain Collingwood, as I bear the proof of your fickle fancy.” Then she smiled, which had not fooled him for a second. “While I thank you for the offer, I have no wish to wed anyone—ever.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Damian bounded around the desk and stood toe-to-toe with his sister. “As you chose him, you will marry him.”
“Damian, please, calm down.” Alex inhaled a shaky breath. “Perhaps Captain Collingwood and I can negotiate an arrangement.”
She could not have hurt him more had she struck him. How ironic it was that their positions had reversed since that fateful day in Plymouth, when she had sought a betrothal, and he had suggested an arrangement. And now he comprehended the justification for her ire.
“Calm?” Damian snorted. “You want calm?”
“Now see here, Weston—” In that instant, Damian grabbed a fistful of Jason’s cravat and hauled him to his feet.
“Good God, man, and I use the term loosely, what were you thinking?” Damian bared his teeth. “Brethren do not defile and debauch our women. We preserve their honor, as we revere their bodies. We protect our ladies—we do not ruin them and sail into the sunset, leaving them to face the consequences, alone. You are unworthy of the Nautionnier Knight’s badge, but you leave me little choice, so you will restore her reputation, or you will die.”
“Damian, stop this nonsense, at once.” Inching to the edge of her seat, Alex frowned and then stood. “Captain Collingwood is blameless, so you must release him.”
Confronted with such potent anger, many a hired sailor would have withered beneath Damian’s glare, but Alex had not so much as flinched when she defended Jason.
“Evidence to the contrary precedes you, dear sister.” Damian wrenched hard and set Jason on his heels. “She is but nine and ten, and you?”
“One and thirty.” Jason blanched, as the difference in their ages highlighted his copious culpability. “And I—”
“It was not his fault,” Alex said in a small voice. “Because I seduced him.”
Once again, uncomfortable silence settled on the study.
Poor Damian paled, stumbled backwards, perched on the edge of his desk, peered from side to side, located the decanter of brandy, and downed a healthy swill of the amber intoxicant. With a hand pressed to his chest, he huffed a breath. “Pray, explain yourself.”
“Forgive me for what I am about to impart, as I am ashamed of my behavior.” Alex stiffened her spine, and Jason, leery of another attack, adopted an offensive posture. “In January, when you made a supply run to Belgium, I obtained Captain Collingwood’s address from your ledger, followed him to Plymouth, and made untoward advances on his person, until he succumbed to my feminine wiles.”
That she protected Jason only heaped more shame on his miserable hide. “Alex—”
“It is true.” How he cherished her fiery spirit.
Damian bobbled as a newborn babe. “But I thought you visited Sabrina?”
“I lied.” She bit her lip.
“You lied to me?” To Jason’s surprise, Damian extended his arms and flicked his fingers. “If you were so resolute in your decision, why did you not talk to me? Collingwood and I could have negotiated the terms of your marriage.”
“I am so sorry, brother.” Alex stepped into his embrace, and sighed. “But I made a horrible mistake, and I—”
Flinching, she closed her eyes, scrunched her face, and gasped.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” Damian offered support. “Are you unwell? Is it the baby?”
“Are you in pain?” Concern shot to the fore, as Jason rested a hand to the small of her back. “Are there complications?”
“Do not touch me, sir.” She shoved him hard, and he retreated. “It is nothing.”
“Are you certain you are all right?” he inquired.
“Why do you ask?” she replied, with an acid tongue.
“Because...well...you are rather rotund, even for an expectant mother.” The steely expression with which she impaled Jason bloody well scared him to death. “Of course, I could be mistaken.”
“Not that it is any of your business, but Dr. Meade informed me at my last appointment that he detected two distinct heartbeats.” Her chin quivered, and he had a hunch that if she cried, Damian would kill Jason.
“I do not follow.” He scratched his cheek. “Two heartbeats?”
“The doctor deduced I carry twins, you ignorant ass.” Now she pouted. “My size is appropriate to my condition, and I will thank you not to make further comments, which I find quite inconsiderate.”
“Twins?” The world shifted beneath his feet, and he swayed. Just as fast, Damian passed the decanter, and Jason gulped about a third of the contents, before wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve. “As in more than one babe?”
“What troubles you, Captain?” Alex asked, her query dripping sarcasm. “Wish me merry, as they concern you not, for I have no intention of standing as your blushing bride.”
“I beg to disagree, Alex.” Jason consumed another generous swig of brandy and returned the bottle to Damian. “As those babes are mine, you belong to me. My claim is irrefutable.”
“I rebuke your claim, on my children and I, Captain Collingwood.” It irritated him that she refused to address him informally, as if they had shared nothing more than polite conversation. “We have had no need of you these past six months, so I will not wed, and you cannot force me. There ends the matter.”
With that, Alex turned and quit the room.
Stung by her rejection, Jason searched for counterarguments, anything to alter her perspective—until a solid blow to the chin sent him to the floor. Rubbing his jaw, he glared at Damian. “What was that for?”
“The honor punch.” Damian offered a hand, which Jason accepted with a prodigious dose of skeptici
sm. “Now that we have dispensed with the noblemen’s justice, which you abided with commendable affability, we must plan your wedding.”
“You can’t be serious.” As he dusted his coat and adjusted his cravat, Jason grimaced. “Did you not witness what I just witnessed? She refused me. You will have to hold a pistol to her back, else she will never consent.”
“Do you or do you not wish to live to see the morn?” With indefatigable equanimity, which Jason found indefatigably exasperating, Damian drew a sheet of parchment from a drawer and snatched his pen from the inkstand. “And what my sister wishes is of no consequence, at this point.”
“Damian, you know, very well, that I journeyed here with the expressed intent of proposing to Alex.” Resolved to correct the situation, and determined to make her his wife, Jason stretched to his full height and folded his arms. “We spoke of nothing else, during our drive.”
“Indeed, that is the only reason you retain the ability to draw breath.” The duke sketched a missive without missing a beat. “By the by, how does tomorrow strike you, for a wedding day?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Reclining on the chaise in her sitting room, Alex rubbed her belly and smiled. Pronounced movement, which increased with each passing day, portended rambunctious children—so like their father. That singular thought evoked images of her sea captain and awakened all the associated emotions she had tucked deep in her heart, where she was always honest with herself, the cold day in February when Dr. Handley had confirmed her pregnancy.
Which of her friends had betrayed her confidence and apprised Jason of his impending, two-fold bundle of joy? After throwing her over in January, when she had all but begged him to marry her, the damn fool man had the audacity to believe he could make an offer that she would accept?
“You have some nerve, Jason Collingwood.” The minute she uttered his name, she gave vent to a plaintive cry. “Oh, Jason. Why are you here? I gave myself to you, and you wanted me not. How can ever I trust you again?”
And yet, when she closed her eyes, he magically materialized, as a captivating illusion. From his guinea-gold locks spilling wildly over his shoulders, to his polished Hessians, his attire bespoke a well-heeled English gentleman. In Damian’s study, her new nemesis had sported an ivory cravat, a navy waistcoat, and a brown coat. Fawn-colored breeches encased his muscular thighs and lean hips, which she recalled with frightening detail, given it had been six months since she had shared his bed.
In a licentious fusillade, memories of the time she had spent in his rented cottage assailed her, as had his rejection.
I will not marry you, Alex.
“Blast.” The tears fell, much to her chagrin. Energetic kicks roused her from the momentary pity party, and she hugged her belly. “Sweet angels, he is not worth my devotion, but you merit mine.”
Propped on her elbows, Alex shimmied to the edge of the chaise, in what had become an embarrassingly frequent exercise in lunacy to escape reclining positions, and stood. Resting palms to hips, she stretched her back and moaned. The bellpull seemed miles away, though it required mere steps to reach it, and she yanked with all her might to summon her meal. What troubled her was that her once graceful walk had devolved to an awkward waddle, beneath her temporary but precious cargo.
In her bedchamber, she studied her reflection in the long mirror and practiced a carefree stroll. When her first endeavor produced something more akin to a cow with its hooves stuck in the mud, she completed three additional rotations about her quarters.
“Sabrina is right. Pregnancy is grossly unfair, as women must suffer the morning malaise, the weight gain, the swollen feet, and the birthing process, while men get their jollies and an heir.” Studying the intricate lace situated at what had been her waistline, the thin strip of Alençon only emphasized her girth. Rotund, indeed. A knock at the door snared her attention. “Who goes there?”
“It is Conrad, your ladyship.”
“I am not receiving, Conrad.”
“Yes, my lady, I am aware of that.” Then why had the butler disturbed her? “However, if I may, I beg an audience with your ladyship, as it is a matter of utmost importance, else I never would have disregarded your orders and intruded on your privacy.”
“Is my brother with you?” Suspicion nipped at her heels, as she shuffled to the door. “I warn you, I shall brook no tricks.”
“No, my lady.” The doorknob rattled, and she retreated a step. “But I am here on His Grace’s behalf, though he does not know it, because his behavior is cause for great concern.”
“What is wrong with Damian?” She hugged the oak panel and bit her lip. “Is he ill?”
“Please, my lady.” Palpable anxiety invested Conrad’s tone, and Alex fretted for Damian. Had her ruin pushed him beyond the brink of despair? Had he taken desperate action and harmed himself? “Grant me an interview.”
Despite her reservations, Alex unlocked the door. “Are you alone?”
“Yes, my lady.” The silver-haired butler nodded.
As a peculiar defensive tactic, she surveyed the hall, and then she retreated to permit him entry. “Hurry.”
“I am reluctant to disturb you, my lady.” The stodgy manservant stood at attention. “But I do so under the gravest of circumstances.”
After securing the bolt, she exhaled in relief. “What is this about Damian?”
“His Grace is distraught, my lady.” With a pained expression, Conrad gazed at the floor. “The staff have tried everything to reach him, with no success.”
“I do not understand.” The weight of the world settled on her shoulders, as never had she intended Damian to suffer her shame. “What has my brother done to warrant your interest or consternation?”
“His Grace has barricaded himself in the drawing room, and he refuses to take sustenance. As far as I know, His Grace has had no sleep, since his arrival.” And then Conrad leaned close, cupped his hand to his mouth, and whispered, “I believe His Grace has overindulged in spirits, your ladyship.”
“Damian—foxed?” Alex gasped in horror, as never, to her knowledge, had he drank to excess, because he refused to cede control to that extent. “You must be mistaken.”
“Would that I were, your ladyship.” A tic above Conrad’s right eye underscored his discomfit and heightened the tension investing her frame.
“Oh, dear. I must go to Damian, now.” Alex tottered to the door and twisted the key. “Where is Captain Collingwood?”
“Captain Collingwood departed an hour ago, to fetch Mr. Catchpole, at my request.” Conrad followed her into the hall.
“Do you think it necessary to summon the vicar?” She swallowed hard, as never could she live with herself had Damian taken drastic measures to cope with her shame.
“Unfortunately, I think it imperative, your ladyship.”
In the gallery, Alex glanced at her sire’s portrait and dipped her chin in blithe salute. At the landing, she veered right and descended the grand staircase. In the foyer, she turned left and halted before the double doors that led to the drawing room. With her hand on the knob, she pressed her ear to the oak panel and prayed for the slightest signal that Damian remained hale and whole, and Conrad had worried for naught.
“His Grace has locked the door, my lady.” The butler frowned.
“Damian will never refuse to receive me.” In that instant, she rapped her knuckles to the wood.
“Who goes there?” At Damian’s terse reply, she jumped.
“I do not know, your ladyship.” Conrad compressed his lips and clasped his hands behind his back. “His Grace does not sound too welcoming.”
“It is Alex, my dear brother.” She tried the knob, but it yielded not. “Open the door, Damian, as I must speak with you.”
Silence spoke volumes.
“My lady, if I may.” Conrad produced a key from his coat pocket. “I thought it best to wait for your intervention before revealing our advantage.”
“Marvelous.” Her heart pounded a rapid sa
lvo in her chest, and she prepared to confront the single most reliable source of support and comfort during her formative years. Now, it was her turn to comfort Damian, and she resolved to succeed. “I want you to unlock the door. When I step inside, secure the bolt behind me.”
“As you wish, my lady.” Conrad furrowed his brow.
A soft click pierced the solemnity, and she sidled into the drawing room. She turned and winked at the butler. “Wish me luck.”
“My lady.” Conrad drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and patted his temples. “I hope that, some day, you might forgive me.”
And then he slammed shut the door and reset the bolt.
Confused by Conrad’s curious statement, Alex peered into the darkness. Well-appointed, the drawing room at Penhurst Castle boasted a massive stone fireplace, emerald velvet draperies, and Italian embroideries. Of all the chambers in the imposing seat of the Weston dukedom, the drawing room was her favorite.
“Damian, are you there?” She took two tentative steps.
“Aye.” The morose timbre tugged at her heartstrings. “Come in, my dear.”
“Will you pull the drapes, brother?” Although she could navigate her home with her eyes blindfolded, she would not risk injuring her babes in an unexpected tumble. “I can have Cook prepare your favorite breakfast, and we can enjoy our morning meal, together. Will that not be lovely?”
All of a sudden, the drapes parted, and shimmering light flooded the room. With a hand, she shielded her gaze from the glare, until her sight adjusted, and then she spied three silhouettes.
Gooseflesh covered her arms, a wicked shiver traipsed her spine, and overpowering dread licked at her nerves. Alex struggled to catch her breath, but terror clawed at her throat, and a vicious cramp ravaged her gut.
The trio of men gathered before the mullioned windows made no attempt to disguise the fact that they waited for her. At left, Damian loomed as the specter of doom. At right, her downfall, Jason boasted the meticulous coat of gray Bath superfine she had gifted him for Christmas. But it was the imposing figure at center, Mr. Catchpole—the vicar—who captured her attention to the detriment of all else.
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