Harlequin Historical July 2020 - Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  ‘He’s got excellent lungs… You were right, Gertie… It’s a boy.’

  Lydia was crying. She had no idea when the tears started, but the burst of emotion was so intense there was no chance of stopping it. Thankfully, the baby was crying, too. A high-pitched, loud and noisy wail filled the room as Gertie’s baby first filled his lungs. His tiny face furious at being denied the warm comfort of the womb and his perfect little fists clenched as he kicked and squirmed and complained for all he was worth.

  ‘He’s beautiful.’ Instinctively, she cradled him, then, realising the job wasn’t finished, gestured to Owen to take over while she helped Gertie push out all that was left.

  He didn’t dally. Instantly, he was at her side, gingerly wrapping his big arms around the newborn and soothing the child, his deep voice murmuring nonsense which did absolutely nothing to quieten the babe. Something about the sight of him like that unnerved her and made her yearn in equal measure, so much so she had to tear her eyes away to complete the task in hand. With much more confidence than she knew she possessed, Lydia tied and cut the cord, then cleaned her friend up.

  When Owen reverently handed the squalling baby to its mother, there were tears in his eyes, too. He made no attempt to hide his emotion as he retreated from the room to fetch the father.

  Seconds later, Randolph burst through the door, grinning, and soon he was also crying with complete abandon, alternately kissing his wife, then his new son, and telling them both how much he loved them.

  It was such a lovely moment. Tender. Heart wrenching. Poignant. Exactly like the birth and all at once Lydia’s womb seemed to clench. It was obvious husband and wife loved each other, just as it was obvious they had instantly fallen in love with their new son and she was envious of their joy and their happiness, and simultaneously devasted that she might never get to experience any of it for herself. She decided there and then she couldn’t let that happen. Not when she deserved this, too.

  Owen’s arm snaked around her waist. ‘I think it’s time for a tactical retreat. And perhaps a couple of very stiff brandies.’

  Lydia nodded. ‘Brandy sounds good.’ The feel of him wrapped around her felt better.

  Wordlessly, they slipped out and clicked the door quietly shut.

  ‘That was…quite something.’ She was exhausted. Both physically and mentally. Confused and overwhelmed, her emotions dangerously close to the surface. For some strange reason she wanted to curl up into a ball and sob.

  ‘Yes, it was.’ His thumb brushed a tear from her eye. ‘You were quite something, too, Lydia.’ The pad of one finger traced the shape of her cheek. ‘I am inordinately proud of you.’

  ‘All I did was wait at the right end and catch.’

  ‘You took command of the situation, mobilised the troops and completely saved the day. You even managed to look as though you knew what you were doing.’

  ‘It was all bravado. I am actually a complete mess.’ She felt her bottom lip quiver as it all bubbled to the surface and then, because it felt like the most necessary thing in the world, Lydia buried herself in his chest.

  Owen let her cry, clearly sensing she needed to, his strong arms wrapped tightly around her and his chin resting on her head. He didn’t offer any inane platitudes, nor did he try to hasten the process or try to get to the bottom of what was wrong. He simply hugged her tighter while her tears soaked into his shirt and all the bottled-up feelings she had kept inside for weeks spilled out in one noisy, soggy rush.

  Kelvedon, Gretna, her family, Owen, the past, the present, the future… All of it needed releasing, yet practically none of it made sense.

  As the racking sobs finally subsided and she still clung to him, he kissed her hair and rocked her gently. Finally, when she was sure there couldn’t possibly be a drop of moisture left in her body, she pulled away a little to rest her forehead on his shoulder, suddenly embarrassed at her outburst, but not ready to completely sever the contact because she desperately still needed his strength.

  Still needed him. And through all the uncertainty, that was all that made sense.

  ‘I’m sorry… I’m a little overwhelmed.’

  ‘As am I…truth be told.’

  She could hear the emotion in his voice. Beneath her palm, she could feel his heart beating, the reassuring heat of his strong body through the soft linen of his shirt. She felt the pull of his stare and stupidly gazed up, then lost herself in it.

  He dipped his head.

  She stood on tiptoes.

  And when his lips touched her, she sighed as the world stopped turning and then promptly disappeared.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ignoring the chilling December drizzle, Owen took the long way home from his second meeting at Bow Street, needing time to ponder exactly what he did next. Engaging two Runners to investigate his case had been a big step and one he had avoided up until now because of his innate distrust of the flawed legal system which had failed to protect him so spectacularly. However, with every passing day it was becoming more apparent he couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie any longer. The sand was shifting beneath his feet and things between him and his new wife were changing, too. Besides, there was no escaping the fact the Runners had resources at their disposal which he had no access to and which might tunnel a way through the dead ends he and Randolph had smacked into at every turn.

  Already, they had tracked down several of the Earl of Fulbrook’s former employees, including a very promising lead on Mr Argent—Owen’s old stable master—who had moved to the Barton estate in Cheshire where he and Randolph had lost track of him. But after one of the Runners had travelled there to make enquiries, now they believed he had moved even further north after suffering a stroke, to reside with a daughter in the Lake District. At doubtless great expense, that Runner was headed there while the other, the older and less friendly of the two, remained in London to dig deeper into the records here. Owen couldn’t say he liked the fellow overmuch, but he couldn’t deny he was both dogged and thorough and as crafty as a fox to boot.

  He had also given Owen a whole new angle to explore—Lydia was a thus far untapped source of information. An insider who would have seen things, heard things and noticed things no servant would have been privy to. As tempting as it was to leave everything to Bow Street, he knew it had to come from him. But for the life of him he couldn’t think of a single subtle way to ask her without letting her know he was engaged in a last-ditch attempt to prove his innocence—entirely for her. Even though his chances of doing so were slim to say the least.

  The Runners were right. Ten years was a long time for a trail to go cold.

  He wanted to blame the imprudent and completely earth-shattering kiss they had shared a week ago for sending him on this fool’s errand to more frustration and disappointment—but knew its roots stemmed much further back. The simple truth was he hated that she thought ill of him and desperately wanted to remove that destructive barricade between them.

  To what end, he wasn’t entirely sure.

  It wasn’t as if he could turn back time and change history. He wasn’t the same Owen as he’d been then and she wasn’t the same Lydia, so they couldn’t simply pick up where they’d left off and blithely carry on as if nothing had happened. They had both lived a lifetime since and there was no doubt, in his case at least, the last decade had changed him and in many ways for the better.

  He was more driven. More savvy. Undeniably less trusting and more cynical about the world, but better equipped to turn situations to his advantage. Yet as much as he lamented those cruelly stolen years, the hardships, the unfairness and the inherent dangers, he also realised he wouldn’t be anywhere near as successful as he was now without them.

  Two years since his return and he had real standing. Power which he never had before. A phenomenal achievement which would never have occurred without those difficult seven years ten thousand miles aw
ay, tested to the ends of his endurance and abilities and finding the true depth of his character, ambition and talent in the process.

  They had sent him to the Antipodes a helpless boy, but he had returned a man to be reckoned with.

  Good grief, he’d become annoyingly philosophical in the last month! Probably because the past seemed to suddenly be intricately intertwined with the present once again, wrapping itself around him like brambles, preventing him from moving forward.

  All he knew with absolute clarity, and much to his complete disgust because it made blasted Randolph right again, was the heart indeed always wants what the heart needs—and his apparently needed Lydia. Clearly it had always needed her if he was prepared to risk the peaceful sanctity of their armistice to imminently reopen all those festering old wounds simply for a few answers which would probably lead nowhere.

  Which he would absolutely do in an hour or two.

  Or three or first thing in the morning before the Runner came knocking. Because like a coward he had done his best to avoid her since she had pulled away from that kiss and stared back at him equally dumbfounded by it—obviously torn. Lust versus disgust. The past still blatantly at war with the present. All the old wounds still raw and still festering. But a kiss to end all kisses.

  They hadn’t discussed it since. Not the incendiary nature of it, the hunger with which they’d both plunged headlong into it nor their mutual eagerness to escape one another once they had finally come up for air. Both preferring avoidance rather than risking the cloying armistice and jeopardising the status quo.

  When they had collided, which they had with far more frequency than his shredded nerves could cope with, it was plainly obvious the climate between them had altered. One ill-conceived but unforgettable kiss had kindled the flame which used to burn so hot between them, reminding them there was undeniable chemistry and passion still lurking which a decade had failed to dampen and a month of close proximity had whipped into a frenzied inferno. It had resulted in too many heated looks, too many charged moments. Too much lust and much too much longing. So much that almost everyone who collided with them noticed, too.

  And still neither one of them dared broach the subject.

  Those damned brambles again—but tangling around her, too, now, and choking them both.

  Yet there was something still there between them which went beyond the lust. He felt it in his heart and had seen the same torment in her eyes. Enough that he was convinced they could make their marriage work if only they could hack away all the weeds and thorns and expose the fertile ground again.

  If only…

  With a resigned and totally despondent sigh, he purposely went through the main front door of Libertas in case he inadvertently collided with her at the back of the property before he was ready, then sprinted up the stairs to the sanctuary of his office to contemplate tomorrow.

  Two whole days thrust together at the Duke and Duchess of Aveley’s castle.

  If he lived through that, or emerged with his wits intact, it would be a blasted miracle.

  He barely had one foot in the door when, to his abject horror, he saw she was sat in the spare chair in front of his desk. For a split second he considered making a hasty retreat and sprinting back from whence he had come. And doubtless would have, too, if it hadn’t been a completely ridiculous way for a grown man to behave.

  ‘Hello, Owen.’

  If he was ever truly going to be the master of his own destiny, as well as finding a way to fix things between them, then he needed to stop hiding.

  ‘Hello, Lydia.’ Now what? ‘How are you?’

  Owen braced himself for the pithy comment, the imperious stare straight down her nose or, worse, one of their painfully polite conversations which blithely avoided everything, but alas they didn’t come. Instead, she sat primly, her busy hands unable to stop fiddling with one another as her teeth worried her bottom lip.

  After a prolonged and awkward pause, she briefly glanced at him and then looked away apparently horrified—which did little to put him at his ease.

  ‘There is something we needed to discuss…a topic which is…um…personal.’

  Something about the way her bottom fidgeted, almost as if she were squirming in the chair, made him similarly wary.

  ‘Is it about that kiss?’ As much as he dreaded this conversation, finally, perhaps sanity would prevail?

  ‘No… Yes…’ She huffed and blushed bright pink. ‘Maybe.’

  He found himself smiling despite the unease, utterly charmed by the sight of a thoroughly flustered Lydia. ‘Then which is it, Wife? The yes, the no or the maybe?’

  ‘I mean obviously we should discuss it…at some point…’ Now she appeared to be shrinking into the chair, her shoulders curling in on themselves until she was practically a hunchback, the furrow between her dark eyebrows so deep it might have been freshly ploughed. ‘But that is not what I came here to talk about.’

  Abject relief was swiftly followed by disappointment. There would be no peace for the wicked—not that he had ever been particularly wicked. ‘Then what did you come here to talk about?’ The need for control had him standing straighter, his posture braced for whatever she was about to throw at him, his bland, nonchalant mask refusing to work properly no matter how much he willed it.

  ‘Perhaps you should sit?’

  That didn’t bode well, and his pulse quickened. ‘All right…’

  Conscious he still hadn’t removed his greatcoat and that nerves were making him warm, Owen shrugged out of it and clumsily hung it on the empty coat stand. On strangely leaden feet, he approached the desk.

  ‘Should I be worried, Lydia?’

  She smiled weakly, attempted to laugh it away, and when that came out a strangled mewl, looked thoroughly mortified. ‘I suppose that depends…’

  ‘Very reassuring.’

  ‘I’d like us to have a calm and reasonable discussion.’

  Those rarely ended well. Especially when he felt aggrieved and lost his temper and she got those tragic tears in her eyes which always accompanied her disappointment in him. ‘Does it contravene the parameters of our polite armistice?’ He wasn’t ready for an argument. He was still too shaken by the acknowledgement he still had unresolved feelings for her. Still wanted her. Very probably was also still a little bit in love with her to boot.

  ‘Most definitely—this is something we probably should have discussed a long time ago. Right from the outset, in fact. Calling an armistice with it hanging over our heads like a dark cloud was a mistake…’

  Splendid. Dread settled like lead in the pit of his stomach. They were going there. To the impasse. The blockage. The fetid, rancid, infuriating pit of despair and frustration where they staggered blindly around and around in circles, reopening the same old festering wound which adamantly refused to heal and threatened to turn gangrenous.

  But something he might be able to use to his advantage. If they were going to have an argument anyway about the terrible events from a decade ago, perhaps this was the perfect time to properly bring up the thefts at Barton House and fill in some of the blanks he had about what had been going on above stairs before he had been blamed for it all below.

  ‘You are probably not going to like it…but still…it needs to be said.’

  ‘Said?’ Already he felt his temper spark. ‘I thought you wanted a discussion.’ He was damned if he was going to be lectured to. And most definitely not about that! ‘Those usually require both parties to speak as well as listen!’

  She appeared to crumple under the force of his scowl. ‘You are absolutely right, Owen.’ The pretty pink blush glowed crimson. ‘You do get a say in it. A huge say.’ Then she suddenly appeared defeated. ‘Frankly, it cannot happen without your agreement…’ She risked looking up at him and her eyes were so sad. ‘Although I am hoping you will find it in your heart to say yes.’

/>   ‘To what, Lydia?’ He slowly lowered himself into his seat, wanting to agree to anything just to make her feel better and banish the hurt in her troubled dark eyes—but not at any cost. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever conceded any guilt.

  ‘You see, the thing is…’ Her shoulders expanded slowly as she inhaled, but her eyes dipped again to stare rigidly at the desk. ‘I’ve given it a great deal of thought since last week…and as Gertie suggested I should approach you…and I am mindful that if you don’t ask you don’t get… I thought I should probably talk to you about it and gauge the lay of the land…’

  Her hands were practically dancing a jig now, and because she was scaring the hell out of him, he reached out and clasped them. ‘Take a deep breath, Lydia, and spit it out.’

  ‘I want children.’

  All the air left his lungs in a whoosh.

  Of all the things his tortured imagination had conjured in the last few painful moments, from separate residences to divorce, that one had never entered his mind.

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Yes. Children.’ She was blinking now with such speed she was in danger of taking off. ‘Plural… But obviously we could start with just the one.’

  ‘You want children?’ All at once his head was filled with images. Some of them touching. Most of them carnal. ‘With me?’

  ‘Well, obviously! You are my husband, Owen! Who else could I have them with?’ She suddenly sprang up from her chair and began to pace a wildly confused pattern on the Persian.

  ‘I appreciate this might seem as though it has come out of the blue and, in view of Gertie’s new baby, you’ll doubtless think this is all to do with that—but the truth is I’ve always wanted a family. And seeing Gertie so happy and after holding little Tobias in my arms…well, it’s brought it all to the fore.’ Unconsciously, one hand touched her tummy. ‘I’m six and twenty. In a month I’ll be seven and twenty. That’s practically an old maid and I thought I’d have a family by now… I need something to love, Owen. I’m so tired of feeling lonely. I want to feel a child grow inside me. I want to nurture it and watch it grow. Teach it to read… Sing it to sleep. I want noisy family dinners and little feet running over the floorboards…’ She suddenly turned and stared imploringly. ‘Is that too much to ask?’