by Julia Quinn
“You didn’t have to say it,” she said.
“If you want to stay—”
She shook her head. “I don’t. I want to go home. Our home.” With a stiff groan, she sat up all the way, curling her legs beneath her. “This has been lovely, and I have had such a wonderful time, but I miss Kilmartin.”
“Are you certain?”
“I miss you.”
He lifted his brows. “I’m right here.”
She smiled and leaned forward. “I miss having you to myself.”
“You need only say the word, my lady. Anytime, anywhere. I’ll whisk you off and let you have your way with me.”
She chuckled. “Perhaps right now.”
He thought that was an excellent idea, but chivalry forced him to say, “I thought you were sore.”
“Not that sore. Not if you do all the work.”
“That, my dear, is not a problem.” He pulled his shirt over his head and lay down beside her, giving her a long, delicious kiss. He pulled back with a contented sigh, then just gazed at her. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “More than ever.”
She smiled—that lazy, warm smile that meant she’d been recently pleasured, or knew she was about to be.
He loved that smile.
He went to work on the buttons at the back of her frock and was halfway down when all of a sudden a thought popped into his head. “Wait,” he said. “Can you?”
“Can I what?”
He stopped, frowning as he tried to count it out in his head. Oughtn’t she be bleeding? “Isn’t it your time?” he asked.
Her lips parted, and she blinked. “No,” she said, sounding a little bit startled—not by his question but by her answer. “No, I’m not.”
He shifted position, moving back a few inches so that he could better see her face. “Do you think…?”
“I don’t know.” She was blinking rapidly now, and he could hear that her breathing had grown more rapid. “I suppose. I could…”
He wanted to whoop with joy, but he dare not. Not yet. “When do you think—”
“—I’ll know? I don’t know. Maybe—”
“—in a month? Two?”
“Maybe two. Maybe sooner. I don’t know.” Her hand flew to her belly. “It might not take.”
“It might not,” he said carefully.
“But it might.”
“It might.”
He felt laughter bubbling within him, a strange giddiness in his belly, growing and tickling until it burst from his lips.
“We can’t be sure,” she warned, but he could see that she was excited, too.
“No,” he said, but somehow he knew they were.
“I don’t want to get my hopes up.”
“No, no, of course we mustn’t.”
Her eyes grew wide, and she placed both hands on her belly, still absolutely, completely flat.
“Do you feel anything?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “It would be too early, anyway.”
He knew that. He knew that he knew that. He didn’t know why he’d asked.
And then Francesca said the damnedest thing. “But he’s there,” she whispered. “I know it.”
“Frannie…” If she was wrong, if her heart was broken again—he just didn’t think he could bear it.
But she was shaking her head. “It’s true,” she said, and she wasn’t insisting. She wasn’t trying to convince him, or even herself. He could hear it in her voice. Somehow she knew.
“Have you been feeling ill?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Have you—Good God, you shouldn’t have been playing with the boys this afternoon.”
“Eloise did.”
“Eloise can do what she damn well pleases. She isn’t you.”
She smiled. Like a Madonna, she smiled, he would have sworn it. And she said, “I won’t break.”
He remembered when she’d miscarried years ago. It had not been his child, but he had felt her pain, hot and searing, like a fist around his heart. His cousin—her first husband—had been dead a scant few weeks, and they were both reeling from that loss. When she’d lost John’s baby…
He didn’t think either one of them could survive another loss like that.
“Francesca,” he said urgently, “you must take care. Please.”
“It won’t happen again,” she said, shaking her head.
“How do you know?”
She gave him a bewildered shrug. “I don’t know. I just do.”
Dear God, he prayed she was not deluding herself. “Do you want to tell your family?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “Not yet. Not because I have any fears,” she hastened to add. “I just want—” Her lips pressed together in the most adorably giddy little smile. “I just want it to be mine for a little while. Ours.”
He brought her hand to his lips. “How long is a little while?”
“I’m not sure.” But her eyes were growing crafty. “I’m not quite sure…”
One year later…
Violet Bridgerton loved all her children equally, but she loved them differently as well. And when it came to missing them, she did so in what she considered a most logical manner. Her heart pined the most for the one she’d seen the least. And that was why, as she waited in the drawing room at Aubrey Hall, watching for a carriage bearing the Kilmartin crest to roll down the drive, she found herself fidgety and eager, jumping up every five minutes to watch through the window.
“She wrote that they would arrive today,” Kate reassured her.
“I know,” Violet replied with a sheepish smile. “It’s just that I haven’t seen her for an entire year. I know Scotland is far, but I’ve never gone an entire year without seeing one of my children before.”
“Really?” Kate asked. “That’s remarkable.”
“We all have our priorities,” Violet said, deciding there was no point in trying to pretend she wasn’t champing at the bit. She set down her embroidery and moved to the window, craning her neck when she thought she saw something glinting in the sunlight.
“Even when Colin was traveling so much?” Kate asked.
“The longest he was gone was 342 days,” Violet replied. “When he was traveling in the Mediterranean.”
“You counted?”
Violet shrugged. “I can’t help myself. I like to count.” She thought of all the counting she’d done when her children were growing up, making sure she had as many offspring at the end of an outing as she’d had at the beginning. “It helps to keep track of things.”
Kate smiled as she reached down and rocked the cradle at her feet. “I shall never complain about the logistics of managing four.”
Violet crossed the room to peek down at her newest grandchild. Little Mary had been a bit of a surprise, coming so many years after Charlotte. Kate had thought herself done with childbearing, but then, ten months earlier, she’d got out of bed, walked calmly to the chamber pot, emptied the contents of her stomach, and announced to Anthony, “I believe we’re expecting again.”
Or so they’d told Violet. She made it a point to stay out of her grown children’s bedrooms except in the case of illness or childbirth.
“I never complained,” Violet said softly. Kate didn’t hear, but Violet hadn’t meant her to. She smiled down at Mary, sleeping sweetly under a purple blanket. “I think your mother would have been delighted,” she said, looking up at Kate.
Kate nodded, her eyes misting over. Her mother—actually her stepmother, but Mary Sheffield had raised her from a little girl—had passed away a month before Kate realized that she was pregnant. “I know it makes no sense,” Kate said, leaning down to examine her child’s face more closely, “but I would swear she looks a bit like her.”
Violet blinked and tilted her head to the side. “I think you’re right.”
“Something about the eyes.”
“No, it’s the nose.”
“Do you think? I rather thought—Oh
look!” Kate pointed toward the window. “Is that Francesca?”
Violet straightened and rushed to the window. “It is!” she exclaimed. “Oh, and the sun is shining. I’m going to wait outside.”
With nary a backward glance she grabbed her shawl off a side table and dashed into the hall. It had been so long since she’d seen Frannie, but that wasn’t the only reason she was so eager to see her. Francesca had changed during her last visit, back at Isabella’s christening. It was hard to explain, but Violet had sensed that something had shifted within her.
Of all her children, Francesca had always been the most quiet, the most private. She loved her family, but she also loved being apart from them, forging her own identity, making her own life. It was not surprising that she had never chosen to share her feelings about the most painful corner of her life—her infertility. But last time, even though they had not spoken about it explicitly, something had still passed between them, and Violet had almost felt as if she’d been able to absorb some of her grief.
When Francesca had departed, the clouds behind her eyes had been lifted. Violet didn’t know whether she had finally accepted her fate, or whether she had simply learned how to rejoice in what she had, but Francesca had seemed, for the first time in Violet’s recent memory, unreservedly happy.
Violet ran through the hall—really, at her age!—and pushed open the front door so that she could wait in the drive. Francesca’s carriage was nearly there, starting the final turn so that one of the doors would be facing the house.
Violet could see Michael through the window. He waved. She beamed.
“Oh, I’ve missed you!” she exclaimed, hurrying forward as he hopped down. “You must promise never to wait so long again.”
“As if I could refuse you anything,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. He turned then, holding his arm out to assist Francesca.
Violet embraced her daughter, then stepped back to look at her. Frannie was…
Glowing.
She was positively radiant.
“I missed you, Mother,” she said.
Violet would have made a reply, but she found herself unexpectedly choked up. She felt her lips press together, then twitch at the corners as she fought to contain her tears. She didn’t know why she was so emotional. Yes, it had been over a year, but hadn’t she gone 342 days before? This was not so very different.
“I have something for you,” Francesca said, and Violet could have sworn her eyes were glistening, too.
Francesca turned back to the carriage and held out her arms. A maid appeared in the doorway, holding some sort of bundle, which she then handed down to her mistress.
Violet gasped. Dear God, it couldn’t be…
“Mother,” Francesca said softly, cradling the precious little bundle, “this is John.”
The tears, which had been waiting patiently in Violet’s eyes, began to roll. “Frannie,” she whispered, taking the baby into her arms, “why didn’t you tell me?”
And Francesca—her maddening, inscrutable third daughter—said, “I don’t know.”
“He’s beautiful,” Violet said, not caring that she’d been kept in the dark. She didn’t care about anything in that moment—nothing but the tiny boy in her arms, gazing up at her with an impossibly wise expression.
“He has your eyes,” Violet said, looking up at Francesca.
Frannie nodded, and her smile was almost silly, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “I know.”
“And your mouth.”
“I think you’re right.”
“And your—oh, my, I think he has your nose as well.”
“I’m told,” Michael said in an amused voice, “that I was involved in his creation, too, but I have yet to see any evidence.”
Francesca looked at him with so much love that it nearly took Violet’s breath away. “He has your charm,” she said.
Violet laughed, then she laughed again. There was too much happiness inside of her—she couldn’t possibly hold it in. “I think it’s time we introduced this little fellow to his family,” she said. “Don’t you?”
Francesca held out her arms to take the baby, but Violet turned away. “Not just yet,” she said. She wanted to hold him a while longer. Maybe until Tuesday.
“Mother, I think he might be hungry.”
Violet assumed an arch expression. “He’ll let us know.”
“But—”
“I know a thing or two about babies, Francesca Bridgerton Stirling.” Violet grinned down at John. “They adore their grandmamas, for example.”
He gurgled and cooed, and then—she was positive—he smiled.
“Come with me, little one,” she whispered, “I have so much to tell you.”
And behind her, Francesca turned to Michael and said, “Do you think we’ll get him back for the duration of the visit?”
He shook his head, then added, “It’ll give us more time to see about getting the little fellow a sister.”
“Michael!”
“Listen to the man,” Violet called, not bothering to turn around.
“Good heavens,” Francesca muttered.
But she did listen.
And she did enjoy.
And nine months later, she said good morning to Janet Helen Stirling.
Who looked exactly like her father.
Excerpt from
The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever
Prologue
At the age of ten, Miss Miranda Cheever showed no signs of Great Beauty. Her hair was brown—lamentably—as were her eyes; and her legs, which were uncommonly long, refused to learn anything that could be remotely called grace. Her mother often remarked that she positively loped around the house.
Unfortunately for Miranda, the society into which she was born placed great stock on female appearance. And although she was only ten, she knew that in this regard she was considered inferior to most of the other little girls who lived nearby. Children have a way of finding these things out, usually from other children.
Just such an unpleasant incident occurred at the eleventh birthday party of Lady Olivia and the Honorable Winston Bevelstoke, twin children of the Earl and Countess of Rudland. Miranda’s home was quite close to Haverbreaks, the Rudlands’ ancestral home near Ambleside, in the Lake District of Cumberland, and she had always shared lessons with Olivia and Winston when they were in residence. They had become quite an inseparable threesome and rarely bothered to play with the other children in the area, most of whom lived nearly an hour’s ride away.
But a dozen or so times a year, and especially on birthdays, all the children of the local nobility and gentry gathered together. It was for this reason that Lady Rudland let out a most unladylike groan; eighteen urchins were gleefully tramping mud through her sitting room after the twins’ party in the garden was disrupted by rain.
“You’ve mud on your cheek, Livvy,” Miranda said, reaching out to wipe it away.
Olivia let out a dramatically weary sigh. “I’d best go to the washroom, then. I shouldn’t want Mama to see me thus. She quite abhors dirt, and I quite abhor listening to her tell me how much she abhors it.”
“I don’t see how she will have time to object to a little mud on your face when she’s got it all over the carpet.” Miranda glanced over at William Evans, who let out a war cry and cannonballed onto the sofa. She pursed her lips; otherwise, she’d smile. “And the furniture.”
“All the same, I had best go do something about it.”
She slipped out of the room, leaving Miranda near the doorway. Miranda watched the commotion for a minute or so, quite content to be in her usual spot as an observer, until, out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone approaching.
“What did you bring Olivia for her birthday, Miranda?”
Miranda turned to see Fiona Bennet standing before her, prettily dressed in a white frock with a pink sash. “A book,” she replied. “Olivia likes to read. What did you bring?”
Fiona held up a gail
y painted box tied with a silver cord. “A collection of ribbons. Silk and satin and even velvet. Do you want to see?”
“Oh, but I wouldn’t want to ruin the wrapping.”
Fiona shrugged. “All you need to do is untie the cord carefully. I do it every Christmas.” She slipped off the cord and lifted the lid.
Miranda caught her breath. At least two dozen ribbons lay on the black velvet of the box, each exquisitely tied into a bow. “They’re beautiful, Fiona. May I see one?”
Fiona narrowed her eyes.
“I haven’t any mud on my hands. See?” Miranda held her hands up for inspection.
“Oh, very well.”
Miranda reached down and picked up a violet ribbon. The satin felt sinfully sleek and soft in her hands. She placed the bow coquettishly against her hair. “What do you think?”
Fiona rolled her eyes. “Not violet, Miranda. Everyone knows they are for blond hair. The color practically disappears against brown. You certainly can’t wear one.”
Miranda handed the ribbon back to her. “What color suits brown hair? Green? My mama has brown hair, and I’ve seen her wear green ribbons.”
“Green would be acceptable, I suppose. But it’s better in blond hair. Everything’s better in blond hair.”
Miranda felt a spark of indignation rising within her. “Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do then, Fiona, because your hair is as brown as mine.”
Fiona drew back in a huff. “It is not!”
“Is too!”
“Is not!”
Miranda leaned forward, her eyes narrowing menacingly. “You had better take a look in the mirror when you go home, Fiona, because your hair is not blond.”
Fiona put the violet ribbon back in its case and snapped the lid shut. “Well, it used to be blond, whereas yours never was. And besides that, my hair is light brown, which everyone knows is better than dark brown. Like yours.”
“There’s nothing wrong with dark brown hair!” Miranda protested. But she already knew that most of England didn’t agree with her.
“And,” Fiona added viciously, “you’ve got big lips!”
Miranda’s hand flew to her mouth. She knew that she was not beautiful; she knew she wasn’t even considered pretty. But she’d never noticed anything wrong with her lips before. She looked up at the smirking girl. “You have freckles!” she burst out.
