A Compromised Lady (29 page)

Almeria’s jaw dropped. ‘You feed him yourself? My dear Verity, this is most unnecessary—a wet-nurse is far more—’

‘I prefer it, Aunt,’ said Verity quietly. ‘It was my decision.’

Lord Blakehurst, still standing beside his wife’s chair, laid his hand on her shoulder, saying, ‘And one which I fully endorse.’

Much to Thea’s surprise, given the very decided views on the subject aired in the chaise, Almeria subsided at once. ‘Naturally, Max, if you approve, then there is no more to be said.’ Then, rather diffidently, she added, ‘As long as it does not tire Verity unduly.’

Thea rather thought that Lord Braybrook looked distinctly relieved that the subject was to be shelved. Even Richard looked to have relaxed somewhat. Although that might be more due to his worry about this meeting. His glance flickered back and forth between his brother, Almeria and the countess.

Then, without warning, his gaze rested on her and his heart-stopping smile dawned, lighting the dark eyes from within. His lips moved silently as he lifted his teacup in unspoken salute.

Thank you.

All Thea’s defences shook to their foundations, to the very core of her being. And if he ever suspected what she felt for him…Somehow she managed to smile back. Brightly. Happy to have helped. As though it meant nothing.

The door opening to admit the nurse with a small, shawl-wrapped bundle, was akin to a relieving troop of cavalry approaching a citadel under siege.

Lord Blakehurst strode across the room and the nurse, with a suspiciously primmed mouth, delivered the bundle into his arms.

‘Thank you, Nurse. We’ll let you know when he is back in the nursery.’

‘Yes, m’lord.’ She curtsied and went out.

The reason for the nurse’s suppressed amusement was not far to seek. When Lord Blakehurst turned back to his guests, the expression of undisguised, tender pride on his face stabbed into Thea with undiluted pain, tearing at wounds she had thought healed and forgotten.

No one had ever looked at her child like that.

The countess spoke. ‘Perhaps…perhaps Aunt Almeria might like to hold him, Max?’

Slowly, his lordship turned to his aunt. ‘Almeria?’

‘I…I should like that very much, Max.’ Her voice, utterly expressionless, fell into a breathless hush.

Lord Blakehurst bent down, carefully depositing the babe in her arms. ‘His…his head needs support, you know—’

‘Max—I have held a baby before,’ said Almeria with asperity. ‘You, for one.’ She shot a glance at Braybrook. ‘Even you. In fact—’ she settled the baby in her arms and drew back the shawls a little

‘—the only one of you here that I did not hold as a babe would be Verity.’

Silence fell as Almeria examined the baby. A very careful, elegant finger stroked gently, and a corner of the severe mouth flickered.

The knife twisting inside Thea dug a little deeper. No one had rejoiced at the birth of her daughter.

Not even reluctantly. She had been hidden away, her very existence denied. She clenched her hands in her lap, willing the hurt to subside, forcing her face to remain calm, politely interested as they waited for Almeria to say something.

Then, ‘Thank you, Max. I do not know how it may be, but the title Great Aunt seems far more ageing than that of Grandmother.’

Lord Blakehurst grinned. ‘It must be the “Great”, Almeria. Shall I take him again?’

‘You may.’

He bent down and scooped up the little bundle effortlessly.

‘That,’ pronounced Almeria, ‘is a very healthy and well-developed child, Max.’ She turned to the countess. ‘You have done very well, Verity. Very well, indeed.’

‘Thank you, Aunt,’ said the countess.

Almeria frowned. ‘Verity, it is time and more that you ceased to call me “Aunt”, if you please.’ The frown deepened. ‘I dare say that I have been very foolish in the past year. I hope that—’

‘Almeria,’ said Lord Blakehurst quietly, ‘your presence here is a great pleasure to us. No more needs to be said.’

Almeria looked even more pokered up. ‘You are generous, Max. Thank you.’

For an instant time stood still and Thea knew that, although doubtless there would be disagreements and Almeria might never fully approve of Lady Blakehurst, there was healing and acceptance, that the family was no longer split.

Involuntarily she met Richard’s gaze. Quiet pride, gratitude and, oh, God—that something else that she dared not acknowledge.

Lord Blakehurst broke the spell. ‘Miss Winslow, would you care to hold him?’

Hold the baby? Panic assaulted her. She couldn’t—not a baby. Bad enough looking at every small child and wondering, endlessly wondering what her child might have been like…tall, fair?

Mischievous, obedient? But to actually hold a baby…Only, that was her voice, saying politely how much she would like to hold the child, and Lord Blakehurst was already bending down and there was the weight in her arms, the weight she had never felt before, only imagined.

Such a tiny weight.

She was holding Richard’s nephew and godson-to-be and all she could feel was rage. And pain.

Rage that this had been stolen from her, that—no.

She would not feel bitterness. Not with a child in her arms. Not with the sweet, milky scent wreathing through her. There could be pain, yes. But not the bitterness of envy. This little one had done nothing to deserve that. She forced herself to focus on the tiny face. A small fist was stuffed into his mouth and she found herself smiling into the sleepy unfocused eyes blinking up at her.

Joy swept her, lighting the darkest corners, burning away all else in its path. Instinctively she found herself rocking gently, patting in the same rhythm, and before her wondering eyes, the child fell asleep, still with his fist stuffed in his mouth.

Richard saw the wonder take her, the amazement, the awe. In that instant he saw everything he wanted for himself. And for her. The knowledge shook him to the very foundations of his being and he knew what he had to do. He had to convince Thea that he wanted her. He had to convince her that his offer of marriage, when he made it again, had nothing to do with honour and chivalry, and everything to do with love.

A swift movement drew his attention. He glanced sideways, to catch Almeria dabbing moisture from her eyes. She caught his gaze and glared, stuffing—the only word for it—her lacy handkerchief into her reticule.

‘There must be something drifting in from the garden,’ she said defiantly, ‘or perhaps those flowers on Max’s desk!’

‘Of course, Almeria,’ he agreed gravely, not daring to look at Max.

He looked back at Thea, her head still bent over the baby, her arms and hands cradling the bundle in absolute safety. And the tenderness in her expression—as though she held her own child.

The thought of her holding her child, their child, hit him in a rush of possessive desire. Every muscle in his body turned to steel as he hardened. It was all he could do to remain in his chair. He wanted her. In his arms, his bed. His life.

She looked up, as if he had spoken her name. Her expression was dazed, shocked. He thought he knew exactly how she felt; as though her world had turned upside down, and quite possibly inside out.

An odd sound from Max recalled him to his surroundings. Tearing his gaze from Thea, he met his twin’s eyes. Amused understanding glinted in the amber.

‘Always such a shock,’ murmured Max.

Lord William Blakehurst having been duly christened and welcomed into the church, and having yelled his lungs out the whole time, his relatives and well-wishers removed themselves from the church in a laughing, joyous crowd.

Lord Braybrook, holding his squalling godson, appeared more than marginally harassed. ‘Lady Blakehurst, I swear, it’s nothing I’m doing!’

The countess smiled. ‘Here. I’ll—’

‘Give him to me,’ said Max and took his son, who immediately yelled louder.

‘It’s the baptism,’ said Richard, trying not to laugh as they strolled across the churchyard. ‘I’m sure I have heard somewhere that if they yell, it means the devil is leaving them.’

‘Which begs the question why Max yelled and you didn’t on the occasion of your joint baptism,’

said Almeria very drily.

Richard choked and turned instinctively to share the joke with Thea, whose soft blue eyes were indeed full of laughter. For an instant the corner of her mouth lilted in the beginnings of a smile, a smile that caught at his heart, that brought every suppressed longing raging to the surface. She immediately looked away.

As she had done for the past week.

Ever since that moment in the library when their eyes had locked over the baby in her arms, she had avoided him. Oh, not completely, but she had made quite sure that they were never alone together, never paired except in the most general way.

She had been the most charming and delightful of guests, leading several of Max’s neighbours to comment that the rumours that had reached them from London must have been greatly exaggerated.

Even now she was chatting sensibly to old Lady Aldicott, a stickler if ever there was one. The old lady caught his gaze on them and smiled knowingly. ‘And you’re staying on at Blakeney, then, after Almeria returns to town?’

Thea denied it quietly, although colour rushed to her cheeks.

Not for the first time Richard cursed Almeria’s not-entirely-accidental indiscretion in London. How to tell if Thea truly did not wish to marry him, or simply wished not to see him obliged to marry her out of duty?

His jaw hardened. All week he had held back, and she had slipped further and further away. It was, he understood, difficult for a woman to wear her heart on her sleeve if she were not quite certain of a man’s affections. And for Thea, perhaps, impossible.

Screwing his courage to the sticking place, he strolled over to Thea and Lady Aldicott.

The old lady smirked. ‘Well! And about time too that a new generation of Blakehursts came along to plague us!’ She poked Richard with her walking stick. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you do your bit.’

Heat flared on his cheeks as the old she-devil nodded to Thea. ‘I’m pleased to have met you, my dear. I’ll look forward to continuing our chat some time. I’m off home now. My old bones need a rest. Good day to you both.’

She stumped off, and Richard turned to Thea. ‘We need to talk,’ he said. ‘Quietly, privately and honestly. You know I won’t lie, and that I won’t force either of us into an unwanted marriage—’

‘Richard—’

‘We need to talk,’ he repeated. ‘Before you return to London. That is all I ask.’

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Now?’

Now? In the middle of a christening party? ‘After dinner,’ he said.

W hen the gentlemen joined the ladies in the library after dinner, Thea was not there. Richard frowned as he glanced round. She had looked very pale during the meal. Perhaps she had retired already.

Verity glanced up, smiling, from her conversation with Almeria and the rector’s wife. ‘Are you looking for Miss Winslow, Richard? She is on the terrace. I think she has the headache a little.’

Almeria shot him a severe glance. ‘I dare say a little fresh air will not go amiss, Richard. I know that I can trust you to take Dorothea for a gentle walk in the gardens.’

An excellent idea—if only he could extend to himself the same trust!

Sure enough, he found her just outside, gazing out over the velvety darkness of the gardens from the balustrade. Mingled scents of flowers and newly cut grass came up to them, twining with the rippling song of a fountain. Such a fragile peace.

She looked up at him as he came up beside her. ‘It is lovely here, is it not?’

‘Beautiful,’ he agreed. ‘Should you care to come for a walk with me?’ What they needed was a little privacy. Somewhere they did not have to worry about being interrupted and he could tell her…tell her—his heart felt as though steel bands were tightening around it—he needed to tell her that he loved her.

She did not answer immediately and a shaft of foreboding stabbed into him. Surely, surely he had not been wrong about this—

‘Sir…that is, Richard—I do not think that would be advisable, you see—’

He laid his hand over hers on the balustrade, felt the fine tremor and the tension. ‘Thea, we need to talk.’

‘There is not the least need, Richard. And indeed it is not wise. Almeria will find it hard enough to believe when our supposed betrothal comes to naught.’

His heart clenched. ‘Must it come to naught, my dear?’

It was all he could do to keep his voice light, and his hands still when every instinct urged him to drag her into his arms and kiss her until she knew the truth he knew—that she was his. He forced himself to remain still. After what had happened to her, Thea was the last woman in the world to be won over in that way.

She bit her lip. ‘Yes. This…this is not what I want…to be manipulated and forced into marriage to satisfy society.’

Put like that…If Thea felt that she was being constrained—his throat tightened around the aching loss. More fool him. He had thought that beyond the impossible situation in which they found themselves, beyond the affection he knew she felt for him, that there had been something else, the possibility of something more.

Could she believe that he was offering a marriage without love?

‘Thea…in marrying you, I would not be bowing to the dictates of society—’

She flinched, tugged her hand from under his. ‘Please, Richard. No more. I…I cannot marry you. It is not possible.’

He could not mistake her determination. Nor that his suit distressed her. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, yet she was facing him squarely, proudly.

She smiled, a wobbly travesty of a smile, but still a smile. ‘Your wife, Richard, will the luckiest of women. But it cannot be me. We are dear friends—let it remain that way.’

Resolutely he faced the truth: that his truth might not be hers. That if he truly loved her, he would not bind her to him.

From somewhere he dredged up a semblance of a smile. ‘Then we must wish each other well?’

Thea nodded, her eyes full of pain.

Somewhere deep inside him there was pain also. Pain he thought he might carry for the rest of his life. Unable to help himself, he reached out his hand, lifting it to her face. This must be the last time. He would not touch her again. Gently he traced her jaw, memorising the silky softness, the delicate whorls of her ear and the line of her brow. Desire, longing, flooded him. It would be so easy to take her in his arms and kiss her. He must not. Slowly, carefully, he brushed over the curve of her mouth with his fingertips…never again…never…and it should not be happening now.