The Dutiful Rake (23 page)

And Marcus realised, with a lurch of his heart, that his innocent, uninformed bride had absolutely no idea of the significance of her bouts of sickness. That she had never had anyone to tell her these things, had never thought that she would need to know them. Instead of her coming to him, beaming with shy pride in her news,
he
was going to have to tell
her
she was probably pregnant. Looking around wildly for help, he caught his tiger’s sapient eye.

‘Took my old ma the same way, every blessed time,’ offered that worthy in a helpful spirit that made Marcus long to brain him. ‘Goes off after a bit usually.’ He seemed quite unsurprised.

‘Thank you, Burnet,’ said Marcus drily, wondering if everyone in the household except himself and Meg knew the truth. He hoped to God his staff was as discreet as he had always thought. If this got out, they would be twitted by their entire acquaintance. He pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind. For now he had to get Meg home, preferably without further mishap.

‘I think, my dear, that I had better take you home,’ he said in as restrained a tone as he could manage. He wanted to explode with his joy, to shout his triumph to the blue skies with their lamb’s-wool clouds. A child! His child! Meg’s child! He didn’t give a damn if it were a boy or a girl! He had better tell Meg first. Privately!

‘A baby?’ Meg could not believe her ears. ‘You think I’m having a baby?’

Marcus nodded. ‘It’s quite likely you know, sweetheart. It is a common result of sharing a bed…or—’ his eyes twinkled wickedly ‘—a bath, for that matter.’

Meg would have blushed had she not been scarlet already. After marching her into the library and settling her on the sofa, Marc had proceeded to ask her a series of the most embarrassingly intimate questions imaginable, on a subject she had never dreamed a gentleman would know anything about.

He had actually asked her when she had last had her monthly courses, and upon hearing that it was before their wedding, had asked her how long before. Flustered at such a personal question, she had had to rack her brain for ages before remembering that it had been about a fortnight before. As if that were not enough, he had actually asked her if she were generally regular.

Upon being informed in an embarrassed mutter that she was, he had told her very gently that he thought she was going to have a baby.

A baby. A baby of her own. Marc’s baby. She sat in stunned silence, unable to speak for the wave of joy that flooded her heart. She would have a baby to love and nurse. Someone who would love her, depend upon her. Someone who needed Meg. And Marc had given her this priceless gift.

Concerned at her long silence, Marcus spoke her name very softly. ‘Meg?’ What was she thinking? Was she frightened at what lay before her. Childbirth? Suddenly Marcus was frightened. It overwhelmed his joy. Women died in childbirth…frequently…as his mother had done. His guts twisted into a hard knot of fear at the memory. What if he lost Meg? Resolutely he thrust the idea away.

‘Meg, are you all right?’ She was so silent, her head bowed. He put a hand under her chin and lifted it gently and met such a blaze of joy in the blue-grey eyes that his own knot of fear began to dissolve in the face of it.

‘All right?’ Her voice was breathless. ‘All right? Oh, Marc! Thank you!’ She flung her arms around him and hugged him. He held her tightly, stroking the nape of her neck, his fingers teasing and seductive, and felt her quiver responsively. Not quite the usual way of doing things, he thought ruefully. She should have told him! Come to think of it, shouldn’t he be thanking her? Nothing, he realised, absolutely nothing about this marriage fitted in with his expectations.

After a light meal Meg retired to her room for a nap and Marcus headed for the library to do some much-needed thinking. All this was more than he had bargained for. He had glibly told Meg that he was marrying for children. Expected her to produce an heir or three.

With a sickening sense of shame, he realised that in making his cold-blooded bargain, he had accorded her less respect than he would one of his brood mares. He had not expected to feel this chilling, bone-shaking fear at the thought of Meg in childbirth.

Or had he? Was that why he had tried to choose a wife he would not care about? Except, of course, in a
friendly, detached sort of way. Women died all the time in childbirth. Vibrant, affectionate,
loving
women. Women like his mother, for example.

For the first time in years Marcus allowed himself to think about his mother’s death and the baby brother who had died with her. He knew that the one unhappiness in his parents’ marriage had been that they only had two children. It had not been a desire for a back-up heir that had worried them. They had simply wanted children and there had been several miscarriages in the fifteen years between his own birth and the pregnancy that had killed her.

He remembered his parents’ happiness during those last school holidays. The buzz of excitement in the household. They were ecstatic. The pregnancy had gone so well. And five weeks later he’d been summoned to his housemaster’s study where the news had been broken to him. He remembered thinking that the gods had been jealous of so much happiness, and he determined to guard against it. What you didn’t have, no one, not even the gods, could take away. His father’s agony of guilt and remorse had only confirmed him in his opinion. Better not to care if loss could destroy a man so totally.

And now he cared. Without ever intending such a thing, he had fallen in love with Meg after making a bargain with her that now shamed his soul with its sordid assumptions. And she had accepted it. Not because she was after his money or title, but because she had been desperate and had had nowhere else to go—and because she had been too innocent and unsophisticated to see it for the insult it was. With a groan he realised that he had taken advantage of her as surely as Winterbourne had attempted to.

And now she was pregnant, radiant with joy. Had thanked him as though he had bestowed a priceless gift upon her, when what he had given could prove to be a death sentence. He wanted to go to her and tell her he loved her. Beg her to start over with him. Let him court her and woo her as he should have done.

But even if it now revolted him, they had made a bargain. He had promised not to make demands on Meg, not to interfere with her. Just because he no longer wanted the freedom he had reserved for himself was not a sufficient reason to break his word. She had accepted his word in good faith. How was she supposed to understand that his proposal had been an attempt to hide his own fears, when even he had not realised that?

And even if she did agree, even if she did come to love him in return…it would be to tempt the gods, make them look too closely at his joy, make them look with jealousy on his little Meg. The thought stabbed through him like a cold, shining lance, piercing his entrails with chilly, merciless terror. To voice his love would be to offer Meg as a hostage to fortune.

But he could not go on the way he had been. Even if he did not dare to ask for her love, they would have to be friends if she were to be happy. He could not bear to think that she might ever be too proud, or scared of him, to ask for his help. And perhaps if the gods could see his despair, they might think he was already miserable enough and overlook his little Meg.

As she dressed for dinner Meg was conscious of a warm glow of happiness. She was having a baby and she was going to see Marc at dinner. He had tucked her up for her nap and said so.

Until dinner, my sweet.

The endearment rested safely in her heart, a buffer against all possible harm. She was going to see Marc. Even if it was across fifty feet of over-polished mahogany. All right then, twenty feet! But it might as well be fifty for all the conversation you could have down its length. Still, if that was how Marc preferred it…It was his house, after all, and she had promised not to tease him.

She floated down to dinner, far happier than she had been in weeks. Marcus was awaiting her in the library and smiled as she came in. She felt her heart leap in a wild dance of joy as he came to her and kissed her tenderly.

‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked as he released her.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

Marcus felt a stab of joy. She looked so much better, less pale and wan. And her eyes had lost that haunted look he had seen in them lately. She was again the confiding, trusting woman he had married. Just what he had done to deserve such a blessing he didn’t know, but he was damned if he’d endanger it again.

And he was definitely not going to risk exposing her to Winterbourne again. Which brought him to a problem. He really had to go to Yorkshire to oversee some of the improvements that he had set in train and he was definitely not prepared to leave Meg alone in London. But how would she cope with the journey if she were feeling unwell?

As he escorted her to the dining room, he asked, ‘How would you feel about a trip to Yorkshire in a couple of weeks?’

Her eyes flew to his. ‘You’d take me?’

He nearly died. She could still think he’d leave her behind? After what she’d told him?

With Delafield in the hall he couldn’t do a thing except press the small hand on his arm and say, ‘I won’t
not
take you. We’ll travel in easy stages, any way you like, by chaise or my curricle. And we’ll stop as often as you like. I need to go up to see to a few things, but there’s no hurry. We’ll go when you feel you can manage it, not before.’

He wanted her with him. It took a moment to sink in, that he didn’t want to be without her, even for a short time. Her heart swelled. Surely, even if he never loved her as she loved him, she could be happy with what she had now?

To her surprise at the end of dinner, when the covers had been removed and the footmen dismissed, Marcus beckoned to Delafield and said, ‘Now that you have demonstrated to your mistress that the staff can provide a formal dinner, do you think we could have it set out in the library when we dine alone or just have one or two intimate guests?’ It was said with the sweetest of smiles, but there was no mistaking the authority in that voice.

Delafield seemed shocked. ‘My lord, what is suitable for a bachelor establishment cannot be right for my lady—’

‘My lady,’ said Marcus inflexibly, ‘would prefer not to have to shout across twenty feet of mahogany to address a simple remark to me. You know what Shakespeare says…” Her voice was ever gentle, sweet and low, an excellent thing in a woman “…I do feel, Delafield, that we should preserve your mistress’s excellences where possible.’

Meg practically choked in her napkin in her efforts to stifle her giggles. Master and servant turned their attention to her at once.

‘I beg your pardon, my lady,’ said Marcus. ‘I hope this meets with your approval.’

She nodded, the lower part of her face still hidden behind the napkin, bright eyes gleaming with fun. It was so lovely to have her tender, caring Marc back. To be able to share a joke…and a bed.

‘Good. Bring your wine glass with you and we’ll both go to the library.’ He rose and held out his arm with a very wicked smile. A smile which suggested he was pleased to be sharing a bed again. Blushing, she went to him and placed her hand on his arm.

As they left the room she was moved to inquire, ‘Why
do
women have to leave the room for the gentlemen to finish their wine?’

Marcus grinned as he caught a warning glare from Delafield who was holding the door for them. ‘Tradition, my dear, dictates that the gentlemen are supposed to sit over their wine and recount…er…stories in somewhat dubious taste…if you follow my meaning.’

He observed his wife’s comprehensive blush with marked satisfaction.

‘Oh,’ said Meg weakly.

Marcus promptly pressed his advantage. ‘Dining alone with one’s wife, of course, has obvious benefits,’ he pronounced urbanely as he allowed his gaze to rest appreciatively on Meg’s low-cut neckline.

‘It does?’ Meg was only sure of one thing. He was going to say something absolutely outrageous.

‘Mmm. I always prefer to follow up such stories with action!’

S
itting before a roaring fire in the cosy library of Rutherford House, wrapped in what appeared to be every cashmere shawl in London, with a hot brick at her feet on a very fine day in late spring, Meg was wondering if she could deal with another seven months of this nearly terminal boredom. She was seriously considering telling Marc that it was all a false alarm and she had had her monthly courses after all. According to Mrs Crouch it would be a while before she started to show. Perhaps by then Marc would have calmed down a trifle.

Even being back in the same bed was driving her insane, because he wouldn’t touch her! Not since the night he’d told Delafield to reduce the dining table. After telling her a couple of what she suspected were relatively tame post-dinner stories, he’d seduced her on the library floor in front of the fire and since then he’d behaved as though he’d taken a vow of celibacy! He just about had a seizure if she so much as sneezed and she had not been allowed to attend a single party in the last week. He had given it out that she was indisposed
and unable to see anyone. And unfortunately Di had been out of town for a few days.

Meg had been understandably shy about telling anyone she was pregnant. But in the face of Marc’s overreaction she had to do something! Which was why she had meekly acquiesced in his plan for her morning: to whit, sitting in front of the fire doing nothing except wait for Di, who had returned last night. The moment Marc’s back had been turned she had scribbled a quick note and dispatched one of the footmen with it.

There was something odd about Marc’s reaction to her pregnancy. At first she had not doubted that he was delighted, but increasingly he looked worried. She had caught him looking at her as though he were guilty of some heinous crime. And when she asked him if something was wrong, he lied. Badly.

And he was cosseting her to death. Sending her to bed early. Keeping her in bed late, which would have been fine if he had joined her. But the wretched man came to bed long after she was asleep and was invariably out of bed by the time she awoke. She usually awoke to discover him making her a cup of tea, having shamelessly intercepted Lucy at the door in his nightrail.

In the face of his behaviour, she could not doubt his concern, could not doubt that he cared for her personally, but she could not break through his iron control. And she wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. Or even if she should do something about it. Perhaps Marc was afraid that if they made love the baby might drop out or something. After having been told by her husband that she was pregnant, Meg was not prepared to confess to even more ignorance of her bodily functions to him.

So, when in doubt, ask an expert. Di had four healthy
and mischievous children and that made her the obvious choice.

She came in unannounced. ‘Goodness, Meg! Are you really sick? It’s simply boiling in here.’

Her keen glance took in the voluminous shawls and the look of resignation on Meg’s perspiring face as she sat down on the sofa beside her. ‘Whatever is the matter? You know, dear, if you’re a trifle warm, I should take off one of those shawls. Or maybe even five of them.’

Meg hesitated for a moment and then said baldly, ‘Marc seems to think I’m increasing.’

‘Marc! What the devil would he know about it?’ asked Di.

‘Well, he certainly knows more than I do!’ confessed Meg shamefacedly and told Di what had happened.

To her everlasting credit Di succeeded in maintaining a straight face until the end of Meg’s recital.

‘You were sick?’ There was an expression of respectful awe on her face as she regarded her sister-in-law. ‘In Hyde Park?’

‘On the carriage way.’

‘During the morning promenade?’

Meg nodded.

At first it was just a twitch at the corner of her mouth, which rapidly progressed to a broad grin. Finally Di gave up the unequal struggle and succumbed to peals of laughter. Meg, who had spent the entire week cooped up with a husband in low spirits, joined in heartily.

‘Oh, dear,’ gasped Di, when she could speak. ‘I should love to have seen his face! His high and mighty lordship, the Earl of Rutherford! How utterly splendid! Why, oh,
why,
did I have to be away? But tell me, why is Marc looking so glum? I saw him from the carriage
as I drove up and he doesn’t look happy at all. And why on earth are you sitting tucked up in front of the fire on such a lovely day? Are you feeling sick?’

‘Not now,’ said Meg. ‘I’m always fine by late morning. As for why I’m sitting here—Marc won’t let me so much as set foot out of the house. He was delighted at first, I think, but now he seems…I don’t know…pleased, but…angry.’

‘Oh.’ Di was silent for a few moments. ‘Maman. I never thought of that.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Maman. Our mother,’ said Di slowly. ‘Did Marc never tell you anything about her?’

Meg shook her head. What on earth could her mother-in-law have to do with it?

Di told her. ‘Maman died in childbirth when I was twenty and Marc was fifteen. No. He wouldn’t tell you. Stupid question. He never talks about her much. He was shattered by her death and our father’s reaction didn’t help. You see, Papa blamed himself and his desire for more children. He spent the rest of his life flailing around in his own guilt. Which was silly, because Maman wanted the baby as much as he did.’

She sighed and then went on, ‘So Marc, while doubtless
aux anges
in one respect, is also shaking with terror in case you should suffer the same fate. At least, I suppose that is the problem. And it certainly explains his over-protectiveness. He practically drove me crazy the first couple of times I was increasing, so I hate to imagine how he’d feel about you.’

The thought of death had not occurred to Meg. She had been so excited at the thought of a baby that the risks involved had not sunk in. She had just thought Marc was concerned about her feeling sick.

Swallowing hard, she turned to Di and said, ‘But do you think—?’

Di interrupted her briskly. ‘What I think is that Marc is making a cake of himself! Now, get rid of these ridiculous shawls and come and take a stroll in the park with me. It will be very much better for you if you stay active and healthy. Take my word for it, giving birth needs lots of energy and if you sit around worrying about Marc’s idiocy for the next six months you’ll go mad. Come along, I can tell you all about it as we go.’

‘There’s just one other thing, Di.’ Meg definitely didn’t want to ask this question either on the way to, or in, the park. ‘Is it safe to…to…well, to make love when you are increasing?’

Di simply stared at her. ‘Is it safe? Why ever wouldn’t it be?’

Meg blushed. Maybe Marc just wasn’t interested. had only ever wanted her because he needed an heir. ‘I just thought…well…Marc won’t touch me!’

‘Marc,’ said the absent Earl’s sister, not mincing matters, ‘is the biggest idiot I know!’ She stopped just short of informing Meg that, although he might not have used such stratagems himself, Marc Langley certainly knew there was nothing to fear in making love to a pregnant woman. A pregnant wife, in fact, was one of many a rake’s preferred targets.

Instead she opted for practical suggestions. ‘Now, here’s what you should do…’ And she proceeded to give a piece of scandalously detailed advice that brought a very naughty twinkle to Meg’s eyes, and an even naughtier smile to her lips.

‘That
should settle
him!’
concluded Lady Diana confidently.

Lady Rutherford thought there could be no doubt of that.

By dint of some extremely devious questioning of the servants, Meg had ascertained that Marc was taking his bath during the late afternoon when she was supposedly tucked up safely in bed. No doubt he thought he was being excessively clever, she mused with unbecoming smugness, as she nestled down into her silken bedclothes for a sleep after her stroll with Di.

Her sister-in-law had been full of information and advice about pregnancy, childbirth and babies. She hadn’t bothered about toddlers. ‘Time enough for that. They are revolting little angels. That’s all you need to know about them for now.’

And, ‘Once you stop feeling quite so sick, get Marc to take you down to Alston Court. Fresh air and gentle walks in the country will be much better for you than town…He’s taking you already? After going to Yorkshire? Humph! At least he’s showing
some
evidence of rational thought!’

Meg had felt as though she were being advised by a loving mother or elder sister as they walked.

‘Of course women die, my love. I can’t deny that. But to be worrying about it now is nonsensical. You can do nothing about it except stay as well and happy as you can.

‘Wet nurses may be fashionable, but you feed him, or her, yourself. Marc won’t mind and it is the loveliest feeling you can imagine. So cuddly!’

And later, ‘I’ll come down to Alston Court for your confinement naturally—’ She stopped short as Meg stared in amazement. ‘Well, only if you want me to…’

‘Want you?’ Meg’s eyes were shimmering with tears.
The one thing really scaring her had been facing the ordeal without a mother or sister. The thought of Cousin Henrietta attending the birth was not to be borne. ‘Would you really come? Oh, Di!’

‘Of course I’m coming!’ said Di indignantly. ‘Now dry your eyes. You can’t possibly
cry
in the middle of Hyde Park. Throwing up here was outrageous enough!’ Then, in tones of inspiration, she added, ‘You know, dear, if I were you, I should bring that nice, sensible Mrs Barlow you told me about, back from Yorkshire. I’m sure Marc would think it a good idea.’

Now, as Meg dozed off, she clung to the idea that Di was treating her as though she were truly family, not just Marc’s accidental bride. Briefly she thought of the dangers in childbirth. Di was right. She should concentrate on staying happy and healthy. And Di had promised to have a tactful word with Marc. Tactful for Di, anyway. So she went off to sleep, content in the knowledge that Lucy had promised faithfully to awaken her at four o’clock.

Marcus relaxed back in his bath and shut his eyes with a sigh of relief. He’d had a busy morning and Di’s message demanding his immediate presence had taken him completely by surprise. She didn’t do that often, so he had gone and received an earful of sisterly candour that had left him stunned.

He really hadn’t meant to scare Meg with his behaviour, but he could see now that he had been just a shade over-protective. And of course he didn’t think she needed to spend the next seven months incarcerated on a sofa…it was just that—Just that he was an ignorant, addlepated male, who
shouldn’t be allowed out without a leash, Di had finished for him.

He had apologised and promised to atone. And she’d had one or two brilliant ideas; such as taking the Barlows down to Alston Court. But when it came to his own sister informing him that making love to his wife would not cause the baby any harm, he drew the line. Frostily he had told Diana to mind her own business. He had left almost at once, but the dignity of his grand exit was totally ruined by Di escorting him downstairs and shamelessly telling him, in front of her fascinated butler and two openly amused footmen, that reformed rakes were all the same—the world’s biggest prudes when it came to their own wives.

She was right, of course, he admitted to himself in the sanctity of his bath. He was being an idiot. He couldn’t help himself where Meg was concerned. His erstwhile cynical and rational brain seemed to dissolve into a liquefied mess of panic just thinking about her in childbirth. And of course he didn’t think that making love would endanger the baby, or not in the way Di meant. It was just that stupid, illogical idea that to be too happy was courting disaster. That he was terrified to tell Meg that he loved her. And that he knew he would never be able to make love to her again without telling her. He hadn’t explained that to Di. It sounded mawkish in the extreme, even to him and he didn’t dare think what Di would have to say!

Perhaps, he thought, it would be better to accept the joy he had now and leave the future to take care of itself. It made far more sense really. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. Probably because you don’t think at all when Meg’s around, an annoying internal voice informed him. Any fool who could think
that she and Jack would have had an affair is clearly unhinged!

His decision made, he stretched, luxuriating in the warmth of his bath and in the delightful intention of taking his wife to bed. Early. For the express purpose of having his scandalously wicked way with her. His loins tightened painfully at the thought. After which he was going to tell her just how much he loved her. If he could find the words…if they even existed…

A faint click behind him informed him that he was not alone. Startled he swung around and there was Meg, draped—dressed would definitely have been an overstatement—in a flimsy silk peignoir. Its shimmering, pink folds clung and shifted in the most tantalising way, affording glimpses of long silky limbs which made him wonder if the incendiary heat charging his body would cause the bath to boil over. His mouth suddenly dry, he stared at her, noting the darker pink of her nipples which peeped shyly through the diaphanous fabric and that darker shadow at the top of her thighs…He swallowed hard. Hell! She looked like a siren in that thing, ripe, seductive.

‘Oh, hullo, Marc. Am I disturbing you?’ The slight curve at the corner of her mouth told him that she knew perfectly well he was extremely disturbed. In a very basic, male way. And her voice! It sounded so husky. What the hell was she thinking of? The answer came at once. His sweet little Meg was thinking of exactly the same thing he was.

As if in confirmation of this, she smiled at him with heart-stopping slowness and glided across the floor to one of the niches. Unhurriedly she allowed the peignoir to slither with a seductive hushing off her shoulders on to the bench and, wearing nothing but that smile and
her rippling, tumbling curls, she came and sat down on the edge of the bath beside him. Ostensibly to trail her legs in the water.

‘Will you be long in the bath?’