Historical Romance Boxed Set
Contents
Of Noble Birth
by
Brenda Novak
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Please Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 1999, 2011 by Brenda Novak
Cover by Kim Killion
Thank You
.
Dedication
To my husband, Ted.
After fifteen years and five wonderful children,
I still see fireworks.
Acknowledgements
Heartfelt thanks go to my husband’s aunt, Ruth Carlson, and our good family friends, Bonnie Severietti and Russell Bilinski, for giving me the kind of support I needed at a critical time while writing this book. Appreciation and love go to my mother, LaVar Moffitt, and my husband’s mother, Sugar Novak, for believing in me through the times I scarcely dared to believe in myself. And last but not least, I owe my sincere gratitude to my agent, Pamela Ahearn, who helped make my dream a reality.
Prologue
Bridlewood Manor
Clifton, England
December 2, 1829
“The babe’s deformed,” the midwife gasped, nearly dropping the slippery newborn.
“What do ye mean?” Martha Haverson rounded the bed in alarm.
“Look at ‘is arm. ‘Tis no more than a stump.”
The housekeeper stared at Mrs. Telford’s moon-shaped face before letting her gaze slide down to the squalling child. Just as the midwife had said, one tiny limb flapped about, ending just above the elbow, as though a surgeon had amputated the rest.
“What?” The mother of the newborn craned her neck to see the child. A moment earlier she had seemed oblivious as she moved listlessly on the bed, all color gone from her fine-boned face, her lips a pallid gray. Now her eyes sprang open with a look of panic in their violet depths. “Deformed did you say? My son’s deformed?”
Martha watched anxiously as Her Grace’s eyes sought the child in the midwife’s hands. After five years and as many miscarriages, the duchess had finally produced an heir. And what a long, difficult birth it had been! Martha thought her mistress deserved a moment of triumph before further worries beset her, but Her Grace spotted the baby’s club-like limb before the midwife could shield it from her view.
“No! No!” she moaned. “My husband hates me already. What will he do?”
Martha took the baby into her strong arms, and she and Mrs. Telford exchanged a meaningful look, sharing the lady’s trepidation.
“‘E won’t do anythin’ but be glad the wee babe’s a sweet, healthy boy,” Martha assured her, reaching down to squeeze her mistress’s hand.
The baby let out a piercing howl that seemed to contradict her words.
“You don’t know him,” the duchess whispered. The revelation of the baby’s flaw seemed to sap what little strength she had left. She let her head fall back and her eyes close as a tear rolled back into her thick, dark hair.
“Don’t fret so, Yer Grace,” Mrs. Telford advised. “Yer in a bad way an’ need yer rest. ‘Tis not good for ye to stew so.”
But Martha knew that the duchess no longer heard, much less understood, either of them. She remained somewhere inside herself. Her lips moved without making a sound, as if in prayerful supplication, and she tossed restlessly on her pillow.
“Don’t just stand there. Help me.” The midwife scowled at Martha, making her realize she’d been standing motionless, staring at the duchess. Her mistress did not look well. The housekeeper doubted she would last the night.
“Will she live?” Martha whispered.
Mrs. Telford sent an appraising glance at the duchess’s face, the harsh lines around her own mouth deepening into grooves. “I don’t know. But ‘tis not doin’ ‘er a bit of good, ye standin’ there like that. ‘Tis time to clean the whelp up.”
Sternly reminded of her duty, Martha pulled away from her mistress’s bedside and headed off to bathe the new arrival. His small weight felt good in her arms. She had been unable to bear children herself, at least any that lived beyond their first month, and had been looking forward to having a little one in the house. But when she reached the small antechamber where a bowl of tepid water waited and began to sponge the child off, she couldn’t escape a heavy sense of loss. Poor Duchess. Heaven only knew that her life had not been easy since her marriage to the Duke of Grey stone.
“Mrs. ‘Averson?” It was the tweenie, the least among the least of the maids.
“Yes, Jane?” The housekeeper paused from her ministrations to look up at the gangly young girl. Only twelve, Jane was all arms and legs and as shy as she was young.
“The master would like to see ‘is son,” she said, slightly out of breath.
Martha could tell by the uncertainty in Jane’s eyes that all was not well.
So the duke already knows,
she thought, wishing Mrs. Telford had kept her voice down. The walls had ears. Evidently someone had already carried tale of the baby’s arm to the master.
“An’ where is ‘e?” she asked. “I’ve barely begun to bathe the babe. An’ ‘e should be allowed to suckle before—”
“I’m beggin’ yer pardon, Mrs. ‘Averson,” the jittery girl interrupted. “‘Is Grace demands we bring the child right away, lest we both lose our positions. ‘E’s waitin’ in the library. Mrs. Telford is on ‘er way there.”
Martha bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the duchess’s room. “Very well. Fetch a blanket. It won’t do for the babe to catch a chill, poor little love.”
* * *
Albert Kimbolten, Duke of Greystone, was pacing across an exquisite gold and blue Turkish rug when Martha entered. Massive mahogany bookshelves crowded with leather-bound volumes lined three walls. They were dusted once a week, though rarely used. A fire crackled comfortably in the fireplace. The midwife sat in a Chippendale chair near a long, rectangular table, the fingertips of both hands pressed together, her lips pursed.
At Martha’s entry, the duke turned to face her. His brows knitted together, a solid black line atop flashing blue eyes, making Martha shiver as though a cold draft suddenly swept the room. The heir had been born, and she was to present him to his father. But this was nothing like the moment she had long anticipated. There were no smiles of delight, no proud glances—only anger, seething from the man before her with all the force of a tidal wave.
Martha drew a shaky breath. “Yer son, Yer Grace.”
“Lay it on the table.” Greystone did not bother to watch as Martha reluctantly deposited her charge as directed. Instead, he stared into the black night beyond the window that mirrored his savage-looking visage. “That will be all.”
Martha backed away. Only the fear of making matters worse forced her to take one step and then another until she passed into the hall. After closing the door she paused on the other side to listen to the words floating to her ears from within the library.
“What are you telling me?”
Martha could hear the tremor in the duke’s voice even through the door.
“As I said before, yer son is deformed,” the midwife explained. “‘Tis not uncommon. Such things happen now an’ again. From the look of it, the babe will never ‘ave the use of ‘is right arm.”
“And his mind? Is it similarly… defective?”
An interminable pause.
“I cannot tell, Yer Grace. ‘Twas such a difficult birth…”
“I see. Will he ride? Hunt?”
“‘E may do neither. I ‘ave no way of knowin’ ‘ow the child will develop. In all ‘onesty, Yer Grace, I am far more concerned with yer lady—”
“My
lady
? After five years, this is what she gives me. A cripple. A laughingstock!”
The sound of shattering glass made Martha jump. The baby began to wail, and she fought the urge to march in and fetch him.
“But Yer Grace, the duchess ‘ad no—”
