Sally MacKenzie Bundle (144 page)

He’d so enjoy throwing a shoe at the coxcomb’s head. “Exceedingly tiring. So tiring I may sleep late tomorrow. Do not bother to come until I call for you.” Ha! Let Roberts make what he would of that.

It was obvious what Roberts was making of it. The man grinned at him. “Very good, sir.” He waggled his blasted eyebrows. “And may I say I wish you the best of luck?”

Damn it, he was flushing. He could feel the heat flood his neck and face. “Why would I need luck?”

Roberts’ eyebrows moved faster. “I have no idea, sir.” He slipped out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Bloody liar. Roberts had a crystal clear idea of what he thought Alex intended—only he was wrong.

Well, partly wrong. He would love to love Kate, to take her to bed and do what he’d done to her back in London.

Ah, there was the rub. What
had
he done to her in London?

He reached for the brandy decanter and poured himself a full glass. Was he going to be a father? Have a child—a son…well, or a daughter. A baby.

In the first year or two after Kate had married Oxbury, he’d been tortured by the thought of her growing round and heavy with Oxbury’s brat. It wasn’t well done of him, he knew that. He’d known it even then, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. In his mind, having Oxbury’s child made Kate’s marriage irrefutable. When the years passed and she stayed slim and childless, he could fool himself that she didn’t share Oxbury’s bed, that she wasn’t tied to the man.

There might be some truth to that. Oh, not that Kate was a virgin—she’d clearly not been one when he’d climbed into her bed in London. But her ties to Oxbury…for better or worse, they hung by a thread—or by the new Lord Oxbury’s whim.

If she’d had a son, things would be very different. She’d be the earl’s mother. And even if she’d had a daughter, there would be that life she and Oxbury had created together.

Alex sat down heavily in the brown leather wingchair and stared at the fire, cradling his brandy in his hand. He’d thought a lot about children, about legacy, in the year since Da and Mama died.

When
he
died, there would be no one to mourn his passing. Oh, David would—and perhaps David’s children would miss old Uncle Alex—but that was different. He would have no direct descendent; no son to carry on his name; no daughter with his blood. And no one to inherit Clifton Hall. He blew out a long breath. Perhaps he would leave it to David’s second son.

If
David had a second son.

Nonsense. David had to marry and have children—he had a title to pass down. It looked a bit uncertain at the moment that his bride would be Lady Grace, however. Something had happened this afternoon to cause a falling out. At dinner tonight, the two would not let their eyes meet. If by accident their gazes did connect, they looked away as quickly as they could. When David had entered the drawing room after dinner, he’d looked for Grace—and then gone to the other side of the room. Grace had retired shortly afterward.

It was unfortunate, but David was only thirty-one, still relatively young to be considering matrimony. And, given Standen’s dislike of all Wiltons, choosing a different bride would probably increase David’s domestic harmony.

But
he
was not young.

He swirled the brandy in his glass. He’d seriously considered marriage a few years after Kate’s wedding. He’d wanted children, and he’d found a lady who seemed congenial. But he’d vacillated and she’d married someone else.

That was the story of his life—he failed to act decisively and he lost the prize. If only he’d flown with Kate to Gretna Green twenty-three years ago, just as Luke had taken Lady Harriet…

He took a sip of brandy. All that was water over the dam. History. This was today. He had a decision to make now.

If Kate indeed carried his child, there was no decision to be made. He would not let his child be born a bastard.

He put down his brandy, rose, and strode toward the connecting door. It was time to put an end to his uncertainty.

“That will be all for tonight, Marie. Thank you.” Kate rubbed her temples. She was developing a crushing headache.

“Would ye like a spot of tea, my lady?”

Kate’s stomach twisted. Regretfully, tea would not help in this instance. “No, thank you.”

Marie made a small huffing sound and lingered by the door. Kate looked up. It was obvious the woman would burst if she didn’t open her budget. Unfortunately, Kate was certain she knew exactly what Marie wished to say—and she did not want to hear it.

She could ignore her—she
should
ignore her.

Whom was she fooling? That tactic had never worked in the past; there was no indication it would work this time. Marie was capable of standing there until tomorrow.

She sighed. “Did you have something else to say, Marie?”

Marie’s chin came up. She looked quite pugnacious. “Happen I do.”

Kate nodded; Marie glared.

Zeus! If Marie wanted to ring a peal over her head, she should just do so and be done with it. It was hard to imagine she could say anything Kate had not already said to herself.

Kate looked down and pressed her fingers to her forehead. It didn’t help. “Yes? And you wished to say…?”

“Ye know ye have to tell him soon, don’t ye?”

Kate didn’t need to ask who “he” was. There was only one male in attendance whom she needed to tell anything. She had decided earlier she would do so tonight, but now that tonight was here…She glanced at the connecting door. Perhaps tomorrow.

She looked back at Marie. Her maid actually appeared sympathetic. Damn. Tears pricked her eyelids.

She would
not
cry.

“I will get to it, Marie.”

All trace of sympathy vanished; now Marie merely looked exasperated. “And when will that be, my lady? Ye said the same thing last night.”

She had, hadn’t she? “Well, yes, but the house party has just begun.”

“And it will end all too soon with poor Mr. Wilton no more the wiser, I fear.”

Poor
Mr. Wilton? What was poor about Mr. Wilton? He didn’t puke his breakfast up every morning. He wasn’t worried people were looking at his stomach; he didn’t wonder if it had begun to protrude, if everyone would guess…exactly the truth. And in just a few months—perhaps a few weeks—no one would have to guess. It would be painfully obvious to anyone with eyes in his—or her—head that an interesting event was expected.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her forehead. What if Alex laughed at her when she told him? What if he washed his hands of her, said she’d seduced him so now she could pay the price?

No, he would never do that. He might be very, very angry, though, and she couldn’t blame him. He’d gone all these years without any encumbrances, and now she had to tell him…

She couldn’t do it.

She
had
to do it.

“I’ve hardly had time—”

“Ye’ve had plenty of time.” Marie clicked her tongue. “I see how it fashes ye. Ye’ve nae been eating or sleeping well. That canna be good for ye or the wee bairn.”

“Well…” Certainly worry was contributing to this blasted headache.

“It’s nae gonna to get any easier, my lady. Just think if ye wait till ye are showing, how awkward that will be. I canna think Mr. Wilton would like to find out then that he’s the cause.”

“Nooo…” Where was that basin? She was going to be ill.

Marie crossed her arms. “If ye do nae tell the man tonight, I will tell him in the morning.”

Kate’s head snapped up. “You wouldn’t!”

“I would.” Marie looked exceedingly mulish.

“But I should go to Lady Grace. She appeared very upset in the drawing room this evening.”

Marie just stared at her.

“And I’m not dressed.” Kate spread her arms. “See, I am already in my nightgown.”

Marie snorted. “The man has seen ye in yer nightgown afore, my lady. He’s likely seen ye without yer nightgown—or any gown at all. I do nae think he’ll be complaining of that when ye walk into his bedroom.”

Dear God! Walk into Alex’s bedroom…she could not do it. It was as simple as that.

“I’ll speak to him tomorrow morning, I promise.” She could meet him in the garden. That would be private enough.

“Ye’ll speak to him tonight, my lady, or
I’ll
speak to him tomorrow morning.” Marie slammed the door behind her for emphasis.

“Ohh.” Kate covered her face with her hands. What was she going to do?

She was going to tell Alex…somehow. She had to. Marie was a woman of her word; if Kate did not find the courage tonight, Marie
would
march up to Alex tomorrow.

When had she so offended the Fates? She had lived a good life. She had done as her brother insisted and married Oxbury. She had been faithful to her husband. She gave alms to the poor, visited the sick, said her prayers every night…almost every night.

Other widows entertained gentlemen in their beds, and they did not become enceinte. And she had only done it once. It was not fair.

“What do you think, Hermes? What should I do?”

Hermes yawned and put his head down on his paws. He appeared completely unmoved by her troubles.

She blew out a long breath and looked at the connecting door. How difficult could it be? She and Alex were both mature adults. They could discuss this rationally, couldn’t they?

Panic grabbed her throat so tightly she could barely breathe.

Perhaps she should practice. She walked over and stood in front of the looking glass.

“Mr. W-Wilton—” She cleared her throat and took a few deep breaths. “Mr. Wilton, I wish to…to…”

She could not sound frightened. There was nothing to be frightened about—

Of
course
there was something to be frightened about…it was growing in her womb right now. She put a shaking hand on her stomach.

What did she want from Alex? A marriage proposal? How could she accept? She would be making him pay for her folly. She was too honorable for that. Perhaps a proposal of a different sort? But men did not want pregnant mistresses and squalling brats.

She put both hands over her abdomen. Her baby would not be a squalling brat. He or she would be loved and well cared for…if they both weren’t starving in the workhouse.

She leaned on the dressing table and took some more deep breaths. This was not working.

The important thing was to tell Alex that she was…that he was…that there was a child on the way. Once that basic task had been accomplished, she could address all the other issues. With luck—a commodity that had been sadly lacking in her life of late—Alex would not totally desert her. He might even have some constructive thoughts on how to address the problem.

Yes, of course. Two heads were better than one…She touched her stomach once more. Not two—three…Oh, dear.

She squared her shoulders and stepped up to the connecting door. Enough. It was time to find some courage—past time.

She put her hand on the knob and took one more sustaining breath. She could—

She was jerked forward as the door opened from the other side.

“Eek!” She reached out with her free hand to brace herself and encountered a hard, male chest. “Oh!”

“Kate! Are you all right?” Alex grabbed her shoulders to steady her.

“Um.” He smelled of brandy and linen and…Alex. He’d taken off his coat and waistcoat. His fine lawn shirt was so soft under her fingers.

His skin was softer. She remembered the feel of him very clearly…

She snatched her hand back as if burned. He frowned down at her.

“
Are
you all right?”

“Yes, of course, I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?” She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to sound so sharp, but her stomach was jumping around like Miss Smyth’s monkey. She cleared her throat—her mouth was suddenly as dry as the Sahara. “May I come in?”

The right corner of his mouth slid up into a half smile. “You already are.”

She flushed. “Well, yes, but may I come farther in?”

The left corner of his mouth turned up to match the right. He stepped aside. “Of course. Would you like a glass of brandy?”

Brandy was not one of her favorite drinks, but it might help steady her nerves now. “Yes, thank you. That would be very pleasant.” She stepped past him. She glanced briefly at the bed—she was already as red as a ripe tomato, so her added blush would surely go unnoticed—and then focused on the chair by the fire. The single chair.

She stopped. Where should she sit?

“What’s the matter?” Alex looked up from pouring the brandy.

“I, er…nothing.” She would stand.

His brow furrowed. “You don’t look very comfortable.”

She was not very comfortable—in fact, she was exceedingly uncomfortable. She was nervous. And he wasn’t helping matters.

A man should not be so handsome. Alex had discarded his cravat. The neck of his shirt was open, revealing the strong column of his throat. She remembered exactly how he’d looked with no shirt at all, how broad his shoulders were, how soft the hair that spread over his chest, trailing down to…

She turned away quickly to stare at the fire. She was certainly hot. And…damp. Wet. Achy and…

“Go ahead and sit in the chair, Kate.”

She clasped her hands tightly together. Kate. She loved it when he called her Kate instead of Lady Oxbury. She was tired of being Lady Oxbury. She wanted to be just Kate, just herself, and to hear her name in his voice. It was so intimate. Just the two of them, just Kate and Alex. No interfering brothers, no obnoxious cousins-in-law, no gossiping
ton
—just them.

And one other. She put her hand over her stomach. She had to tell him.

She looked back at him. “Where will you sit?”

He waved his hand vaguely. “Somewhere.”

Mmm. His hands. He wasn’t wearing gloves; his long, broad fingers were naked.

She remembered exactly how those hands had felt on her skin. Slightly calloused; strong but gentle; sure and tantalizing; teasing; promising…

Her knees felt weak. She definitely needed to sit. She lowered herself into the chair—and shot back out of it. It was still warm from Alex’s body.