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Mrs. Haverton, or Mother as she insisted
Mariah called her, assured them that Lottie would be fine with her
and they made their way to the library, Brandon holding her round
the waist as though she were made of glass.

"Brandon, how many times do I have to tell
you? I'm pregnant, not sick."

"Just indulge me, sweetheart, please" he
said, bending to kiss her softly on the top of her head.

Mariah sighed and capitulated, not least
because she secretly loved how much he fussed over her.

They entered the library and she felt the
familiar feeling of home as they stepped inside. The previous
Christmas, after his wonderfully romantic proposal, Brandon had
told her that the library was hers. He had decided that he would
keep it for her alone.

"Either you would have consented to marry me
and therefore enjoyed it any hour day or night," he had said with a
charming smile that curled her toes, "or I would have used it to
buy me some time to convince you."

"You would have given it to me even if I'd
said no?" Mariah asked shocked that something so precious and
expensive should be hers.

"Who else could it ever have belonged to?" he
had asked.

It was a good thing they'd already agreed to
marry at that point because they anticipated their vows right there
on the old chaise by the fireplace.

Mariah could see now that Brandon was
thinking of that day just as she was and she would have felt
excited about it except the blasted pain was back.

Suddenly, it hit her.

Dear God, she was in labour.

"Darling" she said, trying her very hardest
to remain calm, "could you possibly ring for Dora and ask your
mother to come in here please?"

"Why, sweetheart?"

"I don't want you to panic."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just—"

"Tell me. What is it? Are you sick? Is that
it? Do you need to lie down? I'll carry you."

He was becoming hysterical, which was exactly
what she didn't want. Honestly, he was worse than a hormonal woman
sometimes.

"Brandon," she shouted and he stopped his
dramatics. "Your child is about to arrive. Get Dora before you
faint."

Afterwards, they would argue about whether or
not he had burst into noisy, tearful wails. Mariah was adamant that
he had, Brandon quite fierce in his protestations that real men
didn't wail.

But one thing they both agreed on was that
their daughter, Faith Daphne Haverton had made quite an
entrance.

Brandon had never asked why Mariah insisted
on the name Faith.

Mariah knew it was because she had had faith
that her wish would come true. And it had.

The End.

by Kristin Vayden

"Pardon?" Elise asked
breathlessly
as her heart pounded in her chest. He couldn't
have said what she
thought
he had.

Jefferson Markfield, Viscount of Trighton
tilted his head in a familiar way. It should be familiar; after
all, he
was
her betrothed.

At least she hoped he was… a few minutes
before she had been so sure about everything.

Not anymore.

Fear chilled her heart, making every
heartbeat painful.

He took a deep breath, drawing her attention
to his shoulders and the way they rounded and tapered to his folded
hands. "I simply wish to spare you any heartache. While it was
certainly a brilliant plan at first, I don't see the continuation
of our betrothal to be mutually beneficial any longer." He
shrugged, as if he weren't crushing her hopes and dreams with every
word. Taking a deep breath, he continued, but his posture shifted.
"After all, it's not as if we are firmly attached. Better to end it
now before it becomes too… involved." He leaned back on the stone
bench, appearing utterly at ease and even pleased with himself. It
was a strange contradiction. His actions spoke of indifference, but
Essie was not fully convinced. "And since I wish to part ways as
amicably as possible, I'll need you to cry off. You understand.
Neither of us wants to deal with the scandal of a breach of promise
suit."

Elise didn't know which part of his miserable
speech was more painful. The fact that he had no attachment to her,
or that he expected
her
to end it.

As if it were her idea all along!

Through with his current disposition, his
idea was becoming rather attractive. Of course, she didn't
have
to
agree with him. The banns had been read and the betrothal
signed; she could hold him to his word and he'd have no choice but
to marry her.

But is that was she wanted? To
force
a
man to marry her? To be forever trapped in a loveless marriage?
Glancing down she willed the tears of anger and hurt to remain
hidden. She wouldn't appear weak or heaven forbid, attached! What a
folly! To be attached to the man one intended to marry.

What utter rot.

A betraying tear slid down her nose.

"Essie, you always were so sensitive, I
didn't want to hurt you so that's why I went along with it as long
as I did." Trighton reached out and patted her shoulder. As if she
were a toddler in need of reassurance. His patronizing smile made
her blood simmer.

It was maddening.

She shrugged and his arm fell.

How had she been so blind to not see this
facet of his personality before?

"There's no need to get in a snit over it,"
he replied with a clipped tone. She glanced up and wrinkled her
brow at his sudden shift in behavior. He tugged on the cuffs of his
gloves and nodded. "And this is why we will not suit. You're simply
too… emotional." He raised a daring eyebrow, as if it were
obvious.

Essie felt her aching heart begin to seethe
with the burning coals of anger at his callous and arrogant
attitude. Narrowing her eyes she rose from her seat on the firm
stone bench. "I most certainly will cry off. In fact, I thank you
for calling to attention the various flaws in your character that I
so foolishly overlooked. Now, if you please I wish for you to
leave, now." She placed her hands on her hips, heart beating
fiercely as Trighton squared his shoulders and stood as well. He
wasn't much taller than she, but made up for his stature with a now
noticeable dose of arrogance, but Essie refused to be
intimidated.

"I knew we'd come to an understanding." He
offered her a tight smile. "I'll expect your father to make the
necessary arrangements for the broken betrothal contract?" He
asked, even though his gaze strayed to the door as if impatiently
waiting to leave.

As if he couldn't stand to be in her presence
a moment longer than necessary.

"I'll speak with him directly," she said
through clenched teeth. She fisted her palms tightly, already
dreading the upcoming conversation with her parents. He nodded once
and turned to leave.

"And please, do remind your family that you
will no longer be adding my dowry to your coffers," She called to
him, knowing it was a bit low to mention money, but wanting that
final reminder to at least wound him. Hurt was like that, wanting
to infect others with its poison, needing a companion to wallow in
misery.
If
she couldn't affect his heart, then by Jove, she
would at least make his wallet pinch.

He stiffened and his breath caught. Then,
without a backward glance, he simply left.

Which left her utterly and completely alone
in more ways than one.

Because rejection from someone unknown was
far easier to accept than from someone who was familiar. Because if
they didn't know you, there were always a million excuses for why
so-and-so didn't ask for a dance, or whatever the situation might
be.

But when someone knows you, sees you often
and who was accepted as friend and even a potential lover, rejects
you…

That changes everything.

Because you no longer have the excuses.

Because you begin to wonder,
what is wrong
with me?

Essie sat back down on the lonely bench,
listening to the summer crickets sing their familiar song. And
while the temptation to wallow in self-pity was indeed strong,
Essie refused.

The slap of rejection still stinging, she
turned to energies toward planning. Because the season had
not
ended yet.

She had six weeks.

And anything could happen in six weeks,
couldn't it?

"Cross! I cannot
believe
you! How unfeeling can you be?" His sister's
strident voice was enough to make his ears bleed. It wasn't as if
he was
tryin
g to be insensitive; he was simply being
honest!

Blast it all!

"She is surely brokenhearted, and all you can
do is shrug and offer a few trite words?" His sister's blue eyes
flashed at him as she placed her hands on her hips.

He was tempted to tell her that she looked
just like their mother.

But thought better of it.

Devon White, Viscount Crossby was irritated,
but not
that
irritated.

"Anna, I simply was trying to communicate
that she's better off without the blackguard! How is that trite or
unfeeling?" He threw up his hands and glared at his sister.

She sighed, as if annoyed that she had to
explain such a simple concept.

Cross glanced heavenward, praying for
patience in dealing with his hoyden of a sister.

"You… never mind. Just when she comes over,
keep your opinions to yourself, agreed?" She asked impatiently.

"What gave you the impression that I'd be in
the same room with you two? I certainly have better things to do
than to sit around—"

"You're her friend too! She needs us! How
could you walk away—"

"Easily! She's
your
friend!" Cross
glanced to the door. He needed to make an exit.

Now.

Because the emotions he felt towards Essie
were anything but friendly.

Quite frankly, they were ferocious in a way
he carefully controlled, tamed till they weren't detectable.

But as always, he felt as if he were only
barely concealing his borderline obsession, and one false move
would expose the truth.

And the truth was anything but safe, because
Essie had never seen him as anything more than her best friend's
brother.

A friend.

How he h
ated
that word. Detested
it.

But it was better to be her friend than
nothing at all. The fact that he hadn't ever pursued her was based
on that very relationship. Because if she rejected him, he'd lose
her completely.

It wasn't worth the risk. And besides, she
was still quite young.

He hadn't expected her to become betrothed so
quickly.

So pardon him if the news of that very
betrothal being broken didn't have him up in arms.

He was doing his best not to cheer!

"You've known her since you were in short
pants!"

"Indeed, poor girl hopefully forgot those
memories," he teased, though his own voice sounded strangely hollow
to his own ears.

He didn't trust himself to be in the room
with her broken heart, over another man, let alone witness her
tears. He didn't trust himself to not react brashly.

Like try to kiss away the pain from her
heart.

Replacing it with adoration from his own.

"Please, Cross?" His sister changed
tactics.

Damn it all.

"Anna…" He drew out her name as only an older
brother can.

"Cross," she mimicked, a small smile teasing
her lips.

"No. You will not attempt to manipulate me
with those blue eyes. I'm immune to your charm, sister." He turned
to leave. Determin
ed
in his mission of
escape, but as fate—cruel beast that it was—would have it,
Reginald, their family's butler, stepped into the room, effectively
blocking the exit.

"Miss Esther Flanguard to see you." His
expression was unreadable, his tone dry.

And like a summer breeze after a scorching
day, Essie entered the room. Her blond hair gently twisted at the
nape of her neck, a few tendrils loose and tempting him to test
their softness.

Cross swallowed and glanced away from the
siren call of temptation. But, unable to resist the opportunity to
watch her, memorize her further, he turned his attention to her
once more.

"Anna! I'm so happy to see you!" Essie cried
as she approached her friend in a flurry of pale blue. Immediately
grasping his sister's hand, he watched as her shoulders slumped
ever so slightly, as if bearing a heavy burden. She tilted her head
to the side, offering him a tantalizing view of her neck's graceful
arch. Not for the first time, he wondered just how her
butter-colored locks would appear when unbound, flowing through his
fingers.

Look but don't touch.

So was the story of his life in regards to
Essie. It was enough to drive a man mad, yet he soldiered on, stuck
in purgatory. Heaven a breath away yet never within his grasp.

"Essie, my heart was broken for you when I
heard the news!" His sister's voice was laced with concern. Gently
she released her friend's hand and gestured for them to sit on the
nearby settee.

"I
was
heartbroken, but no longer,"
Essie replied, as she sat. Then straightening her posture, she
appeared a woman determined.

Cross grinned. How like Essie! It was
endearing, that stubborn determination. Because while other women
would feel defeated, Essie would simply rise to the challenge.
While other women giggled flirtatiously, she'd laugh delightedly.
When other women would shift their opinions to accommodate the
latest trend, Essie held fast to her own convictions. She was
refreshing, candid and charismatic. In the colorless world of the
ton
, she was a vibrant shade of crimson, one you couldn't
help but notice.