Lord Grenville's Choice (22 page)

As soon as she had relaxed, he took the hand on his side of the bed and said, “Hold on to me, Felicity. I will try to help see you through.”

The midwife said, “You should not be here, your lordship. Your wife is doing well.”

For the first time, he noticed Anabella as she silently mopped Felicity’s face with a cold cloth, murmuring quietly.

Another contraction took hold of his wife and she gripped his hand so hard, he nearly winced.

How much more of this can she take? Is birthing meant to be this difficult?

After a few more pains, his inner voice was screaming:
Something must be wrong! She is dying and they are not telling me!

Then he saw a little contorted red face emerge into the midwife’s waiting hands.

He gave a cry. “The baby! Felicity! You’ve done it!”

The rest of the body slipped out. “A lovely girl, my lady, my lord,” the midwife announced to the accompaniment of the child’s first wail.

His wife gave a groan of relief as Alex brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Bending over, he kissed her forehead. “You are a champion, my love. That was very well done.”

Aunt Henrietta came through the door. “Indeed!” she said. “I will order you some broth straightaway, Felicity.”

The attendant cut and tied off the cord in quick motions. Then, passing Felicity the baby, she said, “Just hold her to your breast now. That will reassure her. This has been an ordeal for her, as well.” When the baby was settled, the midwife brought her hand down on Felicity’s abdomen.

“My lady!” she said. “There is another! Prepare to push one more time!”

Anabella crowed, “Twins!”

Alex hastily grabbed the first infant from Felicity’s arms and held her to his chest. He said, “By heavens, Felicity, you do not do things by halves, apparently.” Anabella came around and helped him wrap his daughter in a white blanket.

With one more great contraction another girl made her way into the world.

“They are identical, my lady,” said the midwife, cutting the second cord. “Only one afterbirth.”

By Jupiter, was there ever anything so miraculous?

In a moment, the second child was at Felicity’s breast.

“Lady Catherine and Lady Emma,” Felicity murmured. “Welcome to the world. Meet your father, Alexander Lambeth, the fifth Earl of Grenville. And your aunts, Lady Henrietta Calloway and Lady Anabella Lamb. . no! Caldwell!”

When the new child had nursed for a few minutes, she fell asleep, her tiny fist curled next to her face. Felicity wrapped her tightly in another white blanket handed her by Anabella. .

Looking up at Alex, she chuckled and said, “My lord, I present your new daughters. We now represent a majority in the House.”

Alex looked down at the child in his arms who was staring at him out of wide eyes, and smiled broadly. “I am terrified! If you two are anything like your mother, you will most certainly give Jack and me a run for our money!”

“Just what you deserve!” said Lieutenant John Lambeth, bursting through the door.

“You have excellent timing, as always,” said Alex. “Welcome home! Now our family is complete.”

Honeyed warmth settled in Alex’s chest as he viewed the scene about him. Anabella beaming at Felicity. Aunt Henrietta fussing over her. John, whole and splendid in his uniform. Kissing Lady Catherine on the forehead, he handed her to Anabella and went to his wife.

“I adore you, Felicity.” He kissed her dry lips, her forehead, her nose. “And I thank God that you have such a big heart.”

She smiled a weary smile and caressed his cheek. “You are shaping up very well, Lord Grenville. I am very glad I gave you a second chance.”

“Confound it!” Alex said. “I should have known it was love at first sight when I first winked at you! I have never before or since winked at an unknown woman.”

His wife chuckled. “It would certainly have saved a lot of trouble,” Felicity said. “But you got there in the end.”

Read a preview of G.G. Vandagriff's Regency
The Duke's Undoing
, Volume One of the series
Six Rogues and Their Ladies
.

CHAPTER ONE

In Which We Meet the Duke of Ruisdell, Reputed Rogue

Peter Northcott, the Duke of Ruisdell, exited White’s elegant subscription room, preparing to leave the only place that seemed familiar these days—the succoring gentleman’s club with its lovely Georgian proportions, click of billiard balls, and timeless fragrance of coffee, brandy, and cigars. In the vestibule, he assumed his many-caped greatcoat in order to leave for a boxing match at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon. Though it was June, it had recently rained, and the duke, just returned from the warmer climate of the Peninsula, found it chilly.

His well-fed friend George Baxter, Marquis of Somerset, called to him from just beyond the bow window where the infamous betting book stood on its hallowed stand.

“Ruisdell! Come! I’ve the very thing to cure your
ennui
,” Somerset coaxed him in robust tones. “Your favorite sport.”

The duke took the nearly complete sentences as a mark of concern on the part of his friend. “I’ve no knack for any sport until this leg of mine heals,” he replied. The place where the musket ball had lodged in his shin bone was paining him, but he reminded himself that he was lucky he still had his leg, even though he was reduced, at the age of five and thirty, to be seen with a mahogany walking stick that was more than just a gentlemanly prop. “Do you know, Somerset, I’m actually afraid to look in the mirror most mornings, for fear my brownish mane will show threads of gray. I’m sure I will soon have permanent creases on my face and look like a gypsy.” Though not a vain man, he had no wish to appear old before his time. Limping slightly, he moved back inside the club to converse with his friend.

Somerset beamed at him, his shiny round face looking more mischievous than ever. “Oh, put a stopper in it! Woman I’m thinking of will make you forget your wound. Can still use that silver tongue of yours. Napoleon didn’t take that away. Invalidism masks your nature, man! Object of sympathy.”

“The devil with you. D’you think I want sympathy from a woman?” Seeing George’s crestfallen look, he continued, “Add that to the fact that I would be surprised beyond belief if there is a woman between the ages of sixteen and five and forty who doesn’t already know my true nature.” He gave his friend a deceptively sweet smile, while pulling on his gloves. “Plus, I have just been through Marianne’s histrionics
ad nauseum
. Believe it or not, I have no taste for women at present. But I
will
place a wager on the outcome of the match tonight.” His capes finally arranged to his satisfaction, he strode to the betting book, and taking the quill from George, wrote in his all but illegible hand, “Tatterson in the fifth round.”

“Are you mad?” asked George.

“No, just unusually prescient,” Ruisdell said. “Care to come with me? I’ll lay you any odds you like.”

His friend’s eyes showed their mischievous twinkle. “Ten to one?”

The duke nodded and wrote the odds in the betting book followed by his flowing signature, “Ruisdell.” The act lifted his spirits. He considered Ruisdell Palace in Derbyshire the finest estate in the Kingdom and carried its name with honor. Unfortunately, his widowed aunt, who heartily disapproved of him, lived there. Taking over the duchess’s suite upon the death of Peter’s parents, she had stated her intention not to move out until her nephew brought home a bride. Formidable woman, his aunt.

“Stake?” asked George.

“My hunting box in Leicestershire.”

Now Somerset appeared worried. “Worth thousands! You’ll be able to shoot again, old man!”

“Lost my taste for it. But in any case you needn’t worry. I’ll win. What’s your stake?”

His friend looked shrewd. “A thousand guineas.”

Ruisdell smiled his first smile. “When I win, we’ll come back here, have some supper, and I shall proceed to get foxed. They’ve a decent brandy in the cellar. Bought at auction this morning. Smuggled, undoubtedly.”

Arm in arm with his friend, he left for Gentleman Jackson’s, maneuvering his cane in such a manner that he looked a dandy rather than a cripple.

* * *

Hours later, Ruisdell and his friend arrived back at White’s, the duke ten thousand guineas richer but melancholy as ever. He called for the newly purchased brandy, all the time realizing in the depths of his soul that it wasn’t going to make him feel better. If anything, it would make him feel worse. Strong drink had come to have a lowering effect on his spirits of late. Had it not been for poor George, who had just lost a packet to him, he would have sought a comparatively early bed at Shearings, his London house.

“See here, Ruisdell. Filly I was telling you about. Just the woman for you! An innocent. Dashed beauty. Unusual. Eyes like midnight in summer. Black with a hint of blue, y’know? Bit of a slant.”

The duke sighed.

“Almost sly,” Somerset continued. “Black hair. Coal black. Natural curls. Hard to tame. But she has no problem with her gray mare. Sweetest seat I’ve seen. Rides in Hyde Park most mornings. Ties that hair back with a ribbon.” George stopped for a moment and gave a sigh of frustration. “Love to see that hair spilling across her white shoulders.” Another long sentence. It affected the duke more than he could say, but not in the way Somerset intended. It merely made him pity the man.

“I suppose you’re looking to me to give you a firsthand account?” The duke was weary. Weary to the bone. He had no desire to see naked shoulders with hair of any color spilling over them. Marianne had worn him out with her ruses, her traps, and her hysteria. Just now, the spoiled beauty was trying jealousy. He had picked up the information at the saloon. She had just engaged herself to some ancient French
duc
who had fled to England with his millions during the Reign of Terror. Ruisdell imagined their
affaire d’coeur
had begun while he himself was still on the Peninsula, to be broken off suddenly at his unexpected return. Otherwise, her ability to become engaged between noon today and dinner tonight would have been a feat beyond even Marianne’s magical charms.

The marquis seemed to divine something of his sour mood. “So, old fellow, want to talk about to-do with Marianne, or just leave be?”

“Not much to tell. Same old story. I’m not the marrying type. Told her from the beginning. But they never listen. Women always think they can change you. Why is that?” With the example of his own mother constantly before him, he was determined never to come under a woman’s thumb. Never.

“Can’t lump in a stunner like Lady Marianne with rest of world. Probably always gets what she wants. Daughter of a duke and all that. An Incomparable. Prettiest filly in London.” George paused to light a cigar and then swirled the brandy in his glass. “Beauty I was telling you about. Bit of mystery. Age two and twenty, good dowry. But must be averse to matrimony. Queer as Dick’s hatband.”

“Somerset, cease your vulgar cant. Why do you suppose it’s queer?” Ruisdell only asked because he knew the marquis was bound to tell him and had been bent upon this course of action since they’d met this evening by the betting book.

“Acquainted with Chessingden by any chance? Viscount?”

“Oh, yes. Since Oxford days. Why?” Ruisdell asked sharply. Then, feigning indifference, he inspected his hands. The wear and tear of war was beginning to disappear. From his hands, at any rate.

“Know something against him?”

“Not at all. As a matter of fact, he solicited a donation from me just yesterday for a project he has going in the East End. Soup kitchen for wounded soldiers. He’s a Whig, needless to say. Belongs to Brook’s, I imagine.”

“Right. Pleasant enough estate. Hampshire. Don’t touch Ruisdell Palace, of course. Seems an ordinary bloke, but women! Don’t understand ’em. Go for Chessingden like thoroughbreds to the finish. Something to do with his eyes, they say. Seductive or some such thing. You know, none better, women like wooing.” Sighing, he slapped his thighs with his surprisingly small, neat hands. He sat up and said, “Any road, perfect catch for the beauty. On her third or fourth engagement. First one died on the Peninsula, worse luck.”

“Get on with it, Somerset. She sounds a great bother and disturber of a man’s rest. Does she perhaps have a name, this paragon?”

“Miss Elise Edwards. Air of tragedy suits her. Sent Chessingden packing this morning. Heir of his, malicious chap, says Viscount’s not having it.” George shook his head in wonder. “Determined to wed her. Bowled over. Rejection came out o’the blue. Agreed to a month’s trial! Man like that! Foolishness. But she
has
had a run of bad luck.”

If George kept this up, he would become absolutely loquacious and, more than likely, a bore. But Ruisdell could not keep from asking, “She’s been married before?”

“Nearly. Still virtuous, though.” The marquis chuckled. “Sent one fiancé off a week before the doin’s. Something loose in his brain box.” George tapped his forehead. “Lives in Italy or somewhere abouts. Paints. Sends futile letters.”

“This heir seems to be quite a fount of useful information.”

“Anxious. Under the hatches, y’know. Hopes this will put Chessingden off women altogether. If Viscount marries, heir will be dunned by the vultures. Living off his expectations.” At that, George gave up for the moment. But Ruisdell knew his friend. He was baiting him. And the worst thing about it was, in spite of himself, the duke was intrigued by the woman. Three engagements! And still virtuous? His friend must be sun-blinded. No woman on earth was that pure.

“Write your bet in the book, Somerset. For future reference. I don’t know that I’ll take you up on it, unless I happen to meet the woman. It’s not likely, this late in the Season.”

Somerset bets five hundred guineas that Ruisdell’s seduction of Elise Edwards will rid the duke of his boredom.