The Next Best Bride (26 page)

"If I am to have a child, he will make a good father, I am certain of it," she lied, feeling an unexpected need to defend her husband.

He nodded, dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand. "I trust Nanny Bea to do all she must to ensure that the Mallon blood carries on, legitimately this time."

Nanny Bea entered the room once again, her eyes shrewd on Helena. "I'll be off to freshen up and unpack, if that suits you, milady."

"Certainly." Helena could think of no way to refuse her. To send her packing. Rand's grandfather would only send her back. "Please take as long as you need to get adjusted. I really don't need any help right now."

Accepting the marquess's dictates as gracefully as she could, she smiled at the woman who had raised her husband. She had the sense that the other woman had been as helpless to deny him as she had been. The marquess knew how to get his way. Perhaps that was what had driven the wedge between he and his grandson?

Nanny Bea smiled back cheerfully. "We all need help sometimes, don't we?"

But Helena did not miss the quick appraisal. Did the woman wonder if Helena would make a good mother? Or were her concerns more for Helena's rather woeful abilities as wife? After all the woman had been Rand's own nanny.

The realization of what it meant to have Rand's nanny in the household thrummed through her. Nannies knew the intimate secrets of a family. Nanny Bea could tell her much about her husband, his parents, and his grandfather. Perhaps even whether Rand truly suffered from bouts of madness. Had his destruction of the harp been done in childish grief. Had he really been responsible for the death or disappearance of the woman Jenny Bean? The questions themselves frightened her. What would the answers do?

Somehow, Helena felt that Nanny Bea would not give her answers couched in suspicion or a truth tinged by some old grudge. There was a calm competence about the older woman. And, despite her snow white hair she was not ancient. There were lines on her face, but not the deep grooves of advanced age.

She sighed. There were months yet for her to decide if the woman was competent to care for an infant or not.

No doubt a nanny the marquess trusted had much wisdom to impart to a woman in Helena’s condition. A woman abandoned by a husband frightened of any responsibility, and smothered by his grandfather who had no idea what it required for a woman to bring a life into the world and raise it safely.

* * * * *

Rand stumbled home in the early hours of morning. He had won every hand this evening. That made a week of winning nights at the table. He could go to Avonmeade with gifts this time. He liked to bring presents. He'd only been to Avonmeade once, directly after leaving Parsleigh. He'd brought no gifts that time. He'd not even made a good job of being cheerful and he'd left too soon.

But now he could return in a proper good mood. His luck had shifted. Since leaving Parsleigh, he found the cards had favored him amazingly well. Perhaps marrying Helena had brought him luck at last. That thought cast a dark pall over his joy. If only he didn't know the cost to her, he could be happy at last.

His mood darkened further when he poured himself a brandy and noticed that Griggson had left the note from his grandfather on the side table. A discreet method of indicating that Rand should not ignore his family any longer.

Apparently the valet thought that two months was too long to leave his bride alone. Perhaps he had money on that blasted wager, like everyone else in London who seemed to be cheered to see him in town and not rusticating with Helena.

The glossy crimson seal on the note flickered in the lamplight. Three days Griggson had been silently reminding him that the note waited to be opened. Three days he had been ignoring it. He had either won the bet. Or lost it. And blast it all, he didn't know which he would prefer.

Rand cursed and opened it. After perusing the two short sentences, he downed his brandy in one swallow.

"Griggson," he called, his heart pounding. "Pack my things. We are going home."

"Home?" The valet queried after a moment of silent, sleepy cogitation.

Rand cursed. "To Parsleigh."

Chapter Twenty

Rand arrived in the middle of the night. The moon had been high and bright, so he had ridden hard. When he came into her room no smell of sickness assailed him. Of imminent death. The room's scent was of Helena and her oranges and cinnamon.

Had she taken a turn for the better as he traveled home? Opening the drapes to allow the moon to bathe the room in a cold light, he went close to the bed, dreading what he might see.

He glanced around, looking for cold baths or medicines. Plasters, perhaps. Nothing. He saw no sign of Marie, or Mrs. Robson by her bed, keeping a vigil.

She seemed peaceful enough. What he could see of her. The pale curve of a cheek. The wing of hair smoothed back against her scalp. She braided her hair, he remembered, when he was not there to insist she let it free.

He checked his impulse to touch her, reluctant to wake her if she was in the midst of recovering from her illness. If this might be the first deep, healing sleep she had found in days.

As if she sensed him somehow, even before she woke, she stirred and called out his name. Was it some stray noise he had not meant to make, or something more? He held himself still, holding his breath so that even that small sound would not disturb her.

Whatever instinct had roused her though, stirred her again. She came fully awake and opened her eyes wide. Her glance darted to the opened drapes.

After a few moments of stillness, she turned her head to stare directly into the shadows by her bed, where he stood. She could not see him, he was bathed in the deepest of the shadows. But she did not sound doubtful, only wary, when she spoke. "Rand. I wondered if I would ever see you again. I treated you shamefully. If I promise never to do it again, will you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive." He stepped into the shaft of pale moonlight by her bed and laid his hand on her forehead, kissing her there gentle as he thought a nursemaid might do. "Are you well?" He detected no fever, just the warm skin of a sleeping woman.

"Your grandfather wrote to you, didn't he? I asked him not to." She tried to sit up, but he would not allow her to.

"I did not mean to wake you. You need your rest."

She protested. "I am fine."

He searched her, seeing no signs of illness. But his grandfather's note had been clear. "Are you certain?"

"Of course." She smiled, a gesture of puzzled amusement.

The illness must have passed while he refused to open the envelope. While he gadded about London as if he had no responsibilities.

And she asked his forgiveness. "I came as soon as I realized."

"Why?" Suddenly, her receptive mood changed to one of reserve. Her words were tinged with bitterness. "You have what you want. You needn't come from London until the birth."

"Birth?" For a moment the exhaustion from his hard travel and the overwhelming relief to find her alive and well clouded his brain so that he could not understand her words. He stared at her stupidly.

She twisted her hands in the sheets and babbled as if to hide some shameful secret from him. "That is the reason you married me, is it not? For a child? I can't promise there will be a son, but I hope you don't hold that against me. I think you will agree that I cooperated fully with you in your desire to make a child."

Full comprehension took him a moment and he relaxed in relief. She was breeding. "Then you have not been ill?"

"What did your grandfather say to make you think that?" She shook her head and raised a hand to caress his cheek as if just now understanding his worry. "I have suffered from dizziness and my appetite is gone, but that is all to be expected, I am told."

"I am glad." He climbed into bed and took her into her arms. She was not dying. She was not even ill.

His mind believed the truth. His body wanted confirmation, wanted her safe in his arms. "I missed you." He hadn't meant to say it. "I'm sorry for the way we parted. I shouldn't have pressed you."

"You don't have to lie. My behavior was wicked and there is no excuse for that. I will never behave so shamefully again." She wanted to believe him. He could see the desire to believe that he had come from London out of concern for her lighting her eyes.

He was careful of his words, not wanting to end up with the same dispute between them. "How disappointing. I had thought you might consent to try the game with you captive this time instead of me." Pleasure, he told her silently. Not love.

The light of hope in her gaze died quickly. To be replaced by wariness, as if she was no longer sure of who he was. "I assure you that I am not the same little fool you left in the dust two months ago, my lord. I have learned much since you left." Her words would no doubt have had more starch, but it was the middle of the night and sleep had robbed her voice of much of its power. She stiffened in his embrace, but did not pull away from him. "Enough to wonder if you meant to come back. Or if it would be wise if you did."

Jenny. She had heard about Jenny from that fainthearted maid of hers. He shouldn't have left her alone. But he had had no choice.

He ignored her words and concentrated on the fact that she had not pushed him away. He reached out, past her stiffness, past her harsh tone, and touched her cheek softly. "Confess. You missed me."

"I did not." Reflexively, she turned her face into his shoulder and rubbed her cheek against the smooth linen of his shirt.

He kissed her. "Liar."

In a moment’s time she relaxed into his arms, returning his kisses as passionately as she ever had.

When he turned from her and put out the lamp she said softly, "Why is it that I cannot refuse you even this? I know you have no heart. And yet—"

He sighed and the bed shifted as he removed the remainder of his clothing. "What need have I of a heart, when I have all other means to please you, Helena?"

She pressed a hand to his chest, which somehow slid up to his shoulder. "Not all other means. You will keep your promise, will you not?"

Rand understood that her pride had been wounded. No doubt, despite her apology for tying him to the bed, she was like all other women he had ever known and thought he should be begging her forgiveness. Which perhaps he should. If Marie had told her about Jenny....

But he had traveled hard to reassure himself she was well and he had no intention of being thrown out of her bed now. "I will keep my promise until you beg me to break it, but that is all I can vow." He reached for her, making a silent wager with himself that he could convince her she was being foolish within a month's time.

And then he stopped as full realization struck him. She was pregnant. It was done. The wager all but won, his future all but secured. And yet...

"Are you certain you carry a child?" He rubbed his palm across her flat belly. A child. His child. The very idea was too much to comprehend. More intimidating now that becoming a father loomed as a reality rather than a theoretical avenue of escape.

She put her hands over his. "The signs are all there."

"When do you think the child will be born?"

"Who can say? I have not..." Her voice drifted to an inarticulate sound and then regained clarity. "...since we married."

He hardly dared believe it. How long since he first touched her? Nearly three months? Was that long enough to know for certain? "You thought... with your lover..."

She stiffened and pushed his hand away. Sharply, she said, "Time will tell, but Nanny Bea says there is no question and your grandfather will entertain no doubts."

"Nanny Bea is here?" What was she doing working for his grandfather again? He fought down his sudden surge of anger. Helena would want an explanation and there was none he wished to give her concerning his old nanny. Or Jenny if it came to that. He wanted her to take him as he was and not dredge up the past. That job could be safely left to his grandfather, and the villagers around Parsleigh.

"I know it must seem odd to have a nanny before there is even a child." Helena's own puzzlement was clear in her voice. "Your grandfather arranged for her to look after me to ensure he has a healthy great-grandchild."

"Of course." At least the old man had worked against himself this time, did he but know it.

"He has been very good to me, Rand. He says that Nanny Bea will make certain that I eat and get proper rest. I think he might have forbidden me to paint, but Nanny Bea told him it would do the child no harm."

Do the child no harm. What about the child's mother? That was no doubt a secondary concern to his grandfather. "I wish you had waited to tell him until we were certain."

She laughed, relaxing at last into his arms again. "I did not tell him. He told me." And then, with just a touch of accusation, she added, "And I could not ask your opinion since you saw fit not to come home."

His grandfather had told her that she was pregnant. Typical of the old man. He shuddered, imagining the scene. "I'm sorry I left you at his mercy for so long. But luck was with me."

He kissed her. "You have brought me luck, my lady. And I will stand guard against the old lion for you, now that I am home. No doubt he will make his will known again regarding our child. He can be like that when something important to him is at stake." As when he summoned Rand with a fabrication guaranteed to make him return without question.

"He has not been so horrible. At times I think he might be classified as indulgent." Tentatively, she said, "I think he is pleased with you, despite the fact that he might lose Saladin to you."

The wager. Was that why the marquess had summoned him from London with the imperious lie that his wife had suffered an illness and was lying near death? Or had he merely wanted to test his grandson's indifference to his bride? His stomach clenched with an old fear and then slowly, he smiled.

For once, he need not worry for Helena's safety, even if the old man guessed that Rand cared for her more than was wise. She carried his heir. The old man would not dare hurt her.