Chapter Eight

A month later

 

Preston awoke as he always did at nine o’clock when the maid came in to open the drapes, followed by his valet with a cup of coffee and a damnably cheerful, “Good morning, sir.”

“What’s so good about it?”

Preston had never been fond of morning, but after a night of tossing and turning, he was in a particularly cantankerous mood. Cornelia had left three days ago to visit her friend in Hampshire, and the massive townhouse felt empty without her. He missed the lively morning chatter between Cornelia and her maid coming from the adjacent room. He missed the tentative raps on his door when she wanted to ask him something. He missed seeing the light in her eyes at breakfast as she recited her schedule for the day. He missed the tingling in his body when he accidentally touched her ungloved hand or graceful neck. He missed her, period.

After they’d settled into the Hardcastles’ townhouse as master and mistress and she’d mentioned the possibility of the visit, he’d had no objection, seeing it as an opportunity to concentrate on his business. Having a wife around the house—even a convenient one—was proving to be exceedingly inconvenient. As much as they lived their lives apart—he at his office in town and she with her social affairs and the Foundling Hospital—they also spent time together, for meals and church—and with increasing frequency, drives in the country, with or without picnics, and peaceful hours reading in the library. He hadn’t expected to like having a wife. He was a free spirit, a man who could bid his friends adieu and move on wholeheartedly to the next adventure. Once she’d departed, he’d expected to revert to the happy-go-lucky man he knew and his world would be right again.

Except that it wasn’t.

Jackson—his new valet—helped him into a robe and Preston went to the table where the coffee awaited. He dropped into the chair. Preston caught the sideways glance Jackson cast him.

 “Now, now, Mr. Warrington, the mistress will be back before you know it. You enjoy your coffee while I lay out your raiment for the day.”

Was his attraction for his wife so obvious that even the servants knew? He couldn’t be falling in love with his wife. What about his upcoming trip to India? His dreams of future trips to Asia, Australia, and America? The freedom to do whatever he wanted to do whenever he wanted to do it? Caring too much for Cornelia—for anyone—would take a good part of the joy out of his plans.

Worse, Cornelia didn’t want a husband. Not a real one. She didn’t care for him in that way—not if she could go off and leave him for an entire fortnight.  He’d agreed to a marriage in name only and that was what he was stuck with.

“Damn it all to hell.” He pounded a fist on the table, causing the cup to rattle on the saucer. Coffee splattered.

“I believe it would be best if you were to drink the coffee, sir.” Jackson poured warm water into a basin on the wash table, where razor and towels awaited. “But if you will not, at the very least, I hope you will control your temper during your shave lest you injure yourself.”

Preston narrowed his eyes but submitted to his valet’s ministrations. Going about with an unshaven face would only perpetuate the belief that he was brooding over his absent wife.

Preston was just sitting down to breakfast half an hour later when raised voices emanated from the back door. A moment later, the butler ushered in a footman he recognized as his brother’s. The man’s livery was creased and dusty, his face red and his hands shaky as he made a valiant attempt at a bow.

Dropping his fork, Preston jumped to his feet. “What is it, man? Has something gone wrong with my brother? With the viscountess? The children?”

The footman pulled a sealed note from inside his jacket and thrust it toward Preston. “It’s the viscountess, sir. She lost the babe, and his lordship requires your presence in Cheshire, at once.”

Preston read the note and immediately barked orders to the staff, determined to set off for Cheshire within the hour.

He instructed the footman to eat and rest before attempting to return. A frantic, two-hundred-mile journey on horseback was exhausting.

As he was about to find out himself.

* * *

Early in the morning, two days later, Preston brought his horse to a halt at the stables of Warrington Manor. Dirty, unshaven, aching all over, and dead on his feet from lack of sleep. He leapt from the animal and handed the reins to the lad who opened the door and raced down to meet him. Preston’s heart pounded. He dared not let himself consider what could’ve happened in the two days it had taken him to get here. William adored Joanna. Preston couldn’t imagine his grief should he lose her. And the children—

His chest tightened. Children needed a mother.

He and William had been eleven and thirteen when their own mother had passed away, and he would never forget the numbness, the sorrow, the pain that went through him when he realized he would never touch her again. William and Joanna loved each other. They didn’t need to say it; it was obvious in every look and touch. It would be unspeakable for one to have to live without the other. Preston strode to the back door and entered the kitchen.

“Master Preston!” exclaimed a maid.

“Where is my brother?” he demanded.

“The study, sir.”

Preston stalked past her, calling William’s name at the top of his lungs. He reached the hallway and the study door opened.

His brother appeared, a fireplace poker in hand as though to battle an invader. “Preston? Is that you?” The poker hovered in the air, ready for action.

“Of course, it’s me,” said Preston. “Put that thing down before you hurt someone.”

“What did you expect, barging into the house at daybreak making such a commotion? If you have wakened Joanna, I will have your head.”

Preston halted a few feet from his brother. “She’s alive? Joanna is alive? Thank God.”

William lowered the poker and looked heavenward. “Thank God, indeed. But Preston…all is not well. “

For the first time, Preston noticed his brother’s condition. Unshaven, red eyes, rumpled clothing, and the unmistakable smell of brandy on his breath. Joanna still lived, but something was very, very wrong.

“What is it? Tell me, William.”

William turned toward the study. “Brandy for my brother,” he barked.

The butler appeared a moment later and Preston said, “Coffee will do for me,” then looked at William. “You have clearly had enough. Now speak, man. What has happened?”

William crossed to the fireplace where sat a table between two chairs and picked up the glass of brandy sitting there. He took a hearty gulp, then faced Preston. “When I sent you the message, Joanna had miscarried and was hemorrhaging badly. The blasted doctor had no idea how to stop it, said she was likely to die.” William finished the brandy, then smashed the glass against the fireplace.

Preston remained motionless. William never made reckless gestures.

William stared into the fire. “He told me if she lived she would never bear another child and would no doubt be melancholy about not being able to give me a son, and so it might be best for all if she died.”

Preston started toward him. “Bloody hell, old Forrester would never dare—”

William whirled to face him, and Preston halted a few feet away. “Forrester’s been gone five years,” William said. “This new charlatan has a proper diploma from the Royal College of Surgeons, but no practical knowledge and is a fool besides.” His eyes narrowed. “He will never show his face here again, not after the punishment he took from me.”

Preston stared, not recognizing the wild-eyed man before him as his steady, peace-loving brother. “But Joanna—”

William let out a huge breath and fell into the nearest chair. “The bleeding stopped. The midwife knew what to do. It was touch and go for a while, and she slept for so long I thought she would never wake, but last night she finally did, and—I have never been so thankful for anything in my life.” He pressed his palms to his eyes. “Oh, Preston, when I thought she was going to leave me, I couldn’t bear it—the thought of living without her. I had no thought of anything else, not even the girls. It was—unbearable.”

Preston crossed to his brother and clasped his shoulder. If it were Cornelia in that room taking her last breath, would he feel as desperate as his brother? An image flashed of Cornelia lying in bed, her thick hair matted with sweat, eyes glazed with pain, the laughter gone from her face. Pain stabbed his heart and he found it difficult to breathe.

“Joanna will recover?” he murmured.

William took a deep breath. “So says the midwife. I have a doctor coming from Birmingham today, just in case. Highly respected fellow, not a quack. He is bringing a nurse with him, and the housekeeper has some girls from the village coming in, too. Joanna will have the best of care, Brother, because I will not let her die.”

 

In the days that followed, Joanna made slow but steady progress. Preston passed the time entertaining his nieces, telling stories from his travels, teaching them how to play cricket, and taking them on rides around the estate, the two-year-old on the saddle in front of him. And—if the weather was fine—they picnicked. Cornelia would have loved it.

Thoughts of Cornelia plagued him. He missed her, but it was more than that. Her presence would have brightened considerably the gloom in his soul, even though, unbeknownst to her, she was greatly responsible for his melancholia.

Joanna would have no more children. Which meant William would not have a direct heir. Which meant the responsibility for providing the heir now fell on Preston.

He ran a hand through his hair. What of his marriage bargain?

* * *

About the same time in Hampshire…

 

Cornelia’s eyes were moist as she reluctantly handed Freddie’s little son back to the nursery maid, who hustled away to the nursery with her precious bundle. There was something about the warmth of the infant in her arms, the smell of baby, the bright searching eyes and happy smile when he looked at her and knew her for a friend that activated her maternal instincts. Instincts she’d been trying to suppress from the age of eighteen, when she’d learned the truth about her heritage.

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she looked up to see her friend regarding her intently, brows wrinkled with concern.

“No, don’t,” Cornelia commanded. “I do not want to hear it. I will not change my mind.”

Frederica, her friend since their presentation days, let out a loud breath. “You are the most exasperating person, Cornelia. Why do you refuse to listen to reason?”

Cornelia snorted. “My mother says the same of my father. Two peas in a pod, she says.”

Silence.

Cornelia wished she could disappear. With a slip of the tongue she had practically proved Freddie’s point. But it didn’t make any difference. Not really.

She stood up. “I’d best see what I can do to help Norton with the packing. Six o’clock will come sooner than—”

A scratch at the door drew their attention. A footman entered and bowed. “An express for Mrs. Warrington.” He presented Cornelia with the letter on a silver tray.

Cornelia paled. “What could have possibly happened?” She unfolded the letter with trembling fingers. “It’s from Preston.”

Frederica peered over her shoulder. “What does he say? Doesn’t he know you are returning to London tomorrow?”

Cornelia dropped back into the chair. “He is in Cheshire. It’s Joanna, the viscountess. She lost the babe, and nearly died herself. I am to travel posthaste to Cheshire.”

Her friend gasped and hugged Cornelia from behind. “Merciful heavens, that poor woman. But—she will recover? Does he say?”

Cornelia felt numb. “At the time this was written, her condition was improving, but it must still be quite serious if Preston believes my presence is required.” A thought suddenly occurred to her. “Oh no.” She slumped in her chair. “What have I done?”

Frederica hurried around Cornelia and dropped to her knees beside her. “Cornelia, what is it?”

“I have ruined his life,” moaned Cornelia.

“What are you talking about?”

Cornelia pressed a hand to her temple. “What if the viscountess is unable to bear more children?”

Frederica frowned in confusion.

“That would make Preston heir to the viscountcy.”

“But that is a good thing— Oh.” Frederica pressed a fist to her mouth.

Cornelia nodded. “The title will fall to Preston, which means he must provide the male heir. And he is married to me.” Cornelia dropped the hand gripping the letter onto her lap. “What am I to do? If I had not proposed this—this travesty of a marriage—Preston could marry and do his duty to his family.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “He would have his choice of any young lady on the marriage mart. Instead, he’s tied to a sham marriage and will never have legitimate children of his own.” She rose and began pacing the room. “Oh Freddie, I wish I had never gone through with this preposterous scheme. We lied to our families. We made vows to each other and to God, all the time knowing them to be lies. Is this God’s punishment for our deception?”

Frederica rose, hurried to the bell pull and rang for service. The maid arrived. When Frederica ordered her to bring brandy, the girl repeated the request, clearly uncertain she had heard correctly.

“Yes, brandy,” Frederica said. “Mrs. Warrington has had some distressing news.” She turned when the maid left. “Cornelia, do sit down and calm yourself. You are assuming a great deal from that brief message. The situation may not be as dire as you imagine.”

Cornelia sobbed and Frederica rushed to her side and pulled her into a hug. Cornelia cried on her shoulder for several minutes, then allowed herself to be led back to her chair and accepted a glass of brandy when it arrived. She choked down a mouthful of spirits. A comforting warmth flowed through her body. The sense of doom that had overtaken her dulled, and she could breathe a bit easier.

“The color has returned to your face, my dear.” Frederica smoothed hair from her face. “Do you feel up to discussing this matter, or would you prefer to rest in your room?”

Cornelia would have much preferred to lose herself in a fog of spirits, but she didn’t have that luxury. She was leaving in the morning and, in any case, her room wouldn’t be much of a respite with Norton laundering and packing her clothing for the trip. This was her last opportunity to confer with Freddie before having to make some disagreeable and life-changing decisions about the future.

“I need your help, Freddie. Preston does not deserve this. He once mentioned that he never wanted the title for himself and was happy to be the spare son who could flit about and do as he pleased.” She shook her head. “But he is not a man to shirk his duty. He’s nothing if not loyal, and his family means everything to him. He adored his father and mother while they lived. He told me how much he regretted not being at their sides when they died, nor even able to attend their funerals. When we were in Cheshire—before the wedding—we visited their graves, and he genuinely grieved when he beheld them.” She bit her lip at the memory of him clasping her hand tightly while he recounted tales of his childhood as they returned to the house.

“You care about him.”

Cornelia sighed heavily. “Of course, I do. Who would not? I am not a heartless monster, only a selfish one.”

“Are you certain it’s not more than that, Cornelia?”

Cornelia stiffened. “I am not in love with him. I can’t be.”

Yet, she remembered the tingling that went through her body whenever he touched her, accidentally or otherwise, and the way he’d made her laugh on their honeymoon. Indeed, she seemed to lose track of time when they were together, so delighted she was to be in his presence. Being his wife—even a pretend one—had proved to be an exhilarating experience. How proud she had been to be presented to the Prince Regent as his wife—and to note the envy on the faces of many of the ladies present.

He’d played the devoted husband to the hilt. He could easily have abandoned her to her own pursuits while he haunted the Pavilion and the gentlemen’s clubs. It was not unheard of for real bridal couples to spend some time apart, even on their honeymoons. She could have happily filled her days on the beach and in the shops and tearooms. But Preston had seemed to enjoy spending time with her—no, he had enjoyed their time together, she was certain. But that didn’t mean he loved her.

She took another sip of brandy.

“Cornelia,” said Frederica as she squeezed her hand, “you might consider making this marriage a true one. No, don’t,” she added when Cornelia opened her mouth to reply. “I know why you believe you must not bear children. I also know that your parents don’t agree. Your father loved you before you were born—even gave you his name—although he knew you were sired by another. Why do you assume that you could not love a child of your own, sired by a husband you care for and likely even love?”

Cornelia grimaced. “That man—my real father—brutally raped and beat my mother. I despise him for that. I won’t give birth to a child with his tainted blood.” Her stomach turned with nausea, as it always did, at the thought of being the daughter of a rapist.

“But you haven’t become a monster, Cornelia. A child of yours would have even less ‘contaminated’ blood. He would have the benefit of your love and affection, as well as your husband’s, and that of all your family and his. Surely that must bear more influence on the child’s character than a mere accident of birth.”

Cornelia rubbed her aching temples. She wasn’t used to drinking spirits. She’d debated this issue since the age of eighteen, since that day she’d found her mother’s journal and discovered the truth about her birth. If only she hadn’t found it, had never learned that the admiral wasn’t her real father—how simple her life would have been. By this time, she’d be married with a family, as her siblings were, and her parents would have carried their secret to the grave. But she had succumbed to the temptation to open Pandora’s box, and once opened, she couldn’t put back the terrible truth it had revealed.

“I do not think I can, Freddie. Preston deserves better.”

“Why not let him decide that? I don’t know why you did not tell him the truth before the wedding, but surely you agree that he must know now.”

Cornelia shook her head. “We were strangers. How could I confide such a personal family secret to someone I hardly knew? We weren’t meant to remain together for more than a few weeks, so it hardly mattered.” She drew a deep breath. “But yes, I shall have to tell him now. Perhaps we can have the marriage annulled.”

“I hope it does not come to that,” said Frederica, her brow wrinkled. “Think of the scandal, Cornelia.”

She would be persona non grata in the haut ton, and likely Preston, too, as the scandalmongers speculated on the reason for the rift. Her father and mother and siblings would likewise be affected, and his family, as well. An annulment of the marriage would harm her loved ones for a very long time.

“Damn that Marriage Maker to hell,” she muttered.

With that, she stalked from the room, entered her bedchamber, dismissed her maid and fell onto the bed for a long, heartbroken cry.