Defiant Angel (42 page)

Confusion etched his face. "But he isn't here."

' 'I know that, you dolt!'' she said just before she spun around, exiting the room, slamming the door behind her.

Shaking his head, Rory muttered, "I sure in hell don't need this."

The sun had risen above the horizon, sending tiny prisms of light through the study window. Clinton sat at his desk, going over the correspondence of the last few days.

He had arrived before dawn broke and had worked steadily since. He loosened his cravat and stretched back, leaning in his chair, his arms braced behind his neck, and closed his eyes. He had been apprised by both Keegan and a very confused Rory of Tiffany's recent tantrum, and he wondered how his volatile wife would greet him this morn. He did not have long to wait, for the slamming of the door caused him to sit up abruptly, his eyes flying open.

Tiffany strode into the room, her breech-clad hips swaying as she crossed the room, coming to stand before his desk, anger glinting in her eyes.

"You ordered I was not to ride?"

He withdrew a cheroot, lit it, and nodded affirmatively.

"Why?"

Sitting up, placing the cigar in an ashtray, he asked, "Some hot chocolate?" He poured out a cup, not waiting for her answer.

Tiffany saw the pot of hot cocoa, knowing he had anticipated her visit, and this knowledge somehow made her angrier.

The sweet aroma of the chocolate wafed up, teasing her nostrils, causing her stomach to churn in revulsion. She grimaced and shook her head but refused to be sidetracked. Again she asked, "Why?"

"Did you have breakfast already?" he asked, again ignoring her question, lifting a cup of strong tea to his lips.

The smoke from the cigar and the thought of breakfast made her mouth water in an awful way. She again shook her head, beginning to feel sick. Forcing her mind not to concentrate on her queasiness, she again persisted, "Why did you order I was not to ride?"

Clinton could see she was fast becoming ill and offered, "Take a seat, Princess."

"I do not want to take a seat, drink hot chocolate, or eat breakfast. I want to know why." Contrary to her words, she sat.

"When was your last monthly flow, Tiffany?" Clinton asked quietly, laying down his cup.

"What nonsense is this, Clinton? I never ride then. What has it to do with your orders?" she asked, bewildered by his question.

"Since when, love?" he repeated firmly, yet gently.

When it suddenly dawned on her, she paled. It had not come for six weeks, since before the weekend at Richilieu's. She sat numb before him, fighting her nausea and the truth. Standing on shaky legs, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the desk, she choked out, "Impossible."

The duke's eyes glistened with pleasure as he gently said, "Hardly, impossible, rather highly probably." And with unmistakable pride he added, "You carry our child."

"You planned this. You knew," she accused.

Grinning as only an expectant father does, he proudly stated, "I'd like to think of it as assisting nature in its cycle."

"Damn you! Think of it any way you want, I know better. Damn you and damn your child!" Her voice broke and she spun about, running from the room.

Running out of the house, she ran past Rory and Keegan.

At the edge of the headland, Tiffany stopped running. She wiped away the tears that were falling down her cheeks with the back of her hand and wrapped her arms protectively about her waist. Breathing deeply, she tried to calm herself.

Her mind screamed in anger at Clinton and herself. How could she have been so naive? Oh, how foolish I must appear to him. He had known what I had not! All the signs were there--morning sickness, frequent naps, cravings, erratic behavior. How could I have not kjjown?

"Oooh,"
she cried, stamping her foot in anger as her tears fell softly. He had planned this, she just knew he had. He was highhanded enough and arrogant enough to believe he had the power over such things, and by God, if he just didn't! She should have known, for there had always been a prolonged absence from lovemaking after her flux, except . . .

"Oooh,"
she cried again, thinking he had already decided it was time for her to do her duty and present him with an heir! Another possession to add to his others.

She began to pace back and forth in agitation, remembering with startling clarity that weekend. While she seethed at his arrogance and highhandedness, telling herself he had seduced her, had she known the consequences, she would not . . .

She shook her head, and stopped her pacing. Nay, if the truth be known, she had been the seductress, not the seduced.

Her mind rebelled.
Consequences!
You ninny! You're having a baby, not a consequence. A soft smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and her hand moved to her belly. It was with wonderment she imagined a baby curled protectively within her, and amazement that she had been so unaware of it.

Her stomach rebelled as the queasiness came over her. Bile rose quickly and she covered her mouth and scrambled to a tree, dropping to her knees, becoming quite sick.

A strong, warm arm wrapped about her waist, bending her over as she heaved the contents of her belly.

"Easy, Princess, don't move. It will pass," he said gently, reassuringly. Tiffany complied with his request, grateful for his presence, and when her stomach stopped its fluttering and her head its spinning, she let him help her rise, and leaned against him with shaky legs.

"Take a sip and rinse out your mouth." Clinton tipped the bottle to her lips and she spat, a very unladylike gesture, but felt better for it.

"Feel better?" he asked, softly holding her steady. At her nod, he inquired, "Well enough to return?"

Again she nodded, then felt him lift her to his mount. He mounted behind her and nudged his horse forward.

Tiffany rested her head against his chest, quite weary. They rode slowly in companionable silence until she said softly, "I've behaved quite wretchedly this past week."

Clinton replied gently, "Expectant mothers are supposed to, Princess."

"You knew, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"About 'my damn child'? Usually the radiant mother-to-be informs the father of his heir." He smiled down as she looked up to face him.

"The baby is not damned! You know well I didn't mean it. Don't you?"

"Yes, I know. How could I ever think the mother of my heir would think such?"

Tiffany stiffened hearing 'heir.' Seeking to understand herself and sort out her fears, she fell into thought.

Again she broke the silence and stated quite blandly, voicing her fears, "You know, I will become quite fat and unattractive. No doubt you'll find me quite distasteful."

He smiled down at her, imagining her belly swollen, and said, "I expect you'll be quite rounded, but unattractive? Distasteful?" He shook his head. "Nay, I think not. I will no doubt still have my way with you--even if there is more of you," he added, grinning wickedly.

Seeing the unmistakable wide grin and glint of pride in his eyes, Tiffany took him to task, slapping playfully at him although she was quite pleased with his answer.

Smiling, she taunted, "Yet you will have to abstain, my lord, sometime."

Returning her smile, he countered, "Aye, but I'll manage the drought."

At her look of disbelief, he replied easily, "I would ensure your safety as well as that of my heir."

"I suppose your inflated male pride has not considered the possibility of a girl?"

A soft smile crossed his mouth, touching his eyes. "A possibility, love, but highly improbable, for males run in the family. There has not been a girl for generations."

Clinton gazed down, holding her eyes. "But, love, if by some change of fate you present me with a girl, I promise you I will buy her a gilded coach with four dapple grays."

She smiled up at him and said, "Would you, really?"

"Have you a doubt, Princess?"

She shook her head. "None, my lord."

After a moment she laughed and Clinton asked, "What's so amusing?"

"Poetic justice."

At his puzzled expression, she explained, "The Barencourtes defending a maiden's honor instead of taking it."

Clinton threw his head back, letting out a peal of throaty laughter.

As they drew closer to the estate, Tiffany softly asked, "Do you have no other children?"

"No, Princess, I have no bastard children I pay support for."

Tiffany smiled, inordinately pleased by his answer, and snuggled against him, safe and much contented.

The entire household buzzed with celebration over the duke's announcement.

Mortimer waylaid Germane in the pantry and, in answer to her questioning look, produced a bottle of vintage champagne, which they shared. No one was able to locate the two that afternoon.

Clarissa had arrived to a much-delighted Tiffany, and tears of joy reflected in Clarissa's eyes as she regarded her charge, thinking her baby was soon to have one of her own.

Tiffany rested that afternoon while Clinton posted letters to all family members, announcing the news of their expected bundle of joy.

When he was done, he sat back and lit a cigar and sipped his brandy. He was much the picture of a proud expectant father, a grin splitting his handsome face. This is how Rory found him.

"Well, now, if you don't look like the proud father-to- be." Rory reached for a cigar and poured himself a brandy, seating himself in the soft leather chair and raising a booted foot to rest on top of the desk. "Proud as the proverbial peacock, Clinton."

"Your day will come, Rory. I only hope I'm there when it does." Clinton smiled as he leaned back in his chair.

Both men sat in companionable silence, celebrating as men for generations have done--smoking good cigars, drinking fine brandy, and getting quite drunk!

Clinton's mouth moved slowly down the column of her neck, placing small, shivery kisses with its descent. He lowered his mouth over a dark, taut nipple, sucking gently on it. Hearing her moan as he tugged upon it, he raised his mouth, whispering, "Does that hurt, Princess?"

Running her fingers through his hair she whispered, "Nay, not how you mean it."

He began again running his tongue over the nipple of first one breast, then the other. His hands cupped them, feeling their weight.

Tiffany moaned as she felt him slide his tongue down her belly and into her woman's flesh. She cried aloud as his tongue worked its magic and brought her to pleasure. And when he slowly, deliriously entered her, she cried out in a shattering release and shortly felt him spill his hot seed into her.

Clinton shifted his weight onto his elbows so she would not bear it and smiled down at her. "I love you, Tiffany." And while she did not return the endearment, he listened to what her eyes told him.

He slowly withdrew from her, savoring the sensation, and rolled off, bringing her to his side. He felt her fingers swirl within the hair of his chest. He was a much-contented man, and he need not count his blessings, for his greatest one lay safely against him. He would keep her always safe, for she was his life.

"Clinton," she said, softly, "I am frightened."

He knew she feared the coming birth, and drew her closer to him. "I will be there. Nothing, not death itself, will keep me from being there."

And, as always, she felt safe with him and was able to drift off to a peaceful sleep.

Winifred dabbed at her tears with her hankie. She reread Clinton's letter--Tiffany was to be a mother!

She decided she would leave France come late October and spend the holiday in England and remain until the baby's birth in January. She reconsidered, thinking perhaps she'd have her agent locate a small home there for her. After all, she'd want to visit her great-niece or nephew frequently!

"Jacques," she called while she made a mental list of things she must get in order.

"Pia, Pia donde esta?"
called Evette. Tears of joy coursed down her cheeks as her hand held Clinton's letter. It was too good to be true--a brand-new Barencourte was expected come the first of the year!

There was so much to do: open up the dowager cottage she hadn't used in years, hire new servants, and locate Tristan. She had not felt so healthy and happy in years.

"Pia! Damn, where is that girl?"

Ali Khan nodded knowingly. "Ah, any day a man's seed finds fertile ground is a day of celebration. Thanks be to Allah. Perhaps that slave girl would assist you in your celebration. Who knows, maybe your seed will strike ground as fertile this night."

Tristan smiled, thinking not of what the girl offered, but rather proudly that the Barencourte numbers were increasing.