Wicked (29 page)

"Let me see that again. Hm
m
m." His gaze scrutinized the brief signature as though willing it to speak. "If you're right, it's about time," he said, setting the letter down. "With his boys grown, away from home, why not allow himself some happiness. And I like Emma; she's good to him."

"Everyone
would be pleased if he married Emma. He'd have to resign from his ambassadorship, thoug
h
—
a
divorce isn't likely to be accepted abroad."

"Perhaps Vivian could die in an accident," Sinjin murmured.

Chelsea's eyes widened momentarily before casting an admonishing look at her husband. "Don't tease, Sinjin."

"Who's teasing?" he negligently drawled.

"Much as a number of people might agree with you," she admitted, "it wouldn't be proper."

His eyelids lowered marginally. "And I've always been concerned with propriety."

"Sinjin!"

"I shan't, I won't, I promise," he instantly appeased, grinning. "She's safe from me as long as she stays out of my reach. Beyond that I can't guarantee anything. Is that fair?" he playfully inquired.

Although they'd been married for years, he found he loved his wife more deeply now than he'd thought possible in his youth. And he'd not offend her more benevolent nature even if he felt Vivian's cruelty deserved retribution. "I suppose Damien's old enough to handle his wife himself."

"He probably feels he is, darling, even if you wish otherwise."

"You needn't look at me like that," he said, "with all that worry and concern. I'll behave." But he intended to see their barristers first thing tomorrow. It never hurt to have all the arrangements in place should Damien finall
y
rid himself of his malevolent wife.

"My goodness, Jane's seen Beau too," Chelsea remarked, perusing Jane Maxwell's flowing script. "She's more discreet than Damien in her reaction; she only mentions meeting Beau and Miss Blythe outside a dressmaker's."

"Ah . . . the Gloucestershire miss will be much better dressed now. And I imagine she has a bit of new jewelry too." Sinjin was well acquainted with beautiful young ladies proficient in adding to their fortunes. His tick at modistes' and jewelers' in his youth was always a point of heated discussion with his bankers.

"Tom and Jane were also at the embassy the night Beau danced," Chelsea said. "And Miss Blythe was wearing a dazzling gow
n
—
J
ane describes it as rose colored."

"Did she mention its cost?" Sinjin sardonically queried.

His wife looked up in mild remonstrance. "Jane is only politely letting us know our son is more smitten than usual."

Miss Blythe must be very good in bed, Sinjin thought; smitten wasn't a man's word.

"But no one saw them after that, Jane goes on, and now the
Siren
has sailed."

Sensible of the extraordinary inducements necessary for his son to give up a wager, Sinjin reflected the lady must-have wanted to dance very muc
h
—
a
nd knew how to be convincing. Perhaps he should direct the barristers to check into Miss Blythe as well. "I
do
hope," he said, a small concern in his voice when he thought of the length of time this woman and Beau would be together until Naples, "we won't soon become grandparents." A child would be a powerful bargaining chip.

"Do you think Beau's serious about this woman?" Chelsea regarded her husband with interest.

"I think the woman may be serious about him, which worries me more. I'll write to Damien and have him send additional details."

"Perhaps Beau's found someone he loves."

"I don't begrudge him love no matter who the lady. But I'd not like him taken advantage of by some scheming female."

"He's too much like you, dea
r
—
d
are I say, ruthless about women. I doubt there's a female capable of scheming her way into his heart," she pointed out, hoping Miss Blythe's affections weren't involved, for her son's affairs were always brief. "But on the subject of scheming women," she softly said, "I have a small confession."

"Don't tell me you've already invited Vivian over."

"No."

"Thank god."

"It's something . . . more personal."

"You've overspent your allowance." He smiled. "I don't care, you know that. I'll tell Berkley to give you more."

"It's not about money."

"You bought that Arab filly we disagreed on."

"I should have but I didn't and now Kendall has her. But it's something else. Do you remember the night at Oakham when we decided to stay at that inn instead of riding back to our hunting box?"

"I remember. Fondly." His eyes warmed with memory.

"How strongly do you feel about not having more children?"

"What are you saying?" He pushed aside the papers before him on the desktop as though he needed clear space between them to understand the implications of her question.

"Tell me." She watched him intently.

"I don't want you risking your life. Some women can have children like steps each year, others can't.
You
can't." She'd lost their first child and Chelsea's last pregnancy had been difficult too.

Her heart was beating much too fast and when she spoke, her voice was lacking in volume. "I didn't use a Greek sponge that night at Oakham."

"You lied to me?" His cool tone matched his gaze.

"Everything was too heated. I wasn't rational at the time. . . . I'm sorry."

He inhaled slowly, his eyes drilling into her. "You're pregnant?"

She nodded, unable to respond to the terrible accusation in his eyes. And then she said very, very softly, "I want you to be happy about this."

"No," he growled. Drawing in a steadying breath, he shifted in his chair, restlessly raking his fingers through his glossy black hair. A baby! Dread inundated his senses. Agitated, he abruptly stood, paced two steps, stopped, swung around. "Jesus, Chelsea," he incredulously said, "Jesus!" Gazing down at her, his mind in foment, he could think only of her peril. "I would have found some other way to please you that night. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I won't ride this time," she promised in a rush, "or do any of the training work with the horses. If I hadn't ridden in those races so late, maybe I wouldn't have had problems when Sally was born."

"You don't know that. Maybe the riding had nothing to do with it," he said, frowning. "Do you think I want to lose you?" Shaken, touched to the core, he softly asked, "Are you sure? Could you be mistaken?"

"I'm sure." She spoke in very low, distressed tones. "But Sally's five now, Sinjin. I'd like another child."

He turned and walked away, standing motionless before the window, his ta
l
l form tense, unyielding as he looked down on the rain-swept square. The bare branches of the trees were dark and wet outlined against the gray sky, their spring buds still tightly curled against the cold. The melancholy day suited the melancholy news. "It shouldn't have been your decision alone," he said, bracing his hands against the cool glass, wondering ho
w
he'd live if he lost her.

"I didn't deliberately plan it. We wouldn't have stayed if the weather had been better. I'm sorry, I was thoughtless. . . . I'm sorry," she whispered. Why couldn't he be pleased the way she was?

"A September birthing," he murmured to the square outside. He remembered the night at the inn; it had snowed. "Do you want the child?" He spoke too low to be heard, and turning around, he repeated his question, his tone raised just enough to reach her.

"Don't ask me that with such a cold look in your eyes." That he could take all the pleasure from her joy sent her voice and temper flaring. "I don't care what you think," she heatedly said. "I'm happy about the baby."

"I want midwives hired. I want them here tomorrow," he curtly said as if she hadn't spoken. "And you're not allowed to ride."

"Don't you dare give me orders." Rising from her chair, she glared at him, resentment burning in her eyes. "When you're ready to deal with this rationally, come and talk to me." And she turned to walk from the room.

Furious, he plunged after her, caught her by the arm, and spun her around before she'd moved half a dozen feet from the desk, his eyes bright with anger. "How the hell do I deal with this rationally!" he harshly exhorted. "You might be dead in September! Tell me how I set that aside and smile and tell you I'm happy," he said, flint hard, sullen.

"You're hurting me," she bristled, twin spots of color rising to her cheeks.

His hand dropped away, a muscle twitched across his cheekbones. "Don't walk out."

And they stood inches apart, the tension between them vibrating in the hushed room.

"Nothing frightens me but this," he said quietly. He ached with powerlessnes
s
—
t
his man of wealth and power. "I want to at least minimize the risks."

"And I want you to be happy for us," Chelsea whispered, the child inside her
their
child.

He exhaled and looked up at the ceiling, at an earlier Duke of Seth allegorically portrayed in his chariot triu
m
pha
n
t, riding to heaven. An unhappy vision in his current state of mind. His gaze swiftly jerked away, returning to his wife, whom he loved more than life itself. "I can't be happy right now," he murmured, wishing he could take back that night at Oakham.

"Could you try?" she gently asked, touching his strong hand. Their love was rare in the world of privilege where marriages were arranged for reasons of fortune and political power.

His fingers abruptly closed over hers, his grip so tight, she involuntarily squeaked in dismay but he loosened his hold only marginally. "If I try to deal with this, will you listen to the midwives?"

"How many midwives?" she asked, smiling faintly.

"As many as I can f
i
nd." His smile was still sad.

"I'll try," she answered as he had.

"If something should happen to yo
u
—"

"Hush, you'll frighten the baby."

He found himself visualizing the child for the first time when she spoke of it with such certainty, but then she'd had weeks already to get used to the idea. "Sally will be jealous."

"She likes you best. You'll have to spend more time with her."

"Nell will be appalled, of course. How can you do this to me? she'll say." His mouth quirked faintly at the thought. "And Jac
k
—"

"Will ignore it all." Each time he spoke of the baby she felt an overwhelming love for him. "Jack's indifference is at least preferable to resentment," she said, "and we could hire a new Italian dance master for Nell. Every young girl forgets all else with a pretty young man about."

"Just so long as
you
don't look at him."

"I'm sure a matron with four children would be outside his notice."

"You're still not allowed to look," he brusquely said. At thirty-one his wife was one of the most beautiful woman in London. And he'd bedded enough married ladies in the past to know that the designation matron didn't restrict amorous adventures.

"Yes, dear," she sweetly murmured. "Do you think then this fifth child might put to rest some of those pursuing females constantly trying to gain your attention?"

"What females?" His gaze was studiously blank.

"The ones who
still
send you billets-doux."

"Pi
m
s has standing orders to toss them."

He knew. How could he not? At forty-one, he still drew every eye with his grace and beauty. "I'm reassured."

"As well you should be with a faithful husband."

"A rarity, I know. Thank you."

"You must be careful now and take no chances." His fingers tightened against the fear flooding his mind. "Promise me."

"I promise."

"No riding."

"No riding."

"And carriage rides only on well-maintained roads."

"Yes, dear."

"I'll have the stud moved down to Enfield."

"Really, that's not necessary."

"Humor me," he firmly said. "And you shouldn't be walking. I'll carry you."

She laughed at his worried expression. "Please, darling, I'm feeling quite well, but after the baby's born, you may carry her or him all you wish."

"I'd rather carry you."

"I know," she whispered, stroking his hand, which held her close. "Would you like to carry me to our bedroom now? I have this craving for kisses."

"Just kisses," he warned, her new fragility unnerving.

"Of course, just kisses," she lied. "I feel so tired suddenly . . . and you're so strong," she purred, "and we haven't made love since last night."