Not Quite Married (32 page)

The very picture of health.”

“So do you.” She blushed, wondering if he could in some way sense the secret she now carried inside her. “You’re more handsome than—what war?”

“With France.” His brow crinkled in surprise. “Haven’t you heard?”

“I have been at sea for almost a month; I’ve heard nothing.”

“There’s been a revolt in France,” he declared, waving his footmen up the gangway to help Dyso with the trunks stacked on the deck. “They’ve toppled the king and now there are rumors that the new regime will wage war on England. Our French relations barely escaped in time.”

“But we don’t have French relations.” Her smile disappeared.

“Not we.
You.
” Weston watched her face carefully. “The marquis de Saunier and his family have escaped to London and are even now searching for a suitable residence. It seems the marquis invested with London banks and brokerages whatever he could smuggle out of the country.”

A chill went through Brien at the news that Raoul’s family was in England.

“On the way home,” her father continued, “you must tell us about your trip.”

She put her arm through her father’s and then stopped, realized he had spoken in the plural, and was looking ahead to where a tall, dark figure was descending from their carriage. She slowed.

Her heart stopped as the man nodded.

“The marquis insisted on coming with me to greet you,” her father said tersely, nodding to the man standing beside the carriage steps.

There stood Raoul Trechaud . . . plus thirty years. Her blood ran cold as she watched him stride to greet her . . . with Raoul’s movement, Raoul’s bearing, Raoul’s fathomless eyes. She suddenly had difficulty getting her breath.

“Ahhh, so this is our dear Brien,” the marquis de Saunier declared, doffing his hat to reveal black hair with handsome silver temples and time-etched lines around his eyes. “You are every bit as beautiful as your father and my son said.” He reached for her gloved hand and brushed the back of it with his lips . . . broad, sensuous lips scored by years of pursing with disdain.

“How gallant of you, my lord,” she managed through her constricted throat. Swallowing hard, she continued. “Forgive me.

Your appearance was startling. Your resemblance to Raoul . . .

how strange that he never mentioned it.”

“My son was not one to bide time on unimportant matters. No doubt he was too busy praising your beauty.” His dark eyes slid over her in a tactile way that made her feel assessed like a commodity and claimed. When he brushed her hand with his lips a second time, she drew it back and clamped it around her father’s arm. “Or perhaps he was too busy enjoying your beauty .

. . eh, daughter?”

Brien retreated half a step, repelled by his familiarity.
Daughter?

“The marquis called on me shortly after arriving in London and I offered our assistance in helping him and his family find suitable lodgings,” the earl declared, watching Brien’s reaction to her father-in-law. “A pity, Marquis, that you and Brien couldn’t have met under more favorable circumstances.”

“Yes.” The marquis still stared intently at her. “The whims of fortune. But for them, our houses might now be joined in the person of
le bel enfant. Quel dommage.
” He forced a smile that sent a shiver down Brien’s spine. “But it was not to be.”

She was frantic as her father handed her up into the carriage and climbed in behind her. Her breath caught in her throat as Dyso appeared beside the carriage, carrying the small jewelry case she had forgotten in her hurry to greet her father. She slipped to the side of the carriage to look out and saw her beloved Dyso standing face-to-face with the marquis. The hatred that simmered in the gentle giant’s eyes caused her to gasp.

The sound caused Dyso to look her way and he held out the case to her, then rolled on toward the back of the carriage. The marquis turned to the carriage steps with a smirk of amusement.

“I see you kept the dumb brute,” the marquis said genially as he settled back into the seat across from them. “How
sentimental
of you.”

Brien looked at her father, who had caught the volatile exchange between the Frenchman and Dyso. Weston quickly hid his startled reaction beneath a bland, aristocratic smile.

“Dyso is a most loyal and capable servant,” Brien said, wishing she could stop the carriage and toss the Frenchman out in the street. “He saved my life the night of the fire.”

“Yes.” The marquis’s aristocratic mask slipped briefly to reveal a glimpse of simmering contempt. “A pity he could not have saved my son’s as well.”

For a few moments, no one spoke.

“
La marquise
did not come?” Brien said, trying to find a neutral topic.

“Non,”
the marquis responded. “Her health suffers in this tribulation. She seldom ventures out. You must call on us. Soon.

Come for dinner.” He relaxed back, watching Brien closely.

“And there is another who longs to see you. Louis is away looking at property. He will be devastated that he missed the chance to welcome you home.”

“So Louis is in London, too.” She found his exaggeration suffocating.

“Perhaps you will find time to receive him at your home, yes?”

“Perhaps. I’ve been away for more than two months. I’ve a great deal of catching up to do. I will be quite busy.”

“My dear, surely you will not deny us the chance to get to know you better,” the marquis said with a bit too much force, then smiled. “You are a most beautiful and eligible young woman.

We, like the rest of London society, appreciate both qualities.”

“As to my beauty—or lack of it—others must judge. But I can say with certainty that I am not the least bit
eligible.
I shall never marry again.” She met the Frenchman’s penetrating stare head-on and refused to blink.

“So firm a stand for one so young,” the marquis remarked, turning to her father.

“Those were once my sentiments.” Feeling the strong undercurrents of meaning, the earl measured his words carefully.

“But as you come to know my daughter better, you will find she has a fine head on her shoulders. I have come to trust her judgment . . . especially in these matters.”

“How very English of you,” the marquis said with a hint of a smirk.

A sense of foreboding hung over his subsequent words, weighting them with layers of meaning. There was a magnetism about the man, an animalism that Brien had experienced full force in Raoul. His presence overwhelmed and absorbed those around him, even her. And it wasn’t a pleasant surrender, as with Aaron, but one that whispered warnings to her every nerve to be on guard.

By the time they delivered the marquis to a gentleman’s club, Brien was gray with distress and her hands were splayed protectively over her waist. As the carriage continued toward Harcourt, her father reached over to pat her arm reassuringly.

“Brien, I realize that the Trechauds’ presence here may recall painful memories for you. But they have been through a great deal in these past few months. It behooves us to behave with civility toward them.”

Brien was relieved to be able to speak her mind. “I owe them nothing. You should know . . . I won’t be accepting their invitations to dine and if we chance to meet otherwise, I will be civil and no more.”

Meeting her father’s troubled expression, she made it clearer still.

“All legal claims they might have held over me were voided by Raoul’s death. If they try to press for money from the marriage settlement they will have my full and unequivocal opposition.

And they will find me a worthy adversary.”

“I suspect they will.” The earl smiled. “I leave the matter entirely in your hands.” But as they neared Harcourt, the earl rubbed his chin and sighed quietly, wondering if his daughter were not further from a settled and happy life than ever.

BRIEN SLEPT BADLY on her first night home and, despite the comfort of familiar surroundings, awakened with a sense of dread that she laid squarely at the feet of the dark marquis. Climbing from the bed the next morning, she fought a wave of nausea to pad across the floor to look at herself in the pier glass. Her waist was still narrow and even under close scrutiny, her belly gave no indication of what was happening inside her. Perhaps, she told herself, she should have a physician’s opinion and advice.

She smoothed her nightdress down over her belly and imagined it growing. Her chest tightened at the realization that the child she carried was the proof of her time with Aaron Durham. As such, it was precious to her. And if worse came to worst—

What was she thinking? Worse
had
come to worst, and it was about time she faced it! The consequences she had feared and dreaded were now realities. She was going to have a child. A baby. A beautiful little child. With that simple statement her own wishes, her desire for independence, and her own freedom became moot. She would soon bring a new life into the world, and from this moment on, her needs would come second to those of her child.

It amazed her that she felt no hesitation and not the slightest reservation or resentment. How could her feelings have changed so totally in so short a span of time? She thought of the whirlwind of emotions Helen’s baby had stirred in her and wondered how much more powerful they would be for her own child. Already she felt a curious sense of connection . . . of pride . . .

As she ran her hand over the small mound of her belly, her entire body warmed and softened with longing for the little life cradled inside her.

Aaron’s child.

There would be questions and speculation and a flurry of gossip to contend with. For a moment she anticipated how that avalanche of outrage and disapproval would feel. Vicious.

Overwhelming. But her stubborn common sense returned to steady her plummeting spirits. She always found the strength to cope, to stand up for herself and those she loved. She could deal with it all and survive. But not alone.

Her father wanted a baby, an heir so badly . . . and she had been so adamant about not producing one . . . Would he now condemn her for what he would surely see as a scandalous moral failure?

Or might he be persuaded to accept the child into his heart and his household . . . to embrace his grandchild the way he had finally embraced his headstrong daughter?

Tenderness swept over her and she knelt, wrapping her arms protectively around her belly. For one moment she had a fierce and overpowering impulse to share the joy of that new life with someone. Someone specific.

Aaron.

It was his baby as well as hers. And she had left him half a world away.

TEN DAYS LATER, on the eve of the Opera Ball, the earl was summoned to Bristol by an urgent communique from his solicitor in the city. A ship of Weston Trading’s fleet had been lost at sea; its valuable cargo would mean a terrible loss to the trading company. Nervous investors had already gotten word of the loss and had begun clamoring for payment. The earl’s calm, controlled manner was needed to help restore order to the chaotic situation.

He arranged for the duke and duchess of Hargrave to escort Brien, and left her with strict instructions to carry on as though nothing were amiss. She must attend the Opera Ball as planned, for Weston Trading, if for no other reason. Her most urgent pleas could not move him to relent and allow her to accompany him instead.

Candlelight, bent and scattered by crystal prisms into thousands of tiny rainbows, flooded the main hall of the duke of Stafford’s palatial home. That elegant light shimmered in the sea-green watered silk of Brien’s dress and cast a golden glow about her honey curls and creamy skin. Her excitement mingled with trepidation as she floated into the ballroom on the duke’s arm.

Would society remember her? Would they accept her as before?

Her question was answered as the countess of Albermarle, one of society’s great doyennes, greeted them warmly as they entered the grand salon. Soon, admiring looks and murmurs washed over her from all directions. She responded graciously to old friends and new, while battling butterflies in her stomach and lightness in her head.

To Brien’s perception, the lights were brighter and the mood gayer than ever before. Talk of war with France had heightened the pleasures of the here and now. There was a feeling that

“now” was all that could be grasped, and with that feeling came a freedom to take pleasures as they came. This was the last fling before the rigors of war settled over London. The gowns were more daring, the music louder, and the wine flowed more freely.

Charles Medford and Reydon Hardwick were there to claim dances and offer her glasses of wine punch . . . which she sipped sparingly. Then she heard an announcement of guests that sobered her instantly:
the marquis and marquise de Saunier and
Lord Louis Trechaud.
As victims of the revolutionary muddle across the channel, they were welcomed roundly—even applauded—by their fellow aristocrats. Brien felt her capricious stomach revolt at the prospect of facing them, but had no reasonable excuse to avoid them, especially when they set a course straight for her with half of London watching.

“My dear Brien.” The marquis seized her hands and kissed them.

“I don’t believe you’ve met my marquise.” The delicate dark-eyed woman kissed both of her cheeks with an air of sadness. “And of course you know our Louis.”

“Brien,” Louis said with a courtly bow. “How wonderful to see you again. You are beautiful, as always.”

“You flatter me,
monsieur
. And your English is so improved that I can understand it now.” She managed a stiff smile. Pale, gentle Louis had always been different from the cunning, mercurial Raoul. She felt relieved to be able to show acceptance of one member of the family in front of so many inquisitive eyes.

“I—along with the rest of my family—have been eager for your return,” Louis said, offering her his arm. She was forced to accept in order to escape the marquis’s acquisitive stare, and allowed Louis to escort her into the drawing room.

“I have only just returned from America . . . a business matter.

And you? I understand you have been traveling as well.”