‘Then come with me. He will believe you.’
‘Go with you?’ Marc still looked as if he’d rather accompany a pen of swine.
Why couldn’t her brother be on her side about this?
‘He will believe you.’ Edmund repeated, keeping his gaze steady.
Amelie interrupted. ‘Neither of you have to go. I will write Papa a letter.’
Edmund turned to her and gently touched her arm. ‘No letter, Amelie. I must face your father. It is the only way.’
It was good of Edmund to offer, but Amelie was certain he would be treated very ill.
Marc’s shoulders fell. ‘Edmund is right. This is not news for our parents to read in a letter. Papa is more likely to approve if Edmund tells him like a man.’
It pained Amelie that she’d caused her brother to be so angry at Edmund. Before this Marc had held him in high regard.
Her brother straightened. ‘It is but a six-hour ride. We can be at Northdon House before nightfall if we leave soon.’
‘I should accompany you,’ Amelie said.
‘No!’ Edmund cried.
‘Absolutely not!’ her brother added.
At least they agreed on that idea.
‘Not in your condition,’ Tess added. ‘You must take care, or you will endanger your health.’
Six hours on horseback could not be good for the baby.
Edmund turned back to Glenville. ‘I can ride the way I am dressed, and I do not need a change of clothing, but I need to hire a horse.’
Marc started for the door. ‘I’ll send Staines to the stables to tell them to saddle my horse and to hire one for you.’
Tess followed him. ‘I will tell Cook to pack you some food.’
Amelie and Edmund were alone in the room. Her insides were churning, not only from the morning sickness, but also from the stress of this encounter. The stress of everything.
She turned to Edmund. ‘My brother blames you. My father will blame you, too. It is I who should tell him what really happened.’
He looked down on her. ‘What really happened was I took advantage of you. Let it go at that, Amelie. That night in Brussels I should have seen you safely to the hotel and left you there. That fact cannot be disputed. I must accept their anger just as I must accept that our marrying is what we must do.’
‘But it is my fault,’ she said in a small voice.
He touched her arm and attempted a smile. ‘I have faced men in battle lunging at me with swords and shooting pistols. I’ve had cannon balls miss me by inches. Facing your father will not be so difficult nor so dangerous.’
She was not so certain.
She placed her palm on her abdomen to quiet her roiling stomach. ‘Marrying me changes things for you. I am so dreadfully sorry.’
His gaze seemed to harden. ‘We simply do what we must, Amelie. That is how we manage. One task at a time. The first task is your father’s permission.’
It took no more than an hour before Edmund and Glenville were on the road to Hertfordshire, where the Northdon country estate was located. Glenville rode a few paces ahead of Edmund, clearly having no wish to converse with him. Glenville’s displeasure was palpable, and Edmund could not blame him. Edmund would react the same—worse, in fact—if a near stranger had violated any of his sisters.
Edmund let Glenville decide when to stop and rest the horses, when they should quicken the pace and when they should slow. Why quibble about such trifles? They rode past crumbling Roman ruins and pretty villages with houses all in a line next to the road. They passed through busy market towns and quiet villages where the few people in the street took notice and eyed them with curiosity.
Edmund had too much time to think, and that was not a pleasant circumstance. Turn off your thoughts, he told himself. Numb your mind as you used to on long marches in Spain.
* * *
The sun was very low in the sky when they rode through a pretty village that time appeared to have forgotten. The houses and shops looked as if the War of the Roses had been fought the day before. Edmund knew they must be close. The village was called Northdon.
Soon he spied a large Palladian house in the distance, its white stone gleaming in the waning light. Northdon House, no doubt. At its grand wrought-iron gate, Glenville dismounted and opened it.
As they approached the house, Glenville said, ‘Let me do the talking.’
‘No.’ This time Edmund must be in charge. ‘I tell him.’
‘Let me do the talking up to that point, then,’ Glenville said anxiously.
Glenville’s presence was greeted with happy excitement. Both his parents ran to greet him. There were hugs and kisses and exclamations of pleasure showered on him before Lord and Lady Northdon even seemed to notice Edmund, who was greeted with greater reserve but kind civility.
They all retired to a drawing room.
As soon as Lord and Lady Northdon were seated, Edmund faced them. ‘We have come because I have a very important matter to discuss.’
Lady Northdon looked worried, Lord Northdon apprehensive.
Edmund took a breath. ‘I will not mince words. Your daughter and I must marry. She is carrying my child.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ Lady Northdon cried.
Lord Northdon’s face grew red with rage. ‘You did what to my daughter?’ he said after.
‘She carries my child,’ Edmund repeated.
‘You ruddy bastard!’ Northdon charged at him.
Glenville held him back.
Edmund stood his ground. ‘I accept your anger, sir. I understand it. But what is important now is for us to marry quickly and avoid as much scandal as possible. To accomplish that we need your permission.’
‘No!’ Northdon cried, his son still holding his arm. Northdon shrugged him off but faced him. ‘Amelie does not wish this, does she, Marc?’
‘It is what she wants,’ Glenville answered.
‘It cannot be!’ his father cried.
‘Ma pauvre fille,’ whispered Lady Northdon. ‘Is she in good health?’
Edmund answered her. ‘She is sick in the mornings and greatly fatigued.’
‘You
