husband, the Honourable John Frederick Worthington, and even her father—
No. Her father had never used that word. He was infinitely sad that she did not conceive, but he had never used that word. Not to her face, at least. Perhaps Papa had simply thought she was a slow breeder, like most of the Rosevales. He himself had had only one child in two long marriages. And Aunt Charlotte had none.
But the doctors had been so sure. And her husband had been so very angry, so insistent that she try every possible cure. John Frederick had forced her to give up her riding and almost all other kinds of exercise, and shut her up at home under the watchful eye of that tipsy midwife. He had given her disgusting food to eat and stood over her to make sure she swallowed every last bite. And he had come to her bed at every opportunity, insisting that she do her duty as his wife. ‘You are mine,’ he would always say. ‘Mine!’ There had been times when she had even been glad of the untimely arrival of her courses, in spite of the unbearable pain.
Except for that last time.
Her courses had been more than seven weeks late. Her body had felt…different. She had dared to hope…and made the fatal mistake of telling John Frederick of those hopes.
Too soon. Within a fortnight, she had lost the babe.
Ignoring Angel’s terrible distress, the hovering midwife had immediately declared that she would never be able to carry a child to term. Worse, the woman had told her husband, too.
John Frederick was coldly furious. He said not a single word. He simply ordered the servants out of the room and then laid into Angel’s pain-filled body with his riding crop. She thought he was going to kill her.
But some vestige of humanity must have remained, for he threw down the crop and stalked off to the stables in the pouring rain, to vent his rage by galloping full tilt to the furthest reaches of the estate.
The resulting chill was probably inevitable. It went to his lungs. And in the end, it had killed him.
Angel had buried the grief for her child deep within her heart. She had said nothing to anyone about her loss or about what her husband had done, though she knew that her abigail suspected. There was no point in distressing Papa, who knew Angel too well to think that she was happy with the man he had chosen for her. If he noticed that her mourning was less than sincere, he never said so. And, crucially, he told her that there was no need for her to rush to take another husband.
I shall continue to follow his advice, Angel resolved, waiting for the pain to subside so that she could rise from her chair. I shall not allow Aunt Charlotte, or anyone else, to push me into marriage, for what would it bring me but pain and even more grief? The chances of my bearing an heir must be very slim indeed. I should be trading my new-found independence for—for what? At best, companionship. At worst…at worst, yet another enslavement of body and soul.
No. It is out of the question. I shall never marry again. Never.
‘My lady…’
Angel struggled to open her eyes. How long had she been asleep?
‘My lady, the Earl is here. He insists on seeing you. Says he will not leave unless you come down.’
Angel shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. What on earth was the abigail talking about? ‘Earl, Benton? I do not understand.’
‘The Earl of Penrose. Your ladyship’s cousin.’
Angel sat bolt upright, moving so fast that for a moment she was quite dizzy. She put a hand on the back of the chaise-longue for support. ‘I… The Earl of Penrose? Here? What can he possibly want with me?’
‘Willett told him your ladyship was indisposed, but he still refused to leave. Said as how he’d come up here to see you in your bedchamber if you would not go down to him.’
Angel swung her legs round and put her feet on to the floor. Yes, that was better; she was steadier now. Thank goodness she had not taken the laudanum that Benton had been pressing on her. She took a deep breath, waiting for the return of the pain. It seemed to have gone. Aunt Charlotte’s tisane had worked, for once.
‘Does my aunt know that the Earl is here?’
‘I am not sure, m’lady. Willett offered to fetch her, seeing as you was asleep, but the Earl said—’ Benton blushed rosily. ‘The Earl said that his business was with your ladyship, and that no one else would do.’
Angel frowned. It was clear that the Earl’s choice of words had been somewhat less circumspect than the abigail’s version. Whatever Cousin Frederick’s errand, he was in no friendly mood. She stood up and straightened her shoulders. She would go and meet this unknown cousin. And she would make it clear that, as head of the Rosevale family, she was not to be browbeaten by anyone, even a belted earl.
‘You had best fetch me a fresh gown and tidy my hair, Benton. I would not have his lordship think that I have been dragged through a hedge.’
Benton smiled uncertainly, but did as she was bid. ‘Shall I ask her ladyship to join you?’ she said as she patted the last silver curl into place.
‘No. Yes…’ Angel thought back to Aunt Charlotte’s uncharitable opinion of Cousin Frederick and her rash enthusiasm for Pierre’s claim. The old lady was quite capable of saying more than she ought, especially when she found herself face to face with a man she believed to be an enemy. ‘No,’ she said with determination. ‘If his lordship wishes to discuss a matter of business with me, I shall meet him alone. I am the head of the family. I am perfectly capable of handling my own affairs.’
She headed for the door, throwing a sideways glance at the glass to ensure her gown was presentable. She was no longer in mourning but, for this encounter, the dove-grey gown felt exactly right—demure and quietly elegant, as befitted a widow and a lady of rank.
Max had been pacing up and down in the drawing room for fully half an hour. The delay was doing nothing for his temper. Trust a woman to pretend to be indisposed in order to avoid an unwelcome visitor. She would learn that he was not so easily gulled. He would force her to receive him, even if he had to pace this room for a week.
He only hoped that she would come alone, when she did finally arrive, for he was not sure that he would be able to curb his temper if she brought her aunt. The old hag had encouraged the Marquis’s unforgivable insults to Aunt Mary. And now she had produced a French pretender, like a rabbit from a hat. Did she really think she could succeed with such an obvious deception? She had probably helped her niece to start all these confounded rumours, too. No doubt these two harpies thought that it would improve their protégé’s chances if all London was buzzing with gossip about the long-lost heir.
Long-lost impostor, more like! If the Frenchman—
The double doors opened. For a second, a tall stately lady dressed in half-mourning stood framed within the opening. Then she nodded slightly and took a pace forward, allowing the butler to close the doors at her back.
She did not speak, nor did she offer her hand. She was assessing him, just as he was assessing her. He would not have called her beautiful—her expression was much too severe for beauty—but her colouring was striking. She had hair like spun silver. He recognised it as the famous Rosevale hair, inherited from the first Baroness, centuries before, but not found in anyone on his side of the family. Would she think him a changeling, with his dark locks?
No.
