Bound by One Scandalous Night Page 7

  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 know this?’ Glenville looked surprised.

  Edmund turned to him. ‘She told me.’ He faced Lord Northdon again. ‘Do we have your permission?’

  ‘I would rather kill you,’ Northdon snapped.

  ‘Then your daughter will have an illegitimate child.’ Edmund kept his voice as even as possible. He was used to people hating him because of his birth. This was not much different. ‘I wish to prevent that.’

  ‘You have to give permission, Papa,’ Glenville said. ‘It will be best for Amelie.’

  ‘Marriage to this—this bastard cannot be what is best for her.’ Northdon spat out the word bastard.

  ‘He is the child’s father,’ Glenville pressed. ‘You must allow them to marry.’

  ‘Give your permission, John!’ Lady Northdon became more agitated. ‘Remember Lucien! I will not lose my daughter the way we lost Lucien.’

  Who was Lucien?

  Lord Northdon’s shoulders slumped, and he suddenly looked old and feeble, which he was certainly not. ‘Yes, Ines,’ he said in a weak voice. ‘Not like Lucien.’

  A pall came over the room, as thick as smoke.

  When Lord Northdon finally raised his head, his eyes were filled with pain. ‘Please get him out of my sight before I change my mind and kill him.’

  ‘Come.’ Lady Northdon took Edmund by the arm. ‘You must be hungry.’

  Lady Northdon was still a beautiful woman, although her features, so like Amelie’s, were pinched with stress and unhappiness. The crisp sunny September day had been rendered bleak—by Edmund. If only he could simply remount that horse and ride far away from all of them.

  But that would not safeguard his future son or daughter.

  Lady Northdon led him to a smaller drawing room, one with many windows and furnished with a table and chairs. The breakfast room, Edmund thought.

  ‘I will have Cook prepare some food. Someone will bring it in a moment. Please enjoy your repast and wait for me here. I will come back for you.’

  It seemed expedient to agree. ‘As you wish it, madame.’

  A few minutes later, a servant brought him a tray.

  He ate the warm bread and cold meat, downed a cup of tea and waited. Finally Lady Northdon returned carrying a letter.

  He stood.

  ‘It is the permission. Signed and sealed.’ She handed him the folded paper.

  ‘Merci, madame.’ He took the letter and slipped it into a pocket inside his coat.

  She looked up at him. ‘Treat my daughter well, s’il vous plaît.’

  He met her eyes. ‘You have my promise.’

  She held his gaze for a moment before gesturing for him to follow her back to the hall. He assumed he was taking his leave. At least he was not leaving the house through the tradesmen’s door.

  On the way he asked, ‘Who is Lucien?’

  She paused and turned towards him. ‘My son. My first son.’ Her words were strained.

  ‘Why was he spoken of today?’ he persisted.

  She averted her gaze. ‘He was killed in a carriage accident on his way to Gretna Green.’

  ‘I see.’ Gretna Green. The village in Scotland that was close to the border and a frequent destination for hasty, unlicensed weddings. He did not ask Lady Northdon to explain further. He had no desire to cause her more pain. She’d been an ally, albeit a reluctant one. He was grateful to her for it.

  She turned and continued to walk to the hall. ‘Say nothing of your situation to anyone,’ she said, as if they’d not just spoken of her dead son. ‘We wish no one to know, not even the servants. Let them guess, if they must, but no one must know.’

  ‘I give my word.’ He never intended to speak of the reason of his marriage. Scandal was best dealt with by a closed mouth.

  They reached the hall, where a footman handed him his hat and gloves. The man crossed the hall to the door ready to open it and, Edmund supposed, eject this unwanted visitor.

  ‘Your horse will be ready for you outside,’ Lady Northdon said.

  He bowed to her and spoke quietly. ‘Thank you for the refreshment. You did not have to be so kind.’

  She shrugged. ‘I am French. We expect these things to happen, no?’

  He smiled inwardly. She sounded like Amelie.

  Lady Northdon went on. ‘Lord Northdon and I will travel to London as soon as we can arrange it. In two or three days, I expect.’

  He reached out his hand. ‘I will keep my promises, madame.’

  She hesitated before accepting his handshake. ‘Bon voyage, monsieur.’

  Edmund walked out the door to his waiting horse. He’d ride to the village and take lodging in an inn there before heading back to London in the morning. After a wash up and a change of clothing, his first stop in London would be Doctors’ Commons and the office of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

  For the special licence.

  * * *

  That evening Amelie had no desire to eat, but she sat in the dining room with her sister-in-law, pushing at her food and trying to force some of it into her mouth. She and Tess had avoided each other all day. Amelie loved and esteemed Tess as if she were the sister she’d always dreamed of having. Now, though, she’d surely lost Tess’s good opinion. She’d known it ever since Edmund’s unexpected arrival and his quick departure wi
th Marc.

  Where were they at this moment? she wondered. Surely they’d seen her father by now. How had her father reacted? Had he given his approval?

  The question consumed her mind and had done so all day.

  Never had Amelie dreamed marriage would be a possibility, a way to salvage some respectability for the family after her impulsive night with Edmund. He’d rescued her again, just as he had on the streets of Brussels. Just as his lovemaking had rescued her sense of self-worth after Fowler had dashed it to the pavement.

  What if her father refused his permission for the marriage, though? Would they elope to Gretna Green?

  Gretna Green. The name always made her think of Lucien. Of how he died and of how her mother and father had shouted at each other afterwards.

  They’d only so recently reconciled, in Brussels where Amelie’s vision of her own marital happiness had been shattered. What if her problem made them fight each other again?

  Her problem. Her baby, she meant. Babies were supposed to be happy events, were they not? How awful that hers had become a problem to get through. She glanced down at her plate, but instead saw in her arms a baby swaddled in soft blankets and Edmund smiling down at the tiny being. Her heart thrilled for a brief moment.

  Was this what other women felt when they knew they were carrying a child? Was it possible or merely more of her fanciful thinking?

  She glanced up at Tess, who picked at her food just as much as Amelie had. What were Tess’s thoughts? Amelie dared not ask, not with the footman in the room serving the meal. Perhaps Tess was quiet because she did not want to speak with her. Perhaps Tess had a disgust of her behaviour, like Fowler had been disgusted of her. Perhaps Marc despised her as well, her brother, whom she loved with all her heart.

  Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them away.

  Enough of this self-pity. She’d been bold with Edmund in Brussels, and, if nothing else, being bold had exhilarated her. She could confront Tess. Find out where she stood with her.

  ‘I have an idea,’ she spoke into the silence of the large dining room. ‘Let us take our tea in Maman’s sitting room. It will be so much more comfortable than the drawing room.’ Where the silence would bounce off the walls.

  Tess looked up. ‘If you like.’

  Amelie turned to the footman. ‘Staines, would you bring the tea to us there?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ He took her plate.

  ‘And dessert, too?’ She glanced over at Tess. ‘Shall we have our dessert there, too?’

  Tess nodded.

  They left the table and walked in silence to the sitting room. Amelie busied herself lighting the candles so there was no need to talk. Staines and another footman soon brought the tea tray and the small cakes Cook had baked for dessert.

  When they left, Amelie gathered her courage. ‘Speak plainly to me, Tess. I fear what you must think of me.’

  Tess looked at her with surprise. ‘Of you? I am so angry at my brother, I cannot think of anything else. How could he do that to you? Seduce you like that. Ruin your life?’

  ‘It was not Edmund’s doing. It was mine.’ Amelie took a sip of her tea. ‘I wish you and Marc would understand that.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Tess gave her a reproving look. ‘We do not hold you at all responsible. You did not know what you were about, but Edmund did.’

  This was too difficult to believe. Was all the blame to be borne on Edmund’s shoulders?

  ‘You must think ill of me, though.’ Amelie tried again.

  Tess leaned over and put a comforting hand on Amelie’s. ‘Not at all. I am worried for you, though. You do not look at all well. We must devise a way for you to see a physician without anyone finding out why.’

  ‘I am a little sick to my stomach and very fatigued,’ Amelie admitted. ‘And I have not been able to speak a word of it. Why my maid does not question it, I cannot tell, although Sally seems very distracted these days. I do not know what is wrong with her.’

  ‘Well, it is good that she has not guessed,’ Tess responded. ‘I have no doubt the servants will discover the truth, but perhaps they will keep the family’s confidence. By the time you show, you should be married and perhaps no one will bother to count the months.’

  No one had much bothered with her before all this. Perhaps they would not think about her and Edmund at all.

  Amelie picked up one of the cakes and tried taking a little bite.

  Tess went on talking. ‘I did write to my sisters. They must know what Edmund has done.’

  ‘Oh, Tess. Did you have to do that?’ Now his other two sisters would be angry at him. Why could Tess not have let them think Edmund wanted to marry her?

  ‘Of course they must know,’ Tess said, although she sounded uncertain now. ‘They are my sisters.’

  Tess’s older sister Lorene had married a very old man. Married him for his money, people said. Amelie had met Lord Tinmore once. He was as intimidating as he was ancient. Tess’s younger sister Genna was Amelie’s age. Amelie and Tess had attended some entertainments in their company. Unlike Amelie, Genna seemed to enter any party with confidence, as if she did not care a fig about whether anyone spoke to her or danced with her. She never wanted for partners.

  So, in addition to everything else, Amelie would probably ruin Edmund’s relationships with his sisters. He would despise her even more for it, would he not?

  * * *

  After leaving Doctors’ Commons, Edmund walked directly to Grosvenor Street to see Amelie. Staines, the same footman who’d attended the door before, gave him entry and bade him wait in the drawing room while he went to find Amelie. This room was becoming familiar. Its arrangement of chairs, tables and sofa. The porcelain figurines on the mantelpiece. The portraits of Lord and Lady Northdon hanging on the walls.

  At least the portraits were not red-faced with anger at him, nor aching with remembered pain because of him.

  Amelie entered the room. She was still pale, making her blue eyes seem even larger and her hair more golden. She stole his breath.

  ‘Edmund? You are back so soon? Is Marc with you?’

  He was not about to tell her that he had been sent away alone.

  ‘He stayed behind.’ And Edmund had no idea when Glenville would return.

  She merely stared at him, eyes wide in the unasked question.

  ‘Your father gave his permission,’ Edmund assured her.

  She released a relieved breath, but her brow then creased in worry. ‘Was it very bad for you?’

  His cheek flexed. ‘Not intolerable. Your mother was kind.’

  Her expression softened. ‘Did I not tell you she was the dearest creature?’

  No use telling her of the pain his presence caused, nor the memories he had provoked. ‘She was all that.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Are you still resolved on the matter? Because I would not fault you for withdrawing your proposal.’

  It was the very thing that nagged at him—the impulse to simply vanish. ‘Is that what you wish me to do?’

  ‘I could not blame you for it,’ she said. ‘I have made everything miserable for you and you seem to accept it in a way I cannot.’

  He raised his brows. ‘So it is not what you wish?’

  She did not meet his eye. ‘It is the best solution. The right thing.’

  Which was not precisely saying it was what she wanted. Well, it was not what he wanted either, was it?

  She took a breath. ‘Forgive me. You must be very fatigued. Please do sit, Edmund.’

  He shook his head. ‘I will not stay. I merely came to tell you that I have applied for the licence. It will take a few days. The archbishop’s clerk said they must write to my parish.’ More time for him to change his mind. ‘But I will call upon you as soon as it is ready.’

  A line formed
between her eyes. ‘You are welcome to call before that.’

  Not by anyone else in the household, he’d wager. ‘I am not so certain of that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He should not have spoken. ‘Your parents are returning to London. I do not think they welcome me.’

  ‘I see.’ She looked confused, however.

  He took a step towards the door. ‘I might as well take my leave.’

  ‘No!’ Amelie cried. ‘Do not go.’

  He turned, surprised she would wish him to stay.

  She averted her gaze but spoke in a low, quiet voice. ‘Do not leave me, Edmund. I have no one to talk to about this!’

  It had not occurred to him that Amelie would want him to stay. Would she not resent the sight of him like everyone else in her family? The truth was, his emotions were still in turmoil, and this room simply could not contain them.

  He stared at Amelie. ‘Would you like a walk in the park?’

  She smiled. ‘I would!’

  * * *

  Soon they were strolling through Grosvenor Gate onto one of the footpaths that crossed Hyde Park. It was late afternoon, but the weather was fine. It was actually a fine day for a walk in the park and, to Edmund’s surprise, the tension inside him calmed.

  Because he walked with Amelie.

  Much like that night in Brussels, it seemed as if they’d known each other a lifetime.

  Edmund broke their silence. ‘You know I fully support you talking to me.’

  ‘What?’ She looked puzzled.

  ‘You said you wished to talk to me. You know I believe you should tell me everything.’

  ‘Oh!’ Understanding dawned on her face. ‘Like the night in Brussels.’ She smiled. ‘You made me tell you about Fowler.’

  Her smile made her even more beautiful.

  ‘I did not make you,’ he said. ‘I encouraged you.’

  ‘Encouraged me, then,’ she responded.

  ‘So talk to me now.’ She was not alone, he wanted to assure her. Now, as inexplicable and as fraught with tension as it was, they belonged together.