The Disgraced Marchioness

Now for himself, Henry mused, well … A grim smile, a mere ghost, crossed his face. It would be more likely, at any event. But even he would draw the line at two wives!

The house settled into silence around him. Nick had gone out to join a party of friends to talk horseflesh and drink gin at Limmers in Conduit Street. Mrs Stamford—who knew? She had sufficient acquaintance in town to provide her with entertainment. Eleanor had retired early, probably worn out through trying to keep a brave face on the fact that she was fast becoming a bigamous wife and her child illegitimate, with no source of support, financial or otherwise. She had used harsher terms, he remembered, in a moment of anguish. Whore and bastard. He flinched at the deliberate brutality. It was certainly how the world would see it, and there was nothing he could say to make matters any better for her.

The lights on the first floor were low, one branch of candles left burning. And he was too tired to think any more. Tomorrow he would go to Whitchurch and find the Reverend Julius Broughton. He would verify that cleric’s role in the proceedings. It might achieve nothing, but at least he would feel that he was doing something. And he would know if the marriage of Thomas with Octavia Baxendale had actually existed.

He yawned. And came to a halt on the landing. Further along on the right a door was ajar. The baby’s room. A gentle light spilled out, very low. Probably the nursemaid come to check on her small charge.

Then a soft voice reached him, crooning a lullaby. A low voice, sweet and tender. He was immediately drawn to it and came to stand silently in the half-open doorway.

The child must have been restless. Rather than summon the nursemaid, Eleanor had come herself to comfort him. Of course she would, he acknowledged. The child was her only connection with Thomas, even more of an anchor in these stormy waters.

She sat in a low chair, a single candle on the little table casting its light from behind to rim her figure in gold. Apparently the infant now slept. Eleanor’s song had become a gentle humming, her hand on the edge of the crib, rocking gently, her eyes fixed on the sleeping face.

Henry could not take his eyes from her, his thoughts and feelings suspended in that one moment. She had risen from her bed, her hair unpinned from its fashionable style but yet unbraided so that it fell in a glory of waves over her breast. A peignoir lay in soft overlapping layers of cream silk and lace from a high neck to cover her feet. Her face was calm. Her eyes hooded. Her lips curved in a tender smile. A Madonna, indeed.

His heart thudded against his ribs as the scene imprinted itself on his mind. She was so beautiful. And he had lost her to his brother. For the first time in his life Henry cursed the dead Thomas, even knowing that the blame could not in any way be heaped at his brother’s feet. He had lost her. And yet for the past two years he had tried to persuade himself that his love for her was dead, destroyed when she had broken her promise to him. Wrong! Totally and utterly wrong! The voice in his mind and his heart would no longer allow him to pretend. His love for Eleanor was as strong as ever. And just as doomed. He must not allow it to be a burden on her—and so must bear it on his own shoulders, his emotions hidden.

A tingle of awareness touched Eleanor’s spine and she knew that he was there.

She could pretend that she did not know, of course, conscious of a ripple of embarrassment to be discovered like this. If she kept her face turned towards the crib, he might walk away as silently as he had come. But she felt the compulsion of his eyes, felt her pulse pick up its beat in response. What did it matter that he saw her watching over her child in the dark of the night? After all, there was no one else to care.