Chapter Thirteen

T FELT ILLICIT yet special to even think of Devon’s Christian name, much less use it. Even Kat referred to lovers only by their titles.

Anne strode up a narrow path that led to the back of the inn—she had followed it as it carved straight borders for acres of fields, then wound through the forest, until her rumbling stomach demanded she return. She had walked for miles this morning, but no amount of beautiful views or vigorous exercise could stop her from thinking about Devon.

Her dreams used to be about freedom and independence. Now they were all about him. Over the last three days, Devon had told her a half dozen times that he missed her. Each time it both warmed her heart and gave it a sharp wrench. She had to remember it did not mean anything. She was not an innocent young lady anymore, who might take those words from a duke and spin an entire hopeful future involving matrimony and children. All protectors were fascinated with their mistresses at first, but the interest waned. If she used her wits and kept control of her heart, she could save herself.

After stamping mud from her boots on a flagstone, Anne stepped inside the front door of the inn and took off her gloves.

“Oh, there you are, mum!” One of the maids rushed up and bobbed a hasty curtsy. “A visitor for you. Waiting upon you in the parlor.”

It had to be Devon. Anne’s heart soared, refusing to be controlled, but when she opened the parlor door she saw a rose-trimmed bonnet and ebony curls. Shock bolted her to the floor.

The duke’s sister spun on her chair, revealing blushing cheeks and violet eyes. “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come. I feared you would choose not to see me.”

Anne blinked. Dimly, she remembered, through rising panic, that this lady was the Countess of Cavendish. “I cannot believe you have come to see me.” Somehow, manners had prevailed over shock, and she realized she was rising from a deep curtsy. Goodness, was it possible the duke’s sister did not know she was his mistress?

Her pulse thundered. This could hurt Devon’s sister. The gossip, the sniggers. If Devon found out … He had agreed she should be nowhere near his sister.

Anne swiftly closed the door. “There is something you must know. I am so very sorry, but once you know who I am, you will want to leave here—”

“You’re Devon’s mistress. I know that. Treadwell told me Devon had a ‘lady guest’ in the house. Of course, my brother stuttered out some nonsensical lie, but his blush made it obvious.”

“Your Ladyship, you must go. I wouldn’t want to taint you.”

Lady Cavendish waved her hand. “I’ve discovered there are some things far more important than proper behavior. Ladylike behavior might get a woman wed, but I’ve learned it doesn’t delight a husband.” She gave a surprisingly cynical laugh, one that made Anne’s heart lurch; such a beautiful lady should not be jaded.

The countess tipped up her chin, showing the strong, stubborn pride Anne saw in Devon. “I believe you are the only one who can help me. You must know all about seducing gentlemen. I want you to teach me.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Ladyship—”

“I desperately need to learn how to seduce my husband.”

Anne must have shown her shock, for Lady Cavendish’s expression suddenly crumpled. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” Devon’s sister covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

Forgetting propriety, Anne rushed over to the couch and wrapped her arm around the woman.

Anne firmly pushed the teacup and saucer into the countess’s bare hands, just as she had done for Devon. “This will make you feel better.” Of course it couldn’t. But the countess took it with a small, grateful smile and sipped.

Anne knew she should not even be in the same room with a countess, but the woman needed help. “Does your brother know you’ve come here?”

“Of course not. But I’m desperate. It’s obvious how infatuated my brother is with you. I hoped you would teach me your arts and allurements.”

“Teach you,” she repeated slowly, “my … my arts and allurements?” Infatuated?

“I’ve lost my husband’s love and I can’t bear it anymore.”

Devon didn’t know his sister was here. Would he be angry she was speaking to the countess now? “What did you tell the duke?”

“I did not tell him anything. He was locked in his study. Treadwell confided to me that my brother does not sleep at night and that he has nightmares. Apparently they have been worse since you left.”

Anne’s heart sank at that. Without her to read him to sleep or distract him with sex, he had gone backward. He hadn’t admitted that to her when he’d come to visit.

“I told Treadwell I was coming to the village to shop, of course.” The cup rattled in the saucer. “Perhaps I’m being foolish. Worrying about my husband’s love when Devon—”

“You are not being foolish, Your Ladyship.” Anne now saw the lines etched in the countess’s forehead, the shadows beneath her eyes. “Your brother has nightmares about the war, and I—I was trying to help ease those for him. Or at least help him cope with them.” Her cheeks were burning, because of course she was admitting she spent nights with Devon. She was the foolish one, given that his sister was married and knew what she was. But since the day she and her mother ended up in the slums, Anne had never even spoken to a respectable lady.

It occurred to her that, as a viscount’s daughter, she would have been very much like the duke’s sister now if Sebastian had not forced her mother and her to leave their home. Married. Perhaps expecting a child.

The countess set down her tea so swiftly, it sloshed to the saucer, then the table. She grasped Anne’s hands. “Thank you for helping my brother. Treadwell told me what you have done for him. How you’ve helped him cope with his blindness, and how he has grown more accepting of it.”

Admiration glowed in the countess’s eyes. Anne squirmed, a little uncomfortable. “I do not know if I have done that much, and I suspect time is responsible for much of what—”

“Treadwell does not think so. He also admitted you wrote the letter to my mother.”

Anne began to apologize, but Lady Cavendish squeezed her hands. “That letter gave my mother such relief and peace of mind. She has been so worried about Devon. She feared he was wounded far worse than she had heard, that he was more badly scarred than we had been told, or very ill, or perhaps that he had even lost his wits.”

The very thing he feared was happening to him.

“After Devon went to war, our mother barely ate or slept. She became perilously thin. Your letter cheered her so much, my sisters were able to coerce her to eat, and she stopped staying in her rooms. She had spent hours alone, writing letter after letter to Devon. Most she simply crumpled up or tore to pieces and burned. What you did was a wonderful thing.”

“Th-thank you.” Anne’s heart lurched. Suddenly she knew she had to make him go home. He must go to his family—

But if he did, would he allow her to stay here? Would he let her go? It didn’t matter. Reuniting him with his family, easing his pain, his mother’s pain—that was the most important thing.

“What is it?” Lady Cavendish stared. “You look as if you are arguing with yourself.”

“It’s nothing.”

The genuine kindness of Lady Cavendish stunned her. A lady of the ton should be either horrified by her or utterly condescending. Lady Cavendish made her think of her mother, who had always been gracious, generous, kind.

“Would you be willing to help me with my husband? Or is there nothing I can do, since I’m the size of a carriage and not pretty at all anymore—”

“Rubbish!” Anne spat the word impetuously. The countess reeled back. Fumbling over her words, Anne went on, “You—you are stunningly beautiful. What gentleman could not see the sheer loveliness in a woman who is carrying his child? You absolutely glow.”

The countess smiled wryly. “You must know what men are like. My husband may be pleased that he is going to have a child, and he is hoping for a son, of course. But he has desires, and he feels he can’t come to my bed anymore, so he … I think he has gone to someone else’s.”

A blush washed over Lady Cavendish’s face. “There’s no one else I can speak to about this. Devon is the only other person who knows. And he became so angry he wanted to fight with my husband! I want to win my husband back—away from the clutches of that horrible widow who has snared him.”

Anne tried to follow the countess’s impulsive words. “A widow?”

Devon’s sister nodded, her curls bouncing. Then she suddenly tensed and put her hand to her belly. Pain racked her face.

Anne got to her feet. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“This … keeps … happening,” Lady Cavendish gasped. “My belly tightens. It goes so … hard.” She stared ahead, looking dumbfounded and a little fearful.

Anne stroked her arm. “When I was younger”—she must not forget and accidentally say “in the slums”—“I saw several births.” Her mother had even helped in some labors in the lodging houses in which they had been forced to stay. “I do remember that a woman’s belly goes hard as her time comes near. One of the midwives called it ‘practice.’ Try to relax and breathe through it.”

“Relax!” Lady Cavendish cried, smiling ruefully.

Anne had no idea how to broach this without causing worry or saying something unseemly to a countess. And she knew, from being close to births, that the “practice” was much gentler than the real thing. “You must be very near your time,” she said carefully. She did remember that some women had spoken of the practice pains very soon before the birth happened. “One thing I learned is that no one can ever guess when a birth will happen. It can be much sooner than one suspects—”

“But I cannot go home!” Breathing hard, Lady Cavendish launched to her feet. “When I’m there, all I can do is wonder where my husband is and whether he is with that woman—”

“Please. You shouldn’t work yourself up.” Anne put a quelling hand on her arm. “So you want to seduce him,” she began. Her cheeks must be scarlet already. But she hoped this discussion would distract Lady Cavendish.

“Yes. After I’ve had the baby, of course. I want to know all the tricks a courtesan would know. I must know what things I can do to please him. To keep him from straying.”

It was on the tip of Anne’s tongue to point out that the countess was a lady. Well-bred ladies were not supposed to know a courtesan’s tricks. Perhaps this was the very reason proper ladies were supposed to avoid courtesans and fallen women—in case they were tempted to ask questions and learn about seduction. She remembered some of the naughty things the prostitutes at Madame’s had taught her. Take a man’s cockstand between your lips and he’s yours. Or let him have you from behind, and you’ll thrill him no end. They don’t get that from the fine ladies.

She had tried everything she could think of to entice Devon into keeping her, but how did she explain this to a lady? But, really, why should ladies not know about sex? Why should women be proper and lonely while men went to brothels for carnal things they couldn’t get elsewhere?

Lady Cavendish began to breathe hard and look frightened.

“All right,” Anne whispered. She must be mad, but Lady Cavendish instantly stopped rubbing her belly and paid attention. “We will begin with the one your husband will love the most. You must …” Her courage almost failed as she faced the eager, inquisitive gaze. “You must take him into your mouth.”

“Kiss him? We used to kiss passionately. Since our marriage, he seems to have lost interest in such frivolities.”

“That is not … uncommon for men. I—I think kissing for men is a part of seduction. Once the lady becomes willing to bed them without kisses or other preliminary play, men dispense with it.” Though she remembered the wonderful kiss she’d shared with Devon in the rain. The times he’d kissed her when he didn’t expect sex at the end of it.

“Well, that is terribly discouraging,” the countess said with a frank, gusty sigh. “Then how am I to convince him to do it?”

There was nothing for it but the truth. “I meant that men like women to kiss their private parts.”

“That part?” The countess gaped at her, then frowned. “You are trying to frighten me away.”

“No, Your Ladyship, I am not. You wished to know what courtesans do, and that truly is one of the things. It’s something men enjoy a great deal, but they would never ask it of a gently bred wife.”

A blush swept ivory cheeks. “You mean, I simply open my mouth and let him put it inside?”

Heavens. “Well, um … yes. Gentlemen like a lady to … suck on it. The friction and pressure pleases them. They like a woman to … move her head up and down.” She could not do this.

There was a sudden rap upon the door—thank heaven for an interruption. Anne could imagine any number of Madame’s whores who would relish explaining a few things to a naïve lady, proud to display their abundant experience. She was not one. She swiftly called, “Come in.”

It was a young maid, Hattie. She bobbed a curtsy and began to announce, “His Grace—” But the duke passed her, lightly sweeping his walking stick.

“Not necessary, my dear,” he said in his cool, controlled way that warned of a storm inside. “Both of these ladies know who I am.”

His sister had come to Cerise for instruction in carnal arts.

Devon could not quite believe it. It was a good thing he had his walking stick to rest on, or he would have been knocked to the ground by Caro’s astounding and grudging admission. He spun on his heel toward his sister—he knew exactly where she was, because her soprano voice was protesting loudly about interfering brothers.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded. “You cannot come here and speak with Cerise. It is not acceptable. It is not done. Do you realize there were a gaggle of maids in the corridor, straining to hear every word passing between you two?”

His mistress did not say a word—wisely, he thought, even in his exasperation—but he had to guess his sister would not be cowed. “I had no other choice!” Caro cried, and he could picture her the way she used to be before she had married. A wild hoyden who liked to ride and fish and shoot with the men. He should have known the supposed change to demure and happy bride wasn’t real. The memory of what she used to look like, her eyes snapping, braids bouncing as she argued with him over something—usually his refusal to take her along with him and his friends—gave his heart a severe punch.

Cerise had helped him cope with his blindness, but nothing would make it easier to accept. Not when he knew he would probably never see his sister again or see his little niece or nephew at all. Until he’d fallen in love with Rosalind, babies had been something he hoped to avoid. Now the knowledge that he’d never see an infant’s smile, not even his own baby’s toothless giggle, if he had a baby—hell, it leveled him.

“Are you listening, Devon?” Caro said. “I said the person to blame for all of this is Phillip! If my husband had not fallen in love with someone else, I would not be here, trying to learn how to win him back. If he did not have a roving eye—”

“You loved him,” he pointed out.

“I still do. But one-sided love is not enough. It’s even worse.”

Cerise’s voice, lush, lovely, infused with gentle firmness, fell into his blue-gray void. “You must calm yourself, Lady Cavendish. It is true the fault is your husband’s, but it would be best if you were to go home with your brother.”

“I’m not going anywhere with my annoying brother. Even if I do, I will come back—”

“You will not!” he barked. “Do you have any idea of the shock to find that you had left my house and no one knew exactly where you were? In your condition? I managed to trace you to here, no easy task when I’m blind. Then I discover you are learning things you have no right to know, from my mistress, and the entire taproom is discussing it.”

“Well, then, stop shouting,” Caroline snapped. “Every taproom in England must be able to hear you. I don’t see that I’ve done anything so very shocking. I am a married woman. I was expected to go to balls and watch that ferret of a woman, Lady Pomroy, throw herself all over my husband. And the worst I was allowed to do, according to Society, was give her the cut direct, when she is the most awful little whore—”

“Caroline!” Hades, his temple throbbed.

“Your Grace.” The cool voice belonged to Cerise. She sounded oddly distant and icy. And rather condescending, though she and Caroline were the ones at fault here. Cerise had told him she should not be anywhere near his sister. Hades, because of propriety, his mistress had been forced to leave his house, condemning him to sleepless nights filled with nightmares. And thanks to propriety, he had been left missing her intensely, aching for the sound of her voice, wanting her touch, hungering for her.

“I do not think it is very wise to shout at Lady Cavendish,” Cerise went on, making him feel like a disobedient schoolboy. “The person to blame in this is me.”

He turned to her. Or at least to where he thought she was. She did not sound contrite. She sounded … furious. “That’s not true,” he groaned. “But you should have sent her home at once.”

“Perhaps. Though was it really so wrong to offer some help and advice? While there may be rumors that I am your mistress, everyone at this inn was supposed to believe I am a widow and friend of your family. Unfortunately, your visits, and your reaction now, will have caused the gossip.”

“So I’m in the wrong?” He could not believe this. How did his sister and his mistress manage to make him feel like the villain? “You were the one to insist on leaving my house to avoid gossip and protect my sister. You should have considered that today.” He did sound like an idiot. She was correct: His visits, his need to be with her, had done the damage to his story. He had best keep his mouth shut and just get his sister home.

But Caro cried, “She did! Of course she did, you great lummox! I insisted on staying. I—”

His sister stopped shouting. A weak, girlish voice whispered, “Oh, dear.” Who in blazes was that? Had one of the maids come in? That little timid squeak sounded like neither of the two women he was now arguing with.

“What is wrong, Your Ladyship?” Cerise was the one to speak, her beautiful voice filled with concern. Footsteps hastened past him, and he heard a low feminine cry of distress. What had happened? Damn the blindness. He tried to follow the frantic female voices.

“I’m all … wet. What—what does it mean? Could it be … blood?”

“I’m sure it is not,” Cerise said, but he was stunned by the word. Blood.

“I haven’t had any pain since before, yet now my skirts are soaked.…” The horror in Caro’s voice pierced his heart. “Have I done something wrong? Am I going to lose my baby?”

“Shh,” Cerise soothed, while his heart slammed against his chest with the force of a cannon blast. “Come, stand up with me. That should stop the flow—does it?”

“What is it?” he said into the void. “What’s wrong?”

“You are right.” Caro sounded relieved. “It did stop.”

His heart was so tight with fear it was amazing it could still pump blood. “What stopped?”

“What I suspect has happened, Your Ladyship,” Cerise said to his sister, as though he wasn’t even in the room, “is that your water has broken.”

Christ. No wonder she was ignoring him. Devon knew almost nothing about the business of birth, but he’d been at war, and there had been babies born in the camps, among the camp followers and officers’ wives. Water breaking meant a child was on the way. What exactly had to be done? Should he get Caro home? Get a midwife? He felt like his head was going to blow off.

Then Caro gave an anguished cry that rooted him to the floor. “Goodness! Oh!”

“What is it?” he barked, panicked. He had to help her, but he felt … damned helpless.

“It is all right, Your Grace. It’s simply a labor pain.” Cerise’s answer had him flushing scarlet and seeing red—a strange thing for a blind man. How could she be so blasted calm? Then he got over his frustration at feeling lost and useless. Thank heaven she was calm. Snapping back to his senses, he realized she was giving precise instructions to Caro. She briskly told his sister to bend over, hold the arm of the chair, and arch her back like a cat.

“Is this child coming now?” he asked.

“Oh, heavens,” Caro moaned.

“Normally a first child does not come quickly,” Cerise said. Then she urged, “Keep breathing in a rhythm.”

Devon breathed like that, too, until Cerise said, “When I press against your back, does it help?”

“Oh, yes,” Caro whispered, and it was obvious how grateful she was.

He stopped taking measured breaths, but his chest seemed to clamp around his heart as Cerise said, “There are times when a first child does come with haste. I have seen that before—where everyone assumed it would take hours and then the baby was born in mere minutes. Once Lady Cavendish’s pains begin to come more quickly, that will mean labor is advancing. Now, Your Ladyship, each time the pain begins, arch against my hands and I will press. Remember to breathe slowly.”

“Can I get her home?”

“Possibly,” Cerise answered, but Caro gasped, “No! I don’t want to move.”

“I think we need a midwife or a physician, Your Grace.”

Where was the local midwife? He turned, unsure where the door was, furious that he had to fumble clumsily for it in the midst of an emergency. But once he got out into the hall, he bellowed until one of the maids hurried forth. “Lady Cavendish is laboring with her child. Fetch a midwife at once.”

Behind him, he heard Caro moan through a contraction, then tell Cerise, “If I don’t survive the birth, I’ve written a letter so my baby will know who I was and how much I loved him or her.”

His stomach turned upside down. Why would she plan for her death? What did she know?

“You are going to be fine,” Cerise said, her voice quiet, firm, and calm. “Soon you are going to have a lovely baby. Then you can read that letter to your child yourself. It’s going to be hard work—I won’t lie to you about that, Your Ladyship. But you are strong and determined, and everything is going to go well.”

It was amazing: She couldn’t know that, but all she had to do was say it and he believed it. Cerise was a remarkable woman. She could push away fear, she could fight nightmares, she could make a battle-hardened man listen to the soft sounds of the rain and a panicked, laboring woman relax enough to giggle.

Vaguely, he wondered how she knew so much about birthing, but then she gave him orders. “Request blankets and water, Your Grace. Some sweet tea for Her Ladyship, if you please.”

“Immediately,” he called back, and he shouted until another maid came to do his bidding.

He had been sent to the taproom, and his sister had been laboring for eight hours.

But even when the midwife had arrived, Caro insisted Cerise stay at her side. Devon understood why. After just a few days, he had grown to rely upon Cerise.

He had bought so many rounds for the room, every man in the place spoke with a slurred voice. He’d been tempted to join them, to drown his worries in multiple tankards of ale, but Cerise’s warnings about drink had welled up and stopped him. So he was as stone-cold sober as a statue, with no idea what was happening. He was a duke yet considered useless in a birthing room.

The truth was, he would be useless. If Cerise had not been there to take charge, he likely would have done more harm than good. On the battlefield, he had held men’s guts in place to try to save lives. In the makeshift hospital tents, he had been an assistant while limbs were cut off. But he was thankful he wasn’t in the parlor, witness to his sister’s pain.

He’d heard muffled cries of agony. He’d overheard the midwife’s bustling and Cerise’s voice soothing his sister. Why did this business take so long? Cerise had said laboring could last days. If he didn’t think he could survive days and nights of this, how would Caro?

“Your Grace.” It was Cerise’s rich voice, and it tumbled on him like sunlight after a long, cold night spent huddled on a battlefield. He’d been too lost in worry to hear her. The entire tap was silent, as though every man waited for the news.

“Lady Cavendish has had her baby. A perfect, very healthy, and remarkably strong little …”

He groaned as she drew out the suspense.

“Boy!” she exclaimed, and her voice glowed with happiness and delight.

Cheers resounded. Male voices shouted congratulations. Devon knew his duty: Though he felt almost wobbly with relief, he stood and raised his untouched tankard. “To the good health of my sister, Lady Cavendish, and her newborn son.” As the shouts of joy resumed he ordered another round and let Cerise lead him out of the tap. “Is my sister all right? What can I do for her? It took so long.”

“It wasn’t long at all, and both your sister and your nephew are doing fine.”

He felt his brows jerk to the ceiling. Not long? But with his throat aching, he murmured, “Thank you, Cerise. If you hadn’t been here to help …”

“The labor went very well. And Lady Cavendish is so delighted with her beautiful son, she has almost forgotten the pain, I promise you.” She laughed, and the lovely sound entranced him. “It seems to be nature’s way. It’s terribly painful, but when the baby gives that first cry, the mother is crying and laughing with happiness.”

She moved to tug him to go, but he pulled her close to him. So close he could hear her quick breaths and notice she smelled sweaty. “To hell with propriety, angel. Come home with Caro and me. Come back and be with me. I need you. It’s where you belong.”

A note by express messenger could mean only one thing: That thug Taylor had finally found Anne. Sebastian leapt up from his chair in his library and snatched the letter from his footman’s hand as the servant stammered, “L-Lady Julia de Mournay is awaiting you in the drawing room.”

“Tell her I will be down shortly,” he snapped. He swiftly unfolded the note and read:

His hands shook. Shook so hard, Sebastian crumpled the note. Anne would rather be a duke’s whore than his wife. The thought filled him with white-hot fury. And a duke … hell and damnation, a duke held power. Was it possible this man could keep Anne from him?

No, Sebastian would get her. Taylor was instructed to haul Anne back to him. With a special license, he would marry her at once and then begin to punish her. Already he had envisioned many ways to teach her obedience. Some of the painful discipline would take place in their bedroom. Soon he would break her rebellious spirit and make her obey.

But he did not want to make love to her. He did not desire that any longer. He’d thought he could endure bedding her for the money. But he was so filled with hate now, he yearned to wrap his hands around her throat and throttle her. However, he could not do that—not when he needed the money Anne would one day inherit from Lady Julia.

He would have to content himself with her punishment.

Sebastian folded the letter and thrust it into a pocket of his coat. He hastened to the drawing room and found Lady Julia pacing in front of the window. She stopped and gazed at him with haggard pain. “Has there been any word?”

He did not want the woman to know that Anne was ruined. What if Lady Julia changed her mind and refused to leave her money to the tart? Sebastian forced his lips to curve in a kindly smile. “Indeed there has. It appears Anne left London and has taken refuge with a friend in the country. I have a man on the way to retrieve her.”

Lady Julia smiled in relief. “You have been so very good, Norbrook. So very devoted in our search for Anne.”

“I am determined to find her.” Since it was the truth, it came out with complete earnestness. “She will be home soon.”

“Thank you,” Lady Julia whispered. “You are closer to me than either of my sons-in-law. You are a good and noble gentleman. If Anne was gone, I would make you my heir, Norbrook, for you have become like family to me.”

Sebastian clasped both Lady Julia’s hands, then lifted one to his lips and kissed the gloved fingers. “You have become like family to me as well, dearer to me than any lady has ever been.” Excitement shot through him. He must slather on the flattery and convince the old crone to make him her heir. If he could encourage her to do it, he would not even have to marry Anne.

If he were an heir, he could hurt Anne in whatever way he wished and still get the money. He could wrap his hands around Anne’s pretty neck and know the delight of squeezing the life out of her. Or he could think of a different way to kill her—a torturous, painful one. A way that would ensure he could bestow the ultimate punishment upon her, yet not get caught.