Captain Durant's Countess(41)

Maris could not imagine that. But if she was lucky she wouldn’t see him in any incarnation. She just had to convince him to stay away, though her scheme for the day was a total failure.

Well, to be fair, Miss Durant was good company. For a young woman who’d spent most of her life in a sickbed, she was cheerful and outgoing, and made Maris laugh out loud several times as they spent the next half hour together. In another universe, Ginny Durant might be her sister-in-law, eagerly anticipating becoming an aunt.

Maris felt a twinge of guilt to heap upon the ever-mounting pile of recriminations. Her guilty conscience had a guilty conscience. But it wouldn’t do to dwell on the mistake she’d make with Reyn Durant. A child had resulted, and certainly no child was a mistake, no matter how it was conceived. The baby was a blessed event, as Mrs. Beecham said, no matter who your god was or how you worshipped. A miracle.

Maris bid her guests good-bye, refusing, with some difficulty, an invitation to take tea at Merrywood the next week. Ginny’s lively presence reminded Maris she had not had a friend since Jane, and the last years of their friendship had been marred by Maris’s heavy secret, then Jane’s.

Well. Maris still had the problem of finding a way to speak to Reyn. She didn’t even know when he would return home. Maybe she should go to Merrywood next week. Or better yet, invite the Durants back. A woman in her condition was not expected to go abroad in public, and Ginny would no doubt be thrilled to get another look at Hazel Grange.

Seven days wouldn’t matter much; she’d waited this long. Maris went to her desk and began to write.





Chapter 23


Maris should be going through the boxes from Madame Bernard right about now, Reyn thought, saddling up Phantom. He could not wait until next week to see her. If he hadn’t gone to London, he might have seen her when she’d invited his sister for tea, though if he hadn’t gone to London, she would not be in possession of the prettiest mourning gowns Madame Bernard had ever created.

On the off chance she was so overcome with joy and thanks that she’d ride out to where they last met, he went to the oaks and dismounted, crunching rotten acorns underfoot.

The day was spring personified—green, warm, sunny, and sweet-smelling. A little too early for roses, but Maris herself smelled of that particular bloom. Reyn wanted to bury his nose in her loosened hair and breathe her in as though his life depended upon it.

That might be asking too much after all these months. Would she let him kiss her? Not if she was accompanied by that hulking manservant. Reyn hoped she would ride alone—unmolested, of course—slip from her pretty white horse, and into his embrace.

Reyn hadn’t taken another woman into his bed since Maris. His opportunities, and they had been considerable, had been easy to dismiss with a shrug and a boyish grin. He hated to hurt anyone’s feelings, so he might have given a careless kiss or two and a friendly pat. But his uncareless kisses had been saved for his countess. He simply couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.

If she refused to have an affair with him, he supposed he’d have to get used to the idea of celibacy, or change his standards and break his heart. How ironic he’d fallen in love with a bluestocking peeress who was as stern as a governess and as lush as the first rose of summer.

Reyn paced back and forth long enough to wear a trench in the grass. Maybe he should have stayed home and awaited her missive. He was always acting rashly. Why should she come? Maris wouldn’t expect him to be doing sentry duty on their border.

He looked to his horse, wondering if he should head back home. Phantom seemed happy enough finding acorns that weren’t too rotten. The horse had an iron stomach, anyway. He’d been the ideal warhorse, was a peaceful peacetime companion, and Reyn loved him.

I love that horse almost as much as I love Maris, he thought with a sudden grin.

His life was good—the best it had been since he was a boy. Ginny was well, no one was jumping out of the bushes to shoot him, and his business would take off now that he’d found a good stallion to cover his mares.

At present, Phantom was withholding his approval from the interloper, a bay named Brutus, so things were not as domestically equable with the equines in the barns as they were at the house. Soon, Ginny would leave, however, and then—Reyn wouldn’t think that far ahead. But he’d been so busy thinking and juggling acorns and congratulating himself on his good fortune that he’d missed Maris’s arrival. His heart leaped. The Prall fellow—he’ d asked his name in town—was nowhere to be seen. Thank God. Reyn pitched the acorns to the ground and brushed his hands clean on his breeches.

It was impossible to tell from Maris’s pale face whether she was pleased with his gifts. She remained seated on her fairy-white horse, clutching the reins tightly. Reyn strode through the trees and raised his arms to help her dismount.

She shook her head. “I cannot stay. But we have to talk.”

That sounded ominous. Reyn prepared himself for a lecture. He knew it was improper have sent her the gowns, but hell, there were only three of them, all beautifully made as only Madame Bernard could do. The hat he’d picked out was a vast improvement to what she was currently wearing, too. He was disappointed not to see it or the lacy butterfly again.

“It is so good to see you again, but I’ll get a crick in my neck looking up at you, Lady Kelby. I swear I’ll take no liberties when I help you off your horse.”

For a moment he thought he saw naked panic in Maris’s eyes, but she regained control. “That won’t be necessary. What I have to say shouldn’t take long.”

Not good, though I love you was only three words. How many seconds did they take?

“I am at your service then, Maris. As always. How are you faring? You look . . . beautiful.”

She did, too, though she was very pale, her face was slightly fuller, and her breasts swelled under the black riding habit. “I am well enough. I suppose you expect me to thank you for the dresses, Reyn. What were you thinking? If anyone discovers you sent them—”

“Why would they? Mrs. Bernard and her staff keep secrets like bank vaults. They are completely trustworthy. The boxes came express from Mrs. Bernard herself. My part in their purchase will never be detected.”

“David has been here. He’s suspicious of everything. I think he’s spying on me again.”

Reyn felt a spurt of anger. “Is the man still hounding you? I will talk to him if you like. In fact, I want to talk to him even if you don’t like. He’s got what he wanted. Why is he bothering you?”

“But he hasn’t. I—oh, I don’t know how to say it, Reyn. I r-rehearsed and rehearsed.” She was shaking as if they were in a swirling snowstorm.

Without thinking, Reyn untangled her hands from the reins and lifted her off the horse. He didn’t dare hold her, didn’t dare bring her close. He set her down a decent distance away, wondering why her eyes were filling with tears. “What is it? You know you can tell me anything.”

“I’m . . . I’m having a baby.” She noted the expression on his face and rushed to say, “I didn’t tell you earlier because I didn’t know. I thought—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Dr. Crandall told me at the beginning of April that I was pregnant, and then we rushed to move here. I never expected to find you next door.”

“The beginning of April?” More than a month ago. What had he been doing then? Painting fences white and shoveling manure. The muscle in his cheek jumped. “You’ve known for more than a month. If I wasn’t right next door, would you ever have told me?”

“Yes. I intended to, truly I did. But I couldn’t figure out quite how and—”

“It seems simple enough. Pen. Paper”—he tried to tamp down his anger—“a bit of sealing wax once you’re finished. ‘Dear Captain Durant, I’m having your child.’ ”

“But he—or she—isn’t your child, Reyn.”

“Ah.” Of course he’d known that. Had agreed to it, albeit with grave reluctance. “You promised you’d tell me, Maris,” he said stubbornly.

His child, but not his child. The theoretical had become real, and he was unequal to it.

“I know. I’m telling you now. And you must not come near me. David already thinks I plan to trick him.”

“You have.” Reyn looked from her face to her figure. She’d felt heavier than he’d expected as he took her from her horse, but not so heavy that his dim brain had been suspicious. She was tall for a woman. Curvaceous. The extra weight looked good on her. “Are you well?”

“Perfectly. That was part of the reason I never thought that we had achieved conception. I never”—she blushed—“have been sick, not even for a day. My courses even came, although they were diminished. I wept for days that there was no baby, Reyn. When they finally stopped altogether, I just thought I was too old. And then when I found out . . . it seemed unbelievable.”