Captain Durant's Countess(55)

“Let me, my love. Undressing ladies is my specialty.”

“You’d better not be undressing any lady but me.”

He kissed her damp forehead. “I wouldn’t think of it. Are you really all right?”

“How can you doubt? Look at Jane and tell me she is not the most beautiful thing in creation.”

Reyn was not entirely in accord with his wife, but he was wise enough to nod. No doubt someday Jane would be a great beauty and drive everyone to distraction, especially her father. She had already frightened him half to death.

“We’ll go down and tell the others and give you a little privacy,” Mrs. Lynch said. “But Mrs. Durant will need her rest, Captain. Do not tire her out.” The midwife and Betsy left them alone in the sunny room.

Reyn didn’t even know what time it was. “She’s as bossy as you are.”

His wife and child began their acquaintance. Jane’s little mouth hovered, then latched on with all its might. “Hush. You know I’ve always got your best interests at heart. How very odd this feels, Reyn. It is nothing like when you kiss me there.”

Reyn suppressed a groan. How would he endure abstinence? But how could he not?

Well, there were always French letters. And withdrawal. He’d managed all his life not to get anyone pregnant.

“Reyn, whatever is the matter? You are looking quite gothic.”

“Nothing. There is absolutely nothing wrong. I am the happiest man in the world.”





Second Epilogue


January 1822

Maris was so happy she thought it might be criminal. She examined each tiny toe and fingernail once her daughter had drunk her second breakfast. Jane was perfect, with the Durant dimple already visible and a head of midnight hair. Lots of it. Reyn called her his little monkey, which Jane wouldn’t like at all once she was older, and so Maris told her husband.

Her husband. Once, she had never expected to marry. Somehow, she’d found two good men to love her. Her life had really unfolded in a most unexpected way.

Mr. Woodley had not batted so much as an eyelash when she’d explained her plans last summer. He had assured her Henry’s financial arrangements for her were secure and her widow’s jointure—including Hazel Grange—were untouchable by the new Countess of Kelby. He shuddered a bit when he mentioned the name, but perked up when discussing young Peter. The boy had been enrolled at Eton and had a good head on his shoulders, no thanks to either of his parents.

Mr. Woodley had visited several times since. He told her Catherine’s father had retired from his parish and was living at Kelby Hall. He was a scholarly fellow who had volunteered to poke around the attics to make himself useful now that he was no longer tutoring his grandson. What might he find in the abandoned boxes? Maris realized she didn’t much care.

The new earl preferred to stay in London, which was best for everyone concerned, except perhaps for any young women whose hearts he might break. How long David could play Lothario now that it was known he was married was anyone’s guess.

“Your father will keep you safe from any men like him,” Maris said to the baby in her arms. “I daresay he is just the man to recognize a rake, as he used to be one before he met me.”

“What’s that nonsense you’re telling our daughter?”

Maris looked up to see Reyn in the doorway. He was splattered with mud and blood, his cheeks chapped red from the cold.

“How did it go?”

Reyn grinned. “We have a fine colt.”

“The second this week! Brutus must be proud.”

“Not as proud as I am of our little filly. How is Miss Jane today? I won’t come in to see for myself.”

“It’s too soon, but I think she is cutting a tooth.” Jane had been frantically chewing everything in sight, including Maris’s poor breasts.

“Of course. She is advanced for her age. She takes after her mother.”

“But is the image of her father.”

“Poor monkey. Let’s hope the Durant nose skips a generation. Well, wife, I’ve been up all night and dead on my feet. I’ve ordered a bath in my dressing room. Do you think you might join me in a nap this morning once I clean myself up?”

“A nap, Captain Durant?”

“You say that as if I have an ulterior motive to get in bed with my wife.” He made a show of yawning. Maris wasn’t fooled a bit.

“I confess I’m tired too. Jane was fussy last night.”

“Excellent. I won’t be long.”

“Good. Because I’m very tired.”

“You are incorrigible, aren’t you?”

Maris smiled. “I was instructed by a master.”

Reyn disappeared down the hall, his whistling of a bawdy tune belying his exhaustion. She rang for Jane’s nursemaid, rose from the chaise, and went to her dressing table.

“Damn.” There was a new silver hair poking up through the loose brown waves at her temple. She ripped it out and unbraided her hair, brushing it until her arm became weak. What was taking Reyn so long? She really was tired, and would relish falling asleep in her husband’s arms.

When they finished loving each other.

He’d been very silly after Jane was born. The poor man had got it into his head that she should never suffer through childbirth again. It had taken some convincing and a consultation with Dr. Crandall, but Reyn had resumed his marital rights a month ago. Maris had missed their intimacy more than she could have ever expressed. For a woman who had mostly lived within proper boundaries, she was afraid she had strayed into wanton territory.

And was glad of it.

She saw him behind her in the mirror, his hair damp and slicked back. He smelled of soap and man, no trace of horse. Reyn raised one wicked black eyebrow and held out a hand. Maris didn’t hesitate for a second.





Third Epilogue


September 1826

It was better this way. Reyn stared gloomily into a glass of whiskey. Still his first, when it should have been at least his seventh. One for every hour of agony upstairs.

He was a dog. A right bastard even if his parents had been married. Somehow he had been unable to keep his vow to himself. For the fourth time in five years, he was waiting for a new child to be born. Jane and her two brothers would shortly—God, if only it would be shortly—be joined in the nursery by another little Durant.

This child would be the last of the line. Although she would clout him to say so, Maris was getting too old for this sort of thing. They would just have to be more careful in the future.

Reyn snorted. Good luck with that. It seemed everything he touched resulted in fecundity. His horse farm was a great success. His laborers were building a new barn over at Merrywood even as he sat there not drinking his whiskey.

Childbirth business did not seem to get any easier with practice for him, although Maris uttered not one word of complaint. It was she who had seduced him from his good intentions, and he had to say she made a wonderful mother, as she was wonderful at everything in their domestic sphere. At the age of four, Jane could read already, thanks to her mother’s lessons, with none of her father’s difficulty. It remained to be seen how Henry and Matthew would fare, but both seemed like bright little boys. Reyn was hopeful for their future.

Perhaps he should go up. It was not his fault he’d fainted when Matthew was born. He’d missed breakfast and lunch and was simply hungry. Mrs. Lynch had banned him this time, but this was his home, after all. Surely he had a right to be present at the birth of his own child?

“Reyn! Maris wants you.”

His sister Ginny was at the door of his study, quite near the end of her own term. She had requested to be with Maris to know what to expect in two months. She and Arthur had finally been successful in conceiving. She looked none the worse for wear, but Reyn experienced his usual misgivings.

“Is she all right? Is the baby here?”

“You may see for yourself once you stop asking such silly questions.” The little baggage stuck her tongue out at him.

Reyn took the stairs two at a time. A baby was crying, the most beautiful sound in the world to his ears.

Maris sat up in bed, her glossy hair tucked up under a nightcap. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. One would never know she’d been writhing in agony for seven hours. “A girl this time, Reyn. Isn’t she pretty?”

Reyn peeked at the tiny bundle lying in the cradle. She was clean and pink, and Reyn felt a spasm of guilt. Maris knew how the sight of blood and gore on his newborn babies absolutely terrified him. Odd that he was so adept when it came to equine infants.

“She’s a beauty, like her mother.” Reyn sat on the bed, noting the sheets had been changed too. He was pathetic, he really was, but the idea of Maris in pain paralyzed him.

There was a word for him—uxorious. He had come across it in a book he was making himself read, and had not known the meaning at first. It meant excessively devoted to one’s wife. Guilty as charged.