“The League was my life,” he agreed, “but now I am ready for another life. A new one.”
“Make that life with your wife and your babe,” Clay said.
“I want to,” Leo said with raw honesty. “But I am not certain if I can.”
Bridget sat atthe small escritoire in her chamber at Harlton Hall and frowned down at the letter she had been attempting to write as another wave of nausea made her gut clench. Mornings filled her with dread. They were spent gagging at the slightest hint of a scent—almost any scent, even lovely ones like flowers seemed to punish her unmercifully—or casting up her accounts into a chamber pot.
By lunch, she was able to take weak tea, and by afternoon, she was functional and human once more. It was an irony of the richest order that Ara, her new sister-in-law, who was also increasing, suffered no such ill-effects of her condition. Bridget supposed if anyone ought to suffer richly for her sins, it was her.
But even through the misery that had become her days in the last week, one thought kept her happy.
She was going to have Leo’s babe.
It was enough to make facing each day worthwhile. Over a fortnight had passed since Leo had unceremoniously delivered her to Harlton Hall, not staying long enough for the dust to even settle on the drive, before he had swung back into the carriage and headed back to the train station and his life in London. The life she was suddenly no longer a part of.
The letter mocked her, a quarter written, two sentences struck through, another not even finished. She had accepted her exile as best she could. She understood Leo’s anger and hurt and that he needed time. She knew she had wronged him most grievously. Knew too she had been misguided, that she had made the wrong decision, a decision which had placed the both of them—and, unwittingly, their babe—in unnecessary danger.
She regretted what she had done every day.
But she could not return to the awful moment when she had decided to heed John’s call. She could not change her mind. The dye had been cast. Her choice, however foolish and reckless and hurtful, had been made. Her only defense was she had been desperate to help her brother, and she had believed she had made the choice which would enable her to do that.
With a sigh, she reread her letter as composed.
MyDarlingDearestHusbandLeo,
I write you this letter to inform you I am with child.The child is, of course, yours.If you still wish to pursue the annulment, I recommend you do so with haste, as it will become impossible when my condition becomes apparent.It is my most sincere hope you will not do so.I am so very sorry for everything.
“Damnation,” she muttered aloud, crumpling the latest attempt in her fist. Perhaps she was being too conciliatory, too apologetic. The blame was not solely upon her shoulders, was it? Her movement sent a fresh wave of sickness through her, and she had to swallow in quick succession, fighting back against the by-now-familiar bile.
A tap at her door interrupted her self-loathing.
“You may enter,” she called, reasoning it was either Ara or Lily Ludlow.
The kindness and compassion Leo’s family had shown her—a stranger dropped into their midst, and one who had previously caused them a great deal of anguish at that—never failed to humble her. She had not known people with such giving hearts existed in this bitter world, and she was grateful she, undeserving though she may be, had found them.
Lily swept inside, followed by a servant bearing a tea service tray. Wearing an emerald-green morning gown trimmed with lace, ribbon, and intricate beading, her dark hair shot with silver strands swept into an elaborate coiffure, she was stunning.
She beamed at Bridget. “How are you feeling this morning, my darling daughter?”
She mustered up a smile for Lily’s benefit. Her cheer was infectious, and as a motherless daughter, Bridget could not deny the notion of having this lovely, giving, kindhearted woman as a mother figure was incredibly alluring. “I am feeling as well as can be expected.”
Learning she was carrying Leo’s babe had been a shock. She was wise to the world, but for some reason, she had naively imagined they would need to be married longer for such a circumstance to occur. She pressed a loving hand over her flat abdomen, marveling at the life growing within her, such a fragile miracle.
Lily instructed the domestic to deposit the tea tray on a low table, then dismissed her, waiting until the maid had gone to turn back to Bridget. “Have I interrupted your correspondence? If so, you need only say the word and I shall go.”
“No.” Bridget rose, walking with minced steps to join Lily in the small seating area where they ordinarily shared a late-morning tea. “I was attempting to write a letter to Leo and failing miserably, I am afraid.”
“Ah. That explains your expression when I first entered.” Lily came to her, casting a comforting arm about her waist and guiding her into a chair as if she were an invalid. “There you are, my dear girl. I brought my ginger tea once more, the blend that seemed to settle your stomach yesterday.”
In addition to possessing one of the most giving hearts Bridget had ever known, Lily also excelled at gardening. She cultivated her own herbs and blended the flowers, leaves, and stalks into teas and tonics. The spicy, delicious tea she had brought to their impromptu morning visit yesterday had indeed soothed the roiling upset of Bridget’s stomach.
“Thank you,” she said, with genuine appreciation as Lily handed her a steaming cup and saucer, and the familiar, soothing notes of the tea hit her nose.
Bliss.
For the second day in a row, her stomach did not object to the delicious scent. It was nothing short of miraculous.
“It is my pleasure.” Lily seated herself on the chair opposite Bridget. “I know all too well how unpleasant your condition can be.”
