She had been in her seventh month and had prayed that in her grief shewould lose the baby. When that did not happen, she had prayed throughouther labor that she would bear a daughter. To no avail.
She had wondered what she would feel when she held such a misbegottenchild, but she had found only the most overwhelming love. Perhaps it wasthe recent tragedy, perhaps the estrangement between herself and the duke.She was certain the bond she formed instantly with her last and mostbeautiful baby was nothing to do with St. Briac, though the duke may nothave believed that.
She had suckled him herself, the only one of her children to have takenmilk from her breasts, and wished desperately that she had felt thiscloseness with the others. She had resolved to suckle any future children,but there had been none. From that day on the duke had never come to herbed again.
The duchess shook her head as the old ache trembled inside her. She hadthought age would have solved at least this problem. Every time she sawWilliam, however, her love swelled up inside her. Even the sound of hisvoice could cause her heart to race. At least he had not put her aside,though the awesome formality he had built into their lives was a monstrousbarrier. One day, she told herself, his presence a few hours of every daywould be enough.
One day.
She forced herself to stop that line of thought.
The duke cast no doubt on the child’s parentage, but he would not givehim the family names. The babe had been christened Lucien Philippe Louisafter her father, her uncle and the King of France. It had been considereda touching gesture of support for the embattled French aristocracy.
She remembered how everyone had commented on God’s kindness to soquickly replace what they had lost. She remembered William stonilyaccepting all the muted congratulations.
They had been so young. She had been twenty-seven, the duke onlythirty-one. Perhaps that was why they had been unable to handle the ruinof their lives.
Once the fuss was over, he had fled to Hartwell, the lovely small housein Surrey in which they had lived before he acceded to the title. There hehad apparently sought comfort in the arms of an “honest” woman.
The duchess sighed. It was far too late to feel pain at that betrayal.Quite ridiculous too. Was the result, this Elizabeth Armitage, a blessingor a curse?
What William had hit upon was a solution, she supposed, but at whatcost? Lucien would know what she had done. It would drive a greater wedgebetween him and his father. It would tie two people together in a marriagewithout love.
She must at least warn him.
She hurried over to her elegant escritoire and wrote a hastyexplanation to her beloved son: to prepare him, to ask him to agree if atall possible, to beg his forgiveness. She rang the silver bell and afootman entered.
“I wish this note to go to the marquess in London,” she said. Then, asthe man turned to leave she added, “Has the duke sent a letter also, doyou know?”
“I believe the duke is leaving for London at this minute, YourGrace.”
The duchess turned to the window. The leafless trees and clear sunlightshowed her the picture perfectly. A crested coach drawn by the six fastesthorses in the stables was bowling down the driveway. She sighed.
“I do not think my letter is necessary after all,” she said and took itback. When the man had withdrawn she tore it into pieces and threw it intothe fire.
What would be, would be. The past twenty-five years, years without herhusband’s love and without hope of it, had taught her a certainresignation.
Chapter Two
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That night found Lucien Philippe de Vaux, Marquess of Arden, riding astolen horse hell-for-leather through the dark and rain-washed streets ofLondon. Only superb skill and strength controlled the excited beast on theslippery cobbles. When the drivers of startled teams cursed, he laughed,white teeth gleaming in the gaslights. When a costermonger yelled, “Bloodynobs!” and pelted him with some of the less choice of his wares, he caughtone of the apples and shied it back to accurately knock off the man’s felthat.
He reined the horse in at the Drury Lane Theater and summoned ahovering urchin. “Guard the horse and there’s a guinea for you,” he calledas he sprinted off towards the side door. The main doors were alreadylocked for the night.
The barefoot street Arab clutched onto the reins of the tired horse asif they were his hope of heaven, as perhaps they were.
The marquess’s banging on the theater door, executed as it was with abrick he had picked up in the side alley, soon brought the grumblingcaretaker.
“Wot the ‘ell ye want?” he snarled through a chink in the door.
The marquess held up a glittering guinea and the door opened wide.
The man grabbed the coin. “Everyone’s gorn,” he said. “If it’s MadamBlanche you’re looking for she’s off with the Mad Marquess.”
At the visitor’s laugh he blinked and held his lantern a little higher.It illuminated clear-cut features and brilliant blue eyes. The fact thatthe marquess’s distinctive gold hair was a sodden brown did not disguisehim. “Beggin‘ yer pardon, milord. No offense.”
“None taken,” said the marquess blithely as he pushed past. “The WhiteDove of Drury Lane has left her favorite handkerchief in her room. I comeas her humble servant to retrieve it.” With that he sped off down thedingy corridor.
