“I know it,” she said.
“Let me take you up to your chamber.” He proffered his arm, and she took it. It felt strange, having her on his arm with a baby in her arms. He had had visions of this sometimes—returning home with a wife and child, wondering what that might feel like.
He had been engaged to Josephine once. With her, he had imagined such things. He had imagined her on his arm and a home as a married couple, and it had been her face he had seen in those imaginings.
But Josephine had used him, and then she had disappeared. When she had come crawling back asking for his mercy, she hadbeen a different woman entirely. And he had not found it in his heart to forgive her.
But he had built walls around his heart. A determination that he would never again allow a woman into his heart or his life. He had broken half of that promise already. A woman was once again in his life—not entirely by his choice, but it was what it was.
They made their way up to the second floor. He nodded down the hallway. “My chambers are this way. The Duchess’ chambers are also down that hall.” He paused. “They will, of course, be yours. But for tonight, you will stay in the blue room which is this way.” He indicated the other hall. Someone had already lit a couple of sconces, so it was not entirely dark.
As they walked, she stopped for a moment and looked up at a painting.
“That is your mother,” she said. “I remember her. She was lovely.”
“She was indeed,” he replied. “I cannot believe she has been gone for these ten years. And my father, too.”
“It seems like yesterday that she would host garden parties. I remember enjoying them so much,” Clara said. “She always served the most wonderful tea cakes.”
“She made them herself,” he said.
“She did not,” she replied, the disbelief plain in her voice.
“She did. She could never tell anyone because my father thought it improper for the lady of a great house to be toiling away in the kitchen, but she always did. She loved it. In fact, Mrs. Parker has the recipe somewhere, I am almost certain of it.”
“Does she?”
How odd it was, the two of them standing here in the hallway in front of a painting of his mother, talking about tea cake recipes while his cousin was somewhere out in the world hiding, and both his and Clara’s lives were about to be turned entirely upside down. Everyone would think they were married, and they would be so in due course. Their lives would be changed forever. And the truth was, he had not even asked Clara’s permission. He had simply decided, the way he sometimes had a habit of simply deciding things.
Perhaps this was why Arabella had sent the child to Clara and not to him. Because she had known what he would do. She had known he would take charge of the situation in the way he saw fit. Perhaps she had trusted Clara with the baby for exactly that reason. But whatever the case, it was far too late now. He had fully inserted himself, and there was no undoing it.
He shook his head. It was ridiculous, really. He had told himself he was rescuing the situation, but in truth, Arabella had left the child with a woman who had no husband, no home of her own, and no means of providing the baby with any sort of security. Hiding a baby in a dressing room was not a plan. And yet,perhaps Clara had simply acted on instinct. Perhaps she had only thought of who would be best able to care for the child immediately.
Perhaps she had not thought any further than the next five minutes. He could hardly blame her for that, given the circumstances.
A rim of pain appeared behind his left eye, and he rubbed his temple. “I shall leave you here at your chamber,” he said, and then he shook his head at the garbled sound of it. “I mean—I should leave you here. I have to go and write a letter to your parents and to your chaperone. I hope Mrs. Wainscott will still be at the ball and able to receive a message.”
“She will be waiting up,” Clara said. “She will be absolutely frantic.”
“Then all the more reason to send word at once. I will tell your parents that we will call on them tomorrow morning to explain everything and that they are not to worry.”
“They will worry anyway,” she said.
“Of course, they will. It is only natural. But they would worry considerably more if we did nothing.” He bowed. “Richmond will see that everything you need is brought up to the chamber shortly.” He paused. “Thank you for taking care of the baby. And thank you for… everything.”
She bowed her head once in acknowledgement, and he noticed how she looked in the moonlight coming through the hallway window—her gown, which was made of a silky material that had felt very smooth beneath his hand as they had danced, appeared almost white, and with the baby in her arms, she looked rather like something out of a painting. He blinked. What an entirely peculiar thought. The headache was getting worse.
He took a breath, turned, and walked back down the hall. He turned left toward his own chamber, only to find that a footman had already been by to light the sconces, so he did not have to walk in the dark. He let himself in, lit the candle on his desk, and pulled out an ink pot, quill, and paper, along with the sand shaker, and quickly wrote two messages—one to Mrs. Wainscott, so that she would not worry herself into an apoplexy about her charge, and one to Clara’s parents.
Exactly how he was going to explain to them in the morning that he and Clara were married and had a baby that was several months old, he did not quite know yet, but he could only hope that at some point in the night, something approaching a sensible answer would come to him.
He rather suspected it was going to be a very long night.
CHAPTER 6
Clara had not been standing at the window long before a soft knock came at the door.
“Come in,” she said, turning.
