His Grace slept in this very cradle.
She thought of Julian, perhaps at the same age as this baby, lying in this same carved wooden bed in some other room of this house. She thought of Richmond, younger then, carrying it through these same hallways. She thought of Julian’s mother leaning over it just as Clara was leaning over it now.
And she thought of how Richmond had looked at her when he said it is a very great pleasure to have a duchess in this house, as though she were something this house had long been waiting for. As though she belonged here.
She did not belong here. She had arrived less than an hour ago under entirely false pretenses with another woman’s child and a story created in a carriage on the way from a ball she had not even wanted to attend.
By morning, the whole of London would be talking about the secret marriage of the Duke of Lynden. By the end of the week, the story they had built between them would either hold or it would not, and either way, her life would never again resemble the one she had expected when she’d woken up that morning.
David sighed in his sleep and turned his small head to one side.
Clara reached out and rested two fingers very lightly against his cheek. It was impossibly soft.
“You have no idea,” she whispered, “what a great deal of trouble you have caused.”
He slept on, entirely unflustered by this assessment. She almost envied him.
She straightened, removed her gloves, and sat on the edge of the bed. Outside the window, the grounds of the Brixton estate stretched away into the dark. Somewhere out there, she knew, was the statue garden she remembered from childhood visits with Arabella.
She and Arabella used to chase each other between the stone figures on summer mornings. Julian had been eighteen to theirnine the last time they’d had such a visit, and he was therefore entirely above such things. He sat on a nearby bench pretending to read and occasionally telling them to be quiet.
She wondered where Arabella was tonight. Whether she was safe. Whether she guessed that her son was sleeping in a carved wooden cradle that had once held a duke in a house that smelled of old wood and beeswax.
She hoped so.
Clara lay back against the pillow, still fully dressed, and looked up at the ceiling.
She did not expect to sleep. There was far too much to think about, far too much that tomorrow would bring, far too many conversations she could not yet imagine having with her mother, with Helena, with the world at large.
And Julian… There was Julian. Would he be the support she needed? He wanted to be, she could tell. And the child was a relation of his. How odd it was that they were in this together now. She’d known him for so long, and yet they had not seen each other in what felt like an eternity only to now be locked together in some fashion for the rest of their lives. All these thoughts were keeping her awake and keeping her from resting. She’d have a restless night, she was sure.
But the fire was warm, and David’s breathing was soft and steady beside her, and the house around her was quiet in the way that only very old houses can be quiet. And thus, before she hadquite made up her mind about any of it, her eyes closed and the land of nod carried her away to a more peaceful realm.
CHAPTER 7
The following morning, Clara woke up, and for just a split second, she thought she was back in Scotland. Then her eyes caught the canopy above her. It was burgundy colored with shapes like triangles and squares, creating an odd pattern she didn’t recognize.
She sat up and realized she was at Julian’s home.
Then her eyes fell upon the little carved cradle.
David had not cried once which she found surprising for such a small child. She rose and looked down at him. He blinked, his tiny features perfect, and a sudden, sharp ache of protectiveness caught her off guard. The peace did not last, however, for the baby broke into a loud wail.
“Oh goodness,” she said, and picked him up.
He must be hungry. That gruel was not enough for him. Or maybe he is thirsty? Or… Oh. By Jove.
The smell reached her, and she held him further away on reflex for the scent was reminiscent of a cat she’d had as a child who had made a habit of leaving smelly gifts under her bed until its little toilet had been moved to a space the cat had deemed acceptable. “Or perhaps that is more pressing.”
She made her way to the bellpull and tugged once. A maid arrived with impressive speed, and Clara requested fresh clouts for the baby.
“The young master was remarkably quiet, My Lady,” the maid said respectfully. “Not a peep from him all night.”
“How would you know that?” Clara asked.
“His Lordshup had one of us stationed outside your chamber the entire night, My Lady, in case the babe should cry and need something.”
“Oh,” she said. “I did not know.”
