Page 59 of Marrying the Wrong Earl (Lords and Ladies in Love 2)

“Yes, sweeting. As I’ve explained to you numerous times, it is necessary for me to be in London, at least until Parliament recesses. It is probably best if you and your animals take up residence at the Manor.”

She grew pale, and for a moment he thought she would swoon. But she straightened her shoulders and gave him a half smile. “And you will join us once Parliament recesses?”

Tension hung in the air as he studied her before responding. “I think not. ’Tis for the best if we separate.”

Her eyes grew wide, and she placed her hand on her stomach. “I am with child, my lord.”

Ah, so now she decided to tell him. Was her revelation a way to make him feel guilty? To reconsider his decision? Arabella was so very different from every other woman he knew in the ton. She cared for none of the things most women of her station cared about. He’d spent the last few months trying to figure her out and had reluctantly come to the realization that they were very unsuited to each other. Something she had tried to tell him from the start.

“I know.”

Arabella sat, her mouth open. “You know?”

“Yes. I can count.” He walked across the room and stared out the window, his hands behind his back. “I was just waiting for you to tell me.”

“I only just realized myself a few weeks ago. It appears I am not as good at counting as you are.” She offered him a crooked smile.

He shrugged. “I will, of course, attend you when the babe is due. Just send word.”

She nodded. “I see.” Arabella stood and shook out her skirts. “Then I guess I will inform Sophia to see to the packing.”

“I will send word immediately for the staff to expect you.”

Without another word, she turned and headed to the door.

“Arabella.” He held his hand out.

“What?” She looked at him over her shoulder, tears glistening in her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I just wish…”

She took in a deep breath. “As do I.”

…

Nash entered White’s on a cold and rainy early evening. Arabella and the menagerie had all left for the country two weeks before. He’d thought of nothing else all day, every day, but Arabella. Her smile, her laugh. How her eyes lit up when she talked about her animals.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not sleep without her next to him. Considering he’d slept alone for years, and with her for only a few months, the entire situation was ludicrous. He’d even taken to having warm milk before he retired, certainly a reason to have him banned from his clubs. But, instead of sleeping, he lay on his back, his hands tucked behind his head, staring at nothing, and remembering.

When it became apparent he was not going to enjoy a night’s sleep, he would throw off the covers and pace. Pulling on a banyan, he would tie the belt tightly and descend the stairs to the library where he would attempt to read. Books hadn’t helped. Brandy hadn’t helped. Staring at the flames in the fireplace hadn’t helped.

Nash handed his wet greatcoat and hat to Duncan, the longtime butler at the club door. Duncan bowed slightly, and Nash entered the main room. Nearing dinnertime, the club was full with men seeking company, coffee, whiskey, cards, and food. Nash refused to eat one more meal alone. Cook had taken to making several dishes he despised. The way she sniffed when he questioned her on it told him exactly how she felt about Arabella and her circus leaving. He thought to remind her who paid her wages, but feeling uncomfortable himself, he had finally decided to seek his dinner elsewhere.

He took a chair near the back wall and signaled a footman to bring him a brandy. He would have one or two drinks and then make his way to the dining room. He was perusi

ng the evening newspaper when a deep voice interrupted him. “Evening, Clarendon. I haven’t seen you in an age.”

The Duke of Manchester settled himself across from Nash. He’d always liked the duke and found him to be friendly, but definitely not one to cross. He had five sisters he’d seen married off and was known to be completely, and unabashedly, besotted with his duchess. A duchess who was an acknowledged and respected botanist. Perhaps His Grace was just the person with whom to speak.

“’Tis true, Your Grace. How does your family fare?”

Manchester leaned back and signaled a footman. “Quite well, thank you. Her Grace and I welcomed our new daughter, Lady Bernice, the September past.” He pointed to Nash’s drink, which the footman noted and returned with a glass of brandy for each of them.

“That is now, what, two daughters and a son?”

“Precisely. I seem to be following in my father’s footsteps. One son and the rest daughters. Robert, Marquess of Stratford, Lady Esther, and now Lady Bernice.” The pride in the man’s voice, and face, had Nash’s stomach clenching. If only he and Arabella had come together, he might one day show the same pride in his offspring. The way things looked now, there might be only one.

He pushed the sad thought away. “And Her Grace? She is well?”