A Little Thing Called Love (7 page)

“Are you happy?”

She nodded. “And so very pleased I didn’t marry Lord Stowe. I don’t believe he could have done that.”

He laughed, the sound masculine and full, and she was filled with love for him. “He could never please you the way I can,” he assured her, and she had no doubt that he was right.

She brought hand down to rest on her belly. She didn’t feel a child had been created. Not yet. She thought of the portrait in her dreams. “Someday, I shall be a mother,” she murmured. “I shall not fear the future.”

He took her hand and kissed the back of her fingers. “I shall always protect you. Jenny, we shall see London doctors. They will know more than some country doctor.”

She smiled, content for right now. And then she wondered, “So, do you think we might do that again?”

“You liked it?” There was hope in her husband’s voice.

“I don’t know.” She pretended to frown. “I might need to try another sample.”

Fyclan’s answer was to gladly pull her into his arms and show her that, yes, they could do it as often as they wished.

Happily Ever After

T
HE COLONEL DI
SOWNED
Jenny.

He was vocal and bombastic about it. His actions did not bother her. What hurt is that her mother and her sisters supported him, even after, once they’d returned from Scotland, Fyclan financed Alice’s husband’s advancement and settled a considerable dowry on Serena. She did not marry the squire’s son but met a respectable barrister in Lansdown who helped her forget Evan. There were no thank-­yous.

“Blood money,” Serena had said, and for that, Jenny had no answer.

As for her mother? Well, she had waited years for her colonel husband to return home and could not go against him, or so she told her youngest daughter. Yes, he continued his reckless gambling, but what could a mere wife do? Jenny understood although her family’s greed and choices saddened her.

What she did know is that being Mrs. Fyclan Morris suited her. She now understood the admonishment that when a man and woman married, they left their parents and became one. She was proud to stand beside her husband.

The letters they had once exchanged now served as a good foundation for their marriage. Of course, she had much more she needed to learn about Fyclan, and she delighted in the endeavor. Soon, she could reference his likes and dislikes and found him to be a kind and considerate helpmate, one who also happened to be very rich.

Indeed, apparently few had known how wealthy. “I was a bachelor,” he explained to Jenny. “My needs were few, and I didn’t want to miss a good investment.”

Of course, Lord Stowe took exception to Fyclan’s eloping with Jenny. He complained bitterly to the directors of the East India Company. They, in turn, let Fyclan go and were surprised when he set up his own firm of offices directly across the street. His friend John Bishard joined him, and together, they became Morris and Bishard.

No one particularly took notice of the new firm, until Jenny and Fyclan began building their house in Mayfair with a library that could one day rival Sir David’s. Astute investors quickly learned that when it came to making money, Fyclan Morris had a gift. Very soon, his clients came only from the elite because he could afford to be selective. Eventually, even the East India Company looked to him for advice.

Jenny was not surprised to discover that, although her elopement caused a bit of a scandal at the time, doors were not closed to them. After all, there were those who sought Fyclan’s attention to their personal fortunes. They didn’t care that Fyclan was Irish. They wanted a sound return on their coin, and he always delivered.

In time, Mr. and Mrs. Morris were added to every guest list, including events at Court. He was one of the few that the king’s advisors called upon regularly for his opinion.

Did it bother Jenny that her family had spurned her? Rarely. She discovered she was more resilient than anyone could have imagined.

She also didn’t think about her heart. Her life was so full of happiness and love, she had no room for fear. She was too busy living each day to its fullest.

Her husband thought differently. Fyclan insisted that she be seen by the best doctors. They examined her coloring, asked if she had trouble breathing, or was tired—­and then told him there was no medical way of determining how strong her heart was or wasn’t. She appeared and acted fine. Yes, she rested every afternoon, but that was a reasonable action for a woman as active and busy as Jenny. In time, Fyclan, too, relaxed.

The only disappointment Jenny had was that she’d yet to be with child. It wasn’t for lack of trying. She and her husband enjoyed their marriage bed. She feared the reason they didn’t have children was because of her. Something had to be wrong with her.

Fyclan, who knew her moods so well, reminded her of his Gran’s prediction and the dream Jenny had of the portrait. “Our children are destined for great things. Look at what has happened to us. Please have faith, my love. Believe.”

Then again, Fyclan trusted the future more easily than she did. He always had.

“I haven’t had the dream since we were married,” she answered. “What if it was all a fantasy?”

“Would my love for you be enough?” he asked.

Ah, there was the question. “At one time, before you, I accepted I might be childless. But you introduced me to hope. I yearn for a baby, Fyclan. My arms feel empty.”

Nor did it help when she heard by way of others that Alice and Serena were each now proud mothers.

And then, on the fifth anniversary of their wild elopement to Gretna Green, Jenny had the dream again. This time the dream let her stand for what seemed to be as long as she wished in front of the portrait—­her daughter, living evidence of the love Jenny and her husband shared.

Jenny woke with a start. She stared at the bedroom’s darkness, needing a moment to understand her surroundings.

Attuned to his wife, Fyclan woke. “Is everything all right?” he murmured sleepily, drawing her close in his arms.

In answer, Jenny kissed him and, as things always went between them, they were soon making love. When they finished, Fyclan cradled her in his arms and fell back to sleep, but Jenny lay awake, a certain knowledge growing in her heart.

Three months later, she was not surprised to realize she was finally with child.

Jenny took to her bed. The doctors insisted. No one wanted to run the risk of losing Jenny’s child. Fyclan told her that was because all of her doctors were half in love with her and didn’t want to see her disappointed.

She doubted his words, but she would do anything for her baby.

Elin Grace Morris was born with curling black hair and eyes that the midwife assured Jenny would someday be as dark as her father’s. She had ten fingers and ten toes and a bow-­shaped mouth. She was the most beautiful baby Jenny had ever seen. Her name was chosen after Fyclan’s Gran.

At last, Jenny had everything that gave her life purpose. She had a husband she adored and the child she had so desperately desired.

B
UYING A COUNTRY
estate had been Fyclan’s idea. He chose a charming house located on the River Trent in Leicestershire. He called it Elin’s christening present and Jenny thought it the perfect place for a girl to be happy. They named the estate Heartwood.

Their lives in London were busy, but here, even Fyclan could relax and enjoy the family. The estate was also adjacent to the seat of the Duke and Duchess of Baynton. The ­couples were fast friends in London. Her Grace was the mother of three sons, and Jenny had found her advice on motherhood invaluable.

Of course, when Fyclan and Jenny first arrived at Heartwood, the duke and duchess invited them almost immediately to Trenton, the name of the Baynton seat, for dinner.

Baynton and his wife greeted them enthusiastically when they arrived.

“Where are the boys?” Jenny asked.

“The twins are at school,” Her Grace said. “Of course, and Ben will come down and join us for a bit. Are you happy with the house?”

“I adore it,” Jenny said.

“Come in, come in,” the duke invited.

Trenton was far grander than Heartwood. The noble family of Baynton had been in the ser­vice of the Crown for hundreds of years, and this estate was a testimony to their power.

It was also the manor in Jenny’s dream.

She stood still in the hall, taking it all in. Elin wiggled in her arms, wishing to be let down. Jenny moved forward, walking past the receiving room, every detail like her dream. She stopped in the doorway of the sitting room.

There was a fire in the hearth, and over the mantel was the portrait of Marcella, the current duchess.

Did Fyclan understand? He was by her side. He took the baby from her and was watching Jenny closely.

Jenny turned to her husband. She could see that, yes, he understood. “Is this portrait like the one in your dreams?

She nodded.
The one.
“Except Elin is the duchess standing there.” She knew it with certainty.

The duke and his wife had not noticed the exchange. They were busy directing servants to set out refreshments for their guests. His Grace poured two healthy measures of amber whisky. He carried one over to Fyclan.

Her Grace offered Jenny a glass of Madeira. Jenny placed Elin on the thick India carpet and took a seat beside her friend. For a moment, the adults watched Elin look around the room with her bright intelligence, then try to stand.

Fyclan offered his hand to help her with her balance. She rewarded him with one of her sunny smiles.

The duke spoke. “Before we do anything else, Marcella and I have a matter we wish to discuss with you.”

Jenny and Fyclan looked up with interest.

“You see,” the duke continued, “I’ve been thinking about the conversation I had with you the last time we met, Fyclan. You are right, the world is changing. ­People with responsibilities such as mine should not leave important concerns to chance.”

“That makes good sense,” Fyclan said, helping Elin take a step, then another. She was going to run before she could walk.

“The old ways will not last,” the duke said. “To survive, my title will need to think in modern terms. Too many of my noble friends are struggling with their finances.”

Jenny knew that was true. Almost weekly, the gossip was about this young lord or that one wasting his fortune at gaming tables and on horses. Even if they were not foolish and gambled, those fortunes were becoming difficult to maintain, according to Fyclan, if all a family relied on was income from land to fill their coffers.

“I discussed this with Marcella, and we wish to propose to you a merger of sorts. We would like a marriage agreement between your daughter and my heir.”

For a second, Jenny didn’t believe she’d heard correctly. Fyclan also appeared stunned.

“I need you, Morris,” the duke said, “to help steer my son Gavin in the right direction. But, please, this isn’t just about the legacy of my title. Marcella and I value your friendship. I pray you say yes to our offer . . . which you should—­that is, if you wish your grandsons to be dukes.”

Jenny’s gaze met Fyclan’s. They both knew what the answer would be. Gavin Whitridge, a marquess in his own right although he was only eight, would make the perfect husband for Elin.

“Yes, of course,” Fyclan said. “We are honored.”

“Good,” His Grace answered with a clap of hands. “That’s settled.”

Elin heard the sound and let go of her father’s fingers to teeter on two sturdy legs and clap as well, a sign that she, too, was happy with her future. The adults laughed.

“Champagne,” Her Grace announced. “I’ve had it waiting.”

And so, as glasses were poured, Jenny found herself standing beside the mantel. Someday, Elin’s picture would hang above it, and she knew the future was nothing to fear.

Not when it was filled with love.

Don’t miss

THE MATCH OF THE CENTURY

the first full-­length novel in Cathy’s brand-­new

Marrying the Duke
series!

Coming November 24, 2015!

Read on for a sneak peek . . .

Invitation

In honor of Miss Elin Morris and her parents Mr. and Mrs. Fyclan Morris

Gavin Whitridge, the Duke of Baynton and Marcella, The Dowager Duchess of Baynton

request your presence at a ball

Tuesday, 11 April, 1809.

Dances begin at 10 p.m.

An Announcement of Great Importance will be made before midnight.

A cold supper will be provided.

R.S.V.P. Menheim House

Chapter One

A
LL OF
L
ONDON,
even down to the riffraff, already knew what the ball’s special announcement would be. There was no mystery, although The Dowager Duchess of Baynton’s guests would feign surprise when the moment for the announcement arrived.

They called it the Match of the Century.

Her son, the Duke of Baynton, London’s richest and unarguably most handsome gentleman, would announce his betrothal to Miss Elin Morris, also known as the Morris Heiress, thereby uniting two great fortunes and two magnificent adjoining country estates in Leicestershire along the River Trent.

And the reason everyone anticipated the “announcement” was because it was a well-­known fact that Elin had been promised to the duke almost since the day of her birth. Yes, she had been presented at Court and had gone through the motions of a First Season, but it had all been just a formality, a “show.” The duke was hers. She had Baynton, the epitome of a lordly lord, the Nonpareil.

“And I am not
worthy
of him,” Elin whispered, stopping the furious pacing she’d been at for the last ten minutes in an attempt to settle anxious nerves and a confused mind.

Her bedroom in her parent’s London house was fit for a princess. The India carpet in hues of blue was thick and soft beneath her stockinged feet. Her furniture was gilded in the opulent manner her parents preferred.

Back in Heartwood, the Morris family estate, which adjoined the Baynton’s family seat, the furniture in her room was simple and to her tastes. Here, her parents ruled. They were London creatures, darlings of society known for their generosity and deep, abiding love for each other.

And Elin? Well, their only child preferred the quieter life at Heartwood. Of course, all that would change when she became Baynton’s duchess. He was too important to have his wife rusticate in the country.

She caught a glimpse of herself in her dressing-­table mirror, a lone figure in finely woven petticoats, her face pale beneath a mop of overcurly brown hair. Her dark eyes reflected her agitation. They threatened to swallow her face.

“It’s not that I don’t want Baynton,” she attempted to explain to her image. “It is that I
shouldn’t
have him. Not without telling him—­”

Her bedroom door flew open, interrupting her thoughts, and her mother, Jennifer Morris, sparkling in the famed Morris diamonds, swept into the room. Her dress was of Belgian lace dyed in her favorite shade of sapphire, a color that matched her eyes. Her honey blond hair betrayed barely a trace of gray. She glowed with eagerness for the evening ahead. She enjoyed crowds and being the center of attention. She had looked forward to this night for over twenty years, ever since the old duke of Baynton had suggested a match between their children.

Jenny shut the door and took in the situation in the room—­Elin in her petticoats, her hair curling without a sense of order or style—­and focused on the supper tray on the desk by the window overlooking the back garden.

“What is this? You haven’t touched any of your food. Sarah said she encouraged you to eat, but I can see you haven’t taken even a bite.” Her mother approached her. Jenny was half a head taller than her daughter. She cupped Elin’s face in warm, loving hands. The rose scent of her perfume swirled around them. “Elin, you must eat. This evening is all about you. You are going to be very busy tonight. So many ­people will beg your attention, you won’t have time to sit, let alone enjoy a bit of supper. Cook prepared the chicken in that French cream sauce you like so much. And then, sweet bee, you need to finish dressing. In fact, while you are eating, let me call for Sarah to do your hair. We don’t want to keep Baynton and his guests waiting—­”

Elin caught her mother’s hand before she could move away. “I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

“
You can,
” her mother answered. “You were meant to do this. Born for it. Elin—­” She paused, closed her eyes as if searching for the right words, or patience. When she raised her lashes, her expression was one of loving concern. “Elin, forgive yourself. You made a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. However, it was many years ago. What were you, fifteen?”

“I was to turn sixteen.”

“So very young. How could you have known? You trusted Benedict. Your father and I trusted him.”

“I was foolish.” A hard lump formed in Elin’s chest at the mention of Benedict Whitridge’s name. Ben had been her closest friend, and he had taken what she should have protected—­her virginity. He was also her betrothed’s youngest brother.

Not only had the experience been painful and humiliating, he’d gone away the very next day. He’d left for a career in the military without a word of farewell. Or a warning that he was leaving, that he wouldn’t be there to reassure her when she needed him most.

Her mother led Elin to her dressing table. She gently pushed Elin to sit on the bench, then knelt on the carpet in front of her, taking her hands and holding them.

“My daughter, we have discussed this. I thought you’d forgiven yourself. It was not a good incident in your life, but nothing terrible came of it.”

“I have forgiven myself.” Elin’s voice sounded false to her own ears. “I just believe Baynton should know.”

“That his
brother
took advantage of his betrothed? Is that what you want to tell him?”

“I wouldn’t say who.” Especially since Baynton and his brothers had shared a turbulent history.

There had been three Whitridge sons residing at Baynton, until Gavin’s twin, Jack, had disappeared one night from Eton. Some claimed he’d had run off. Others believed foul play. No matter which, he was never seen or heard from again.

The disappearance had meant that the old duke had not wanted to let his third son meet the same end. Or have the same opportunity to escape. The old duke had been an exacting taskmaster. He had high expectations for his heir. Ben often felt he was an afterthought. “A spare,” Ben had always claimed, oftentimes bitterly. “Always kept at bay.”

Because of Jack’s disappearance, his father had kept him at Trenton, the family estate, and had him educated by a succession of tutors. Elin had been his sole companion.

As an only child of parents who were often in London, Elin had valued Ben’s company. She’d trusted him and, to this day, could not believe he had taken her innocence to strike out at his oldest brother, as her mother had claimed. Then again, everyone knew the brothers were highly competitive. The old duke liked them that way.

However, to Elin, the loss of her purity was a small thing in the face of the betrayal of a trusted friend. She’d known he’d longed for independence. He’d yearned to buy his commission and set off into the world.

What she hadn’t anticipated was that he would use her in such a deliberate way. That had seemed out of character. Her mother had assured her it was very much the nature of men and one of the reasons that, from now on, her parents would protect her more closely.

And so they had.

Elin was now three-­and-­twenty. Ben actually meant nothing to her save for a hard lesson learned.

She admitted to her mother, “Of the two brothers, I am marrying the best . . . but Baynton is known for his integrity. Is it wise to start a marriage with a deception?”

“And you could speak this honesty without telling the name of the man?” her mother repeated incredulously, then shook her head. “He would demand it or go mad with jealousy. Sweet bee, when a man’s pride is on the line, he will move mountains to discover the truth. You know how single-­minded your father can be.”

Elin nodded. Fyclan Morris’s story was well-­known. He’d been an Irish nobody who had raised himself to the highest levels of society.

“Well, Baynton is even more so. Your honesty could destroy any chance you have at a happy marriage. He will not cry off. His honor won’t let him. And this means so much to your father.”

The marriage also meant a great deal to her mother as well. Jenny Tarleton had married beneath her.

Fyclan had been a man full of big dreams and confidence. He’d told her that his children’s were to someday be dukes and princes. His Romney grandmother had foretold it, and if Jenny ran away with him, if she eloped against her family’s wishes, she would have no regrets.

And now, Fyclan was now one of the most respected businessmen in London. Certainly, he was the wealthiest. Through Elin, the prophecy was about to be fulfilled.

“I know what this marriage means to you and Papa,” Elin said as gently as she could. “However, I feel it only fair to tell Baynton of my indiscretion. I was foolish.”

Her mother leaned forward. “My darling daughter, there isn’t a woman alive who hasn’t been foolish at one time or the other. You took it too far, but the simple truth is, you are not the first woman to go to her husband’s bed after having lost her purity to another, and you will not be the last.”

Elin knew this was true. She’d heard the other young women of her acquaintance whispering.

“Benedict is gone,” her mother continued. “He is far away serving on some battlefield, plumping his vanity. He wanted to hurt his brother, and if you do tell Baynton what happened, then he will have succeeded.”

For a moment, Elin sat silent. Then she pulled her hands from her mother’s grip and turned on the bench to face her image in the mirror. Her expression had lost its haunted look. She lifted her chin with resolve. “Will you send for Sarah? I need to dress.”

“Are you going to make a confession to Baynton?” Her mother rose to her feet.

“There isn’t any sense to it, is there?”

Her mother kissed her on the top of her unruly curls. “Only the future matters, sweet bee. Baynton will make you a wonderful husband. Your son will be magnificent. Yes, I’ll fetch Sarah, and don’t forget to manage a bite or two.”

She started for the door, but Elin had one last question, something she’d always wondered knowing how close her parents were. “Does Father know what happened between Ben and me?”

Her mother stopped at the door, one hand ready to turn the handle. “Men are not as wise about these matters as we women are. He would have called Benedict out. It would not do for a grown man to duel a seventeen-­year-­old boy.”

She opened the door. “This is your night. Do not fear your destiny. Let this evening be one filled with the joy of an open heart. And when you walk into Menheim”—­she referred to the Baynton’s London home—­“look toward the sitting room because someday soon, your portrait, the portrait of a young duchess, will grace the mantel there. The pictures of your children will line the walls around you. And Baynton will value you above all others.” On those words, she left the room with perfumed grace.

Elin confronted herself in the looking glass. Since that fateful night, she’d lived a circumspect life. “My son will be a duke,” she whispered, testing the words that filled her parents with confidence, and yet, she felt nothing.

However, when all was said and done, the least she could do was to please her parents, to make them happy. Baynton was a good man. She didn’t know him well because he was so incredibly important, he was busy all the time, but she liked his mother. She respected Marcella and prayed she was half as dignified and good of heart as the Dowager.

A knock sounded on the door, and Sarah entered the room to help Elin dress.

F
EW WOMEN WERE
as energetic as Marcella, The Dowager Duchess of Baynton. She was ten years Jennifer Morris’s senior, but she appeared young enough to be her contemporary.

The Dowager’s jewels of choice for the evening were her blood red garnets. They circled her throat, her wrists, and her fingers and stood out against silvery gray of her dress. In her white-­blond hair, she wore a bandeau in garnet red. She appeared queenly and gracious, as was her welcome for her dearest friends in the upstairs sitting room reserved for family. They were not alone. The room was crowded with Baynton’s relatives, some of whom Elin knew, but many she did not. The sound of the musicians tuning their instruments drifted up the stairs from the ballroom.

“Jenny, you are radiant,” Her Grace said in greeting. “And, dear Fyclan, how handsome.”

Elin’s father did look good. He might not have been as tall as his wife, but there was a presence about him that made others take notice. Elin had gained the exotic shape of her brown eyes as well as her dark hair from him . His hair, once been as black as a raven’s wing, was now silver.

Surprisingly, the years had been unkind to him. He used a walking cane now and not just for effect. Elin and her mother both worried after him. He was a man who worked far too hard.

However, tonight was one for celebration. Fyclan offered the duchess the kiss of friendship. “You are stunning as well, Your Grace.”

Marcella laughed, an expression that quickly took a dangerous turn toward tears. She pressed a gloved hand to her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Fyclan, it is nothing you said. My husband had so anticipated this evening and to a wedding between our two families. You know how highly he thought of you?”

“I do, and I miss his friendship daily.”

“Yes,” the Dowager agreed and sent a sad smile in Elin’s direction. “And here I haven’t even told you how lovely you are, my Elin. You look like a young Helen of Troy,” she declared. “The pale peach of that dress sets your skin off to perfection. Your mother and I knew it would when we saw it, and I so admire the bands of gold holding your curls.”

Elin blushed with the compliment. But before she could respond, the duchess said quietly, “You and Gavin should have been married years ago. I feel so much regret over what happened.”

Jenny rested a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “My dear, it isn’t your fault that your husband took ill. The marriage could wait until he was better.”

“But he never became better.” Again the duchess’s eyes misted over the loss of her beloved husband. Elin and Gavin were to have been betrothed four years earlier, but the duke’s illness and subsequent death, not to mention the challenges Gavin faced in assuming the duties of the title, had set back plans for a wedding.