Devoted to the Duke, page 23
They climbed the stairs to the top floor, where the nursery lay, and Jeremy told her he loved her on each step. When they reached the door, he kissed her once more.
She laughed. “You made me lose count,” she complained good-naturedly.
He sighed. “Then I suppose I’ll have to start all over again.”
“Better make it three hundred this time. You want to stay in my good graces, Your Grace.”
They spent half an hour in the nursery, helping feed Jenny and playing with her. As they stepped back into the corridor, Jeremy pulled Catherine into his arms.
“I love you, Duchess,” he said. “That’s one.”
“Only two hundred and ninety-nine more to go, Duke.”
“Do you think you’ll like being a duchess?” he asked.
“As long as you’re my duke, I don’t see why not. Do you like being a duke?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, if you ever change your mind, I can most certainly write you a reference.”
“As what?”
Catherine laughed. “A lady’s maid.”
He kissed her. “I love you. Two. I could also write you a recommendation.”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “As your mistress?”
“You saucy wench.” Jeremy kissed her hard, desire for her rippling through him. He broke the kiss. “I was thinking of a nursery maid.”
Catherine glanced over his shoulder toward the schoolroom. “I suppose I could also recommend you as a tutor. In the art of love.”
His lips grazed her jaw. “If you don’t watch that smart mouth of yours, I’ll take you to the schoolroom right now and teach you a new lesson in love.”
Her stomach growled and they both laughed.
“Perhaps that lesson can wait,” she suggested.
As he led her downstairs, Jeremy thought of several lessons they could share.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Catherine didn’t like what Jeremy had planned. Not one bit.
The carriage hit a bump and she bounced off the seat. He quickly caught her and pulled her back—into his lap.
Looping her arms about his neck, she said, “I can’t always go riding in your lap.”
“I love you,” he said sweetly.
“I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t reminded you this morning.”
He brushed his lips softly against hers in reply.
She pulled away. “Do we really have to go see Statham?” she pleaded.
Her husband’s green eyes grew hard. “Yes.”
“Must you challenge him to a duel?”
“It may not come to that,” Jeremy said.
Catherine hoped it wouldn’t.
They arrived at what once had been her home in London. She’d spent spring and summer in the city each year while her father conducted business in Parliament. The structure before her looked so familiar and yet seemed oddly cold.
Jeremy handed her down and she saw Morefield waiting for them. The only reason he would be present would be as Jeremy’s second. Dread filled her.
Morefield greeted them and her husband handed his friend a letter. She saw Statham’s name on it.
“Wait outside,” Jeremy cautioned. “I hope it won’t come to issuing Statham a challenge but if it does, then I will indicate you are to deliver it to him.”
“Can I ask what this is about, Everton? What slight Statham might have caused?”
“You may not,” Jeremy said curtly.
Morefield’s eyes met hers. Catherine shrugged helplessly. He had to know somehow that the possible duel involved her.
“We’ll return shortly,” Jeremy said, taking her arm and escorting her to the door.
He rang the bell. Jervis answered it, his eyes widening in surprise.
“We wish to see Lord Statham,” Jeremy said.
“Please, come in, Your Graces,” Jervis said.
They entered the foyer and Jeremy produced his card, which he gave to the butler.
“My wife would like you to give up your position here and come to work for my family. If you’re still interested, you should give Statham your resignation. I don’t know which of my houses you’ll be placed in. That’s up to Her Grace and my secretary.”
“I am eager to join your service, Your Grace,” Jervis said. “Things are . . . not as they used to be here and at Statham Manor.”
“You might want to wait until after my business with Statham is concluded,” Jeremy advised. “And if you don’t mind, we’ll come along with you. Announce us but I want access to Statham immediately afterward.”
Catherine knew he wanted to keep her cousin off-balance.
“Very good, Your Grace. If you’ll follow me.”
The butler led them to a drawing room. They waited as he knocked and opened the door. She knew he handed Statham Jeremy’s card as she heard, “The Duke and Duchess of Everton, my lord.”
Before Statham could give Jervis an excuse, Jeremy stepped into the room with her on his arm. Catherine tried to look unflustered but her heart sped up when she caught sight of her cousin.
He didn’t look good. Martin had always been prone to being red in the face, she guessed from excessive drinking. It was barely eleven in the morning and she saw a crystal tumbler of brandy at his elbow.
“Statham,” Jeremy said with a brisk nod.
Her cousin rose to his feet. “Your Grace.” His eyes flicked to her in unease. Catherine stared, not bothering to greet him.
After a moment, he said, “Sit, please,” as if he only remembered his hosting duties. “Would you care for any refreshment?”
“No. We won’t be here long.”
Jeremy led them to a settee and they sat. “We’re here to discuss your blackmailing my wife,” he said as pleasantly as if he were remarking on the weather.
Statham’s face reddened further. “Blackmail?” he sputtered. “I haven’t the faintest—”
“Let’s dispense with the lies, Statham. You’ve threatened my duchess.” After a long pause, he added, “That means you’ve threatened me.”
Catherine watched the various emotions flit across Statham’s face. He’d been confronted and was trying to think of a way to weasel out of it.
“Listen to me, Everton. I don’t know what your wife has been telling you, but it’s all lies. Blackmail? Why would I wish to blackmail my dearest cousin? What information might I even possess that would lead to my acting in such a despicable, dishonorable manner? Catherine’s the one lying, Everton. Not me.”
“Lying?” Jeremy asked calmly, idly flicking a piece of lint from his trousers. “You think my duchess is lying to me?”
Statham’s face grew redder. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Everton. Catherine was a lying bitch when we were children and she hasn’t changed in the least. She made up nonsense all the time about me bullying her, telling my father and her parents outrageous falsehoods, trying to see me punished.”
Catherine choked and then sputtered, “You were awful to me when we were children. How dare you pretend you never intimidated me. Hurt me. You were mean. Cruel. Spiteful. And you bragged to me how your father never punished you for what you did to me.”
Jeremy took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. It brought her comfort and gave her strength. She leaned back, trying to control her surging anger.
“See?” Statham said, leaning forward. “She’s still lying. She was incredibly spoiled as a child and lied when she didn’t get her way. Though she’s a woman now, she still thinks she can fabricate nonsense and be believed.”
He paused, looking earnest, and Catherine wanted to claw out his eyes. “Look at me, Everton. We are two reasonable, rational gentlemen. Our word is our bond. I give you mine and swear that I have never threatened Catherine—either as a child or an adult. There’s been no blackmail on my part. I promise to forgive her for making such false accusations against me. I only hope that you can get her under control. Madness runs in the family, you know. Her mother was as batty as they come.”
This time, Catherine leaped to her feet. It was bad enough her cousin belittled her but to drag her beloved mother into the situation and utter such blatant lies was unthinkable. Before she could deny his accusations, Jeremy clasped her wrist and pulled her back beside him. His thumb massaged her wrist, calming her. Without looking at her, she knew he was telling her to trust him. That he would take care of her—and her horrid cousin—for good.
“You’ve told Her Grace that if she doesn’t do as you say, you will ruin her and her sister,” her husband said coolly, disregarding everything Statham had said.
Catherine saw Statham’s confidence fade as he realized her husband was taking his wife’s word over a fellow, titled gentleman. His face turned bright red now and his eyes narrowed.
“I can. And will,” he blustered. “You can’t do anything to stop me, Everton. Catherine and Leah are bastards that my uncle pawned off on the ton as purebloods. He presented them as his true daughters, not the by-blows of an actress and some shopkeeper’s daughter. They are barely Crawfords, certainly not ones I’d acknowledge. It’s time society found out who they were.”
She sensed the tension running through him now and knew Jeremy struggled to control his anger.
He did, though, as he coldly said, “You threatened to hold my sister-in-law hostage. You wanted to coerce my wife into forcing my sister to marry you. And if she didn’t, you planned to destroy your cousins’ reputations—and sully my family’s name. Have I got everything correct?”
Statham blanched as Jeremy spoke.
“I wouldn’t quite put it that way, Your Grace.”
“Oh? How would you explain it?”
Statham shook his head helplessly.
“Traditionally, when a gentleman has been grossly offended, he demands satisfaction from the offender, especially when it deals with honor. Waiting outside is my good friend, Morefield, who holds a letter issuing a challenge to you. It details my grievances and insists I receive justice. If Morefield delivers this letter, you may choose to accept or refuse my challenge. If you accept it, my terms will be harsh. I won’t see our duel end with first blood. I won’t find it acceptable if you are physically unable to proceed.
“I’ll only agree to death, Statham. Yours.” Jeremy paused. “And believe me when I tell you that I’m an excellent shot.”
Her cousin grabbed the tumbler and downed the rest of his brandy in a single swallow.
“If you reject the challenge, you would gravely insult me—and prove what a coward you are.” He stopped and waited until Statham met his gaze. “That’s if I have Morefield give you the letter.”
“What . . . what would it take for that not to occur?” Statham asked hoarsely.
“Only for you to keep what you know to yourself, as any gentleman worthy of that title would,” Jeremy said. “Your silence—for your life. It’s your choice, Statham.”
Her cousin licked his lips nervously.
Jeremy stood. “Very well. I’ll—”
“No! Wait!”
“You have something to say?”
Statham swallowed nervously. “Yes, Your Grace. I’m sorry—”
“No,” her husband said, his irritation plain. “Apologize to my duchess.”
Statham came and stood before her and then bent upon one knee. “I ask for forgiveness, Your Grace. I beg you to show me mercy. I promise never to reveal the origins of your birth. Or Cousin Leah’s. If you choose, I will never speak to you—or of you—again in society.”
She stared into his eyes, thinking how this worthless man had taken the title her father had held with honor.
“You will cede guardianship of Leah to Everton.”
“Of course,” he quickly agreed.
“You will greet us cordially at any ton event but keep your distance. We will never invite you into our homes nor will we expect to visit you in yours.”
“I understand.”
“If you even think of betrayal, my husband will know. He is a very clever man, Statham. I would not have him duel with you. Instead, I would have him ruin you financially. And then see that you’re judged to be incompetent and placed in an asylum. You would have many years of suffering ahead of you. So many that you might truly go mad.”
He shuddered. “I vow never to speak ill of you, Your Grace.”
“Good.” Catherine glanced at her husband, who looked upon her in awe. He offered his hand and helped her rise.
Jeremy escorted her halfway across the room and halted. He kissed her cheek and said, “I’ll be back.”
Confused, she watched him cross the room and return to where Statham stood. With such speed that it seemed a blur, her husband threw a punch that landed on the earl’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.
Hovering over Statham, he said, “I want the papers regarding Leah’s guardianship delivered to me by the end of the day. And then I want you gone from England for at least five years. Longer would be better. You’ve insulted my duchess and made a mockery of calling yourself a gentleman. It will take a long time for my temper to cool, Statham. See that you never cross me again else I will issue that challenge and see you dead.”
Jeremy returned to Catherine’s side and tucked her hand through the crook of his arm before leading her from the room.
Jervis stood just outside the door. It was obvious from the look on his face that he had heard everything. He nodded deferentially.
As he saw them out, the butler said, “I will submit my resignation, effective immediately. I won’t require a reference from Lord Statham.”
“We’ll be expecting you,” Jeremy told the older man. “Please inform Lady Leah to pack her things. I’ll send the carriage for you both in two hours.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Morefield paced along the sidewalk. He hurried toward them as they emerged from the townhouse.
“Should I be concerned? I opened the letter, you know. You didn’t bother to seal it, Everton.”
Jeremy grinned. “I figured you would.”
“By the look on your face, I’m assuming that I will not have to act as your second and give Statham your challenge.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Thank goodness.”
“Morefield, you and Charlotte should come to dinner tonight. We have much to catch up on.”
The viscount sighed in relief. “Charlotte will be delighted. We have tickets for the theatre tonight if you’d care to join us after dinner.”
Jeremy looked to her and Catherine nodded. “That would be lovely, Morefield. We’ll see you then.”
They returned to where Strong waited with their carriage. As they settled against the seat back, her husband’s arm went around her shoulders.
“Remind me never to cross you, Duchess,” he teased. “Financial ruin? The madhouse?”
Catherine shrugged. “I’m sure there’s nothing you can’t do, Duke.”
“Have I told you today that I love you?”
She smiled radiantly. “I believe you have. But I’d much rather you show me instead.”
Her husband framed her face with his hands. “Then we’ll start with a kiss.”
Epilogue
One year—and many “I love you” proclamations—later . . .
Catherine tried breathing slowly and evenly. The pains came and went more quickly in the last few minutes. The midwife had checked moments ago and told her the birth was minutes away.
She allowed Jeremy to bathe her face again with the wet washcloth. Her attentive husband hadn’t left her side since this morning when her water broke. That had been almost twelve hours ago. Twelve long hours. But it would be worth it. Soon, they would be adding to their family. Their Jenny would have a brother or sister.
He set aside the washcloth and took her hand again, his other palm caressing her cheek.
“You have been extraordinary, my love.” He kissed her fingers.
She sighed. “I haven’t done anything yet but lie here and complain. Wait until I produce our child. Then you can tell me how wonderful I am.”
Another contraction hit and she gripped his hand tightly as her face screwed up in agony.
The midwife came over and checked under the sheet. “The head’s crowning. It’s time to push, Your Grace.” She frowned at Jeremy. “And time for you to say your goodbyes, Your Grace.”
“I’m not leaving my wife,” he said stubbornly. “I’m a duke. You can’t make me.”
They had talked several times over the past few months about his fears. Catherine had been in good health throughout the pregnancy, though a month ago she had been spotting some and both the doctor and midwife suggested bedrest, especially since she’d grown quite large. Jeremy had spent almost every waking moment with her—reading to her, brushing her hair, talking about their future. He’d told her then that he would stay with her throughout the birth.
Jeremy released her hand. “I have an idea, sweetheart.”
He helped her to sit up and removed the pillows behind her, tossing them aside. He slid behind her, her legs between his, her back leaning against his chest.
“Take my hands, Duchess.”
She did just as another pain struck and squeezed so tightly he groaned.
“I hope if it’s a son, he’ll be as strong as his mother. No, if it’s a girl, I hope she, too, will have her mother’s strength.”
“Push, Your Grace,” the midwife instructed.
Catherine bore down, gritting her teeth and crushing her husband’s hands. He encouraged her with soft words of praise.
“I love you,” he said. “You’re doing magnificently.”
“I . . . love . . . you!” she ground out, bearing down as much as she could.
“That’s it, Your Grace. Do it again. The shoulders are through.”
“I . . . love . . . oh!” she said, as she felt the baby slip from her.
Her head fell back against his shoulder. She was so weary she might sleep until Christmas.
“It’s a boy,” the midwife told them, cleaning the infant and wrapping him in soft linen.
“We have a boy.”
She heard the pride in her husband’s voice. And then another, terrible pain struck her. Catherine groaned loudly.
