Charlotte Louise Dolan by The Substitute Bridegroom Page B

He looked down at her lovely face and admitted to himself for the first time that the blame was all his.
    “May I, Capt’n?”
    Wordlessly Darius handed over the portrait.
    “It’s the spitting image. Even got the scar just right.”
    “Let me see that again.” Darius took back the painting. What an unusual woman his wife was. Most miniaturist were carefully instructed by their subjects in how to paint lies—how to smooth out wrinkles, remove freckles, restructure prominent noses and receding chins ...
    And yet in this case the scar was definitely there, a thin mark stretching down his wife’s cheek.
    It did not make her less beautiful or less appealing, and Darius had a vivid memory of how she had looked by candlelight, smiling up at him and holding out her arms to welcome him. He could almost smell the lavender scent she normally used, almost feel her soft curves, almost taste the womanly flavor of her lips ...
    “Do you suppose if we rode as if the hounds of hell were after us, we might get back before all the plum pudding is gone?”
    “Now, that’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day, Capt’n.”
    “Then I’ll start packing while you see to the horses.”
    * * * *
    The Duchess of Colthurst was in a vile temper, not only caused by the fact that she had spent a perfectly miserable Christmas day, with the scantiest number of presents she had ever received, most of them purchased by herself for herself, but also caused by the total incompetence of the people around her.
    To begin with, Cousin Edith had been confined to her room all day with another of her interminable headaches, which would undoubtedly go away if she simply made an effort to be resolute. Then, to compound the problem, the servants had also been more interested in their own celebrations than they had been in ensuring the happiness of their duchess, who by rights should have been first in their thoughts.
    Well, Amelia decided with determination, this duchess was going to do something enjoyable today, even if the fools around her seemed equally determined to see that she had a thoroughly boring time of it.
    “I said pull them tighter, Hepden. I shall get into my riding habit; so, if you are unwilling to do your job, you are free to seek employment elsewhere, and I am sure I can hire someone more willing to exert herself.”
    Her dresser gave another feeble tug on the laces, which only made Amelia angrier. It was bad enough that she had to wear black, but she was absolutely determined not to look like a cow.
    “I beg pardon, your Grace, if I spoke out of turn. I was only concerned for the well-being of the child. I have heard that many members of the medical profession are now of the opinion that binding oneself too tightly is deleterious to the growth of the baby.”
    The baby, the baby, always the baby. It was too bad a son was necessary to enable her to remain in Colthurst Hall, Amelia thought, or she would long ago have taken the necessary steps to rid herself of the nuisance. Her Aunt Babette, who had always been more like an older sister, had explained to her how it was done, and it seemed vastly preferable to the trouble involved in producing one of those nasty little red squally creatures.
    “When you have the appropriate credentials to express a medical opinion, Hepden, you may speak on the subject, but until you do, you will refrain from babbling such nonsense. My son will be perfectly healthy.”
    “Or your daughter.”
    “What did you say?” In a blinding rage, Amelia whirled around, not caring that she was undoing all their combined efforts to get her corset properly laced up.
    “Beg pardon, your Grace, I didn’t mean to imply that we don’t all hope and anticipate that it will be a boy, but still, it could be a g—”
    Before Hepden could repeat that heresy, Amelia did what she had not done in ages, but what she had been itching to do all day as her frustrations had grown. She balled up her dainty hand into a fist