here.”
Helena frowned. “That’s right, you weren’t in London when Albert got word about the duke. Where were you?” Her frown deepened. “Albert thought you were up to something.”
He stepped back. “I wasn’t up to anything.” Well, Albert might not agree with that if he were still alive to have an opinion.
Poor Albert. He’d always been suspicious of things, but then, he’d been raised to worry. He’d thought he was going to be the next Duke of Benton.
In the end, all that worrying had been for naught.
“I needed to get away from Town. You know how unbearable Hortense made things, and people were still talking about her after her death.”
He wasn’t going to worry about the future. He was going to follow his heart and let the future come to him. If he’d been thinking more clearly twenty years ago, he would have married Belle instead of Hortense and saved himself years of misery.
“But I do have to tie up some loose ends. Don’t worry. I won’t be gone long.”
Chapter Eight
May 22, 1797—Thank God for the Spinster House.
—from Belle Frost’s diary
May 1817
“It’s been a fortnight, Poppy, and William has not returned.”
Poppy interrupted her toilette briefly to glance at Belle. They were sitting—Belle at the dressing table, Poppy on the bed—in the spare bedchamber. Belle had moved her things into once she’d realized she was increasing. Something about sleeping in the bed where her child had been conceived was too overwhelming.
Where William’s and my child had been conceived.
She rested her hand on her belly. She’d been so certain she’d miscarry like last time. She still expected the cramping to start at any moment.
Perhaps I am counting wrong. That must be it.
But something was definitely different. She was so very tired, and her breasts ached. Her bodice felt tighter, too, and she’d swear she saw a slight rounding in her heretofore flat stomach.
She closed her eyes. Oh, God. How is it possible to be so elated and so terrified at the same time?
She wanted William’s child fiercely, but to be pregnant and unwed . . .
She took several deep breaths. Panicking wouldn’t solve the problem.
Nothing would solve it.
She jerked out her hairpins with hands that shook. “Of course he won’t be returning, Poppy.” She’d read the papers. “He’s the Duke of Benton now. No one thinks his sisters-in-law will produce a last-minute heir.” She snorted. “He can’t teach music in Loves Bridge any longer.”
Or consort with the Spinster House spinster.
“Who can’t teach music?”
She spun around. “William!”
He was standing in the doorway.
Even before she could form a coherent thought, she was on her feet and flying across the room to him. She pressed her face into his coat and inhaled his wonderful, familiar scent. His arms, closing round her, felt like heaven.
“Did you miss me, Belle?”
Had she missed him? She’d show him how much she’d missed him. She reached up, grabbed his head, and pulled it down.
The moment her lips touched his, she went a little mad.
In seconds they were naked and on the bed—fortunately, Poppy had already decamped—and William was coming into her. There was nothing gentle about this joining. It was desperate, elemental, and quick. At his first thrust, waves of pleasure crashed over her. She clung to him, and when he dove into her one last time, she’d swear he touched her heart.
He collapsed and rolled over so she ended up sprawled across his chest. He kissed her, the kiss as leisurely as their coupling had been frenetic, and chuckled. “I guess you did miss me.”
“Yes.” She loved the feel of him in her and under her. His heat, his smell, the sound of his voice, the curve of his lips. She would memorize it all, every inch of him, so she would never forget their time together.
“I will tell you a secret,” he whispered. He kissed her again, running his hand down her back. “I missed you, too.”
She
Helena frowned. “That’s right, you weren’t in London when Albert got word about the duke. Where were you?” Her frown deepened. “Albert thought you were up to something.”
He stepped back. “I wasn’t up to anything.” Well, Albert might not agree with that if he were still alive to have an opinion.
Poor Albert. He’d always been suspicious of things, but then, he’d been raised to worry. He’d thought he was going to be the next Duke of Benton.
In the end, all that worrying had been for naught.
“I needed to get away from Town. You know how unbearable Hortense made things, and people were still talking about her after her death.”
He wasn’t going to worry about the future. He was going to follow his heart and let the future come to him. If he’d been thinking more clearly twenty years ago, he would have married Belle instead of Hortense and saved himself years of misery.
“But I do have to tie up some loose ends. Don’t worry. I won’t be gone long.”
Chapter Eight
May 22, 1797—Thank God for the Spinster House.
—from Belle Frost’s diary
May 1817
“It’s been a fortnight, Poppy, and William has not returned.”
Poppy interrupted her toilette briefly to glance at Belle. They were sitting—Belle at the dressing table, Poppy on the bed—in the spare bedchamber. Belle had moved her things into once she’d realized she was increasing. Something about sleeping in the bed where her child had been conceived was too overwhelming.
Where William’s and my child had been conceived.
She rested her hand on her belly. She’d been so certain she’d miscarry like last time. She still expected the cramping to start at any moment.
Perhaps I am counting wrong. That must be it.
But something was definitely different. She was so very tired, and her breasts ached. Her bodice felt tighter, too, and she’d swear she saw a slight rounding in her heretofore flat stomach.
She closed her eyes. Oh, God. How is it possible to be so elated and so terrified at the same time?
She wanted William’s child fiercely, but to be pregnant and unwed . . .
She took several deep breaths. Panicking wouldn’t solve the problem.
Nothing would solve it.
She jerked out her hairpins with hands that shook. “Of course he won’t be returning, Poppy.” She’d read the papers. “He’s the Duke of Benton now. No one thinks his sisters-in-law will produce a last-minute heir.” She snorted. “He can’t teach music in Loves Bridge any longer.”
Or consort with the Spinster House spinster.
“Who can’t teach music?”
She spun around. “William!”
He was standing in the doorway.
Even before she could form a coherent thought, she was on her feet and flying across the room to him. She pressed her face into his coat and inhaled his wonderful, familiar scent. His arms, closing round her, felt like heaven.
“Did you miss me, Belle?”
Had she missed him? She’d show him how much she’d missed him. She reached up, grabbed his head, and pulled it down.
The moment her lips touched his, she went a little mad.
In seconds they were naked and on the bed—fortunately, Poppy had already decamped—and William was coming into her. There was nothing gentle about this joining. It was desperate, elemental, and quick. At his first thrust, waves of pleasure crashed over her. She clung to him, and when he dove into her one last time, she’d swear he touched her heart.
He collapsed and rolled over so she ended up sprawled across his chest. He kissed her, the kiss as leisurely as their coupling had been frenetic, and chuckled. “I guess you did miss me.”
“Yes.” She loved the feel of him in her and under her. His heat, his smell, the sound of his voice, the curve of his lips. She would memorize it all, every inch of him, so she would never forget their time together.
“I will tell you a secret,” he whispered. He kissed her again, running his hand down her back. “I missed you, too.”
She
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