Gabriel: Lord of Regrets (34 page)

“She will enjoy seeing what Beck has done with the property. How is Tremaine coping with all this?”

“He’s gloating,” Polly mused. “It was his idea to have Kettering put language in the contracts that all sittings shall be at the location deemed appropriate by the artist. Kettering is confident that allows me to do the work at a studio in Town, and Tremaine says he’ll have an appropriate space fitted out by this spring.”

“So your menfolk have the situation in hand. How does all this sit with you, though?”

Sara was not merely a sister, but an older sister with maternal tendencies getting stronger by the week, meaning there was no avoiding the question.

“I’m… adjusting.” Some days; other days, she reeled. Could a marchioness reel? “We’ve never had menfolk, Sara, not in any meaningful sense, and you’ve never been without Allie. You’ll miss her.”

“But the change is for the better,” Sara said then eyed her sister closely. “You are worried about something, Polly Wendover. Spill, or I’ll tell Gabriel to forbid you the use of the kitchens.”

“I’m not worried, precisely.” Polly reached for another lacy confection and began to fold it. “I’m at sixes and sevens.”

“I am your sister,” Sara said in tones that presaged a sororal lecture on the topic of people who were too stubborn to share their troubles with those who loved them.

This nightgown had rabbits embroidered on the hem. “Were you ever late?”

“Many times,” Sara said. “But… Oh, you mean
late
?” She bit her lip, her gaze focusing on the bunnies cavorting across Polly’s lap. “I was not, not until this situation got under way.” She gestured to her middle. “Are you late?”

Polly buried her face in the folded nightgown, breathing in the homey scent of lavender. “I’ve never been late before, Sara.”

Sara put an arm around her and pushed Polly’s head to her shoulder. “You’re carrying, then?”

“I can’t be,” Polly said miserably. “I heard what the midwife said all those years ago.”

“The midwife?” Sara took the nightgown from her sister’s hands before the thing could get mangled in Polly’s desperate grip. “That midwife. What did you hear?”

“She told you and Reynard quite sternly that I wasn’t to be having more children, and conception was very unlikely, because I wasn’t built for it, and my labor had been long and difficult.”

“You heard that?”

“Every word. Gabriel should have an heir, and I had to tell him.”

Sara tossed the bunnies to the foot of the bed. “Oh, my dear. I owe you yet another apology. The midwife divined very clearly who was the father of your child and that you were used ill by your own brother-in-law. She offered that sermon to put Reynard in his place and hopefully to spare you from his further attentions. It worked, I think, but maybe a little too well. You are as capable of conception as anybody.”

Polly’s insides went reeling, again, and the sensation should have been familiar, but it wasn’t. Not in any particular. “What about my labor being too long and difficult? It took me forever to recover.”

“First babies are the hardest, or so Nicholas’s countess has told me.” Sara took Polly’s hand. “Your recovery was difficult because of the circumstances, and because the entire time you were carrying, we were haring all over the Continent, making do in drafty inns with damp sheets and questionable rations. Our situation was little better once Allie appeared, and you were so… upset.”

“I was,” Polly said. “I was very, very upset.” She was quiet a minute, trying to grasp the ramifications. “So I could be… carrying?”

“You very likely are, if you took no precautions. Are you happy?”

“I am… you can’t know how pleased I am, to be able to give Gabriel children. We will never take our children for granted, Sara. Never.” She was quiet a moment, joy expanding in a crescendo that came to a grand pause. “Good lord, what will I tell Allie?”

“Nothing for the present, because it’s early days. If you tell Gabriel, he might forbid you to travel, as Beck tried to do with me.”

“Beck has his reasons to be overly protective of you, but a baby. Oh, Sara… A baby and a husband and my daughter and a studio of my own and a niece or a nephew…”

“Go ahead and cry.” Sara handed her back the nightgown to use as a handkerchief. “Gabriel will see your tears and demand an explanation.”

“And I will give him one,” Polly said, rising and passing the abused nightgown to her sister. “Right now.” She paused to hug her sister hard then left the room on winged feet.

She found her husband ruining his supper with spice muffins and a pot of tea at the kitchen counter, and had to stand for a moment in the doorway, loving the sight of him.

“Come, Polonaise.” He extended a hand to her. “You should have some sustenance. Your sister leaves tomorrow, and you will need to keep up your strength.”

“I will,” she agreed, tucking herself against his side. “If it weren’t for Allie on guard in my room all night, you’d no doubt have me worn to a shadow.”

Gabriel kissed her cheek. “Fortunately for me, there are libraries and saddle rooms and other locations where one can make love with one’s wife, though after that little session this morning, I’d best inspect your backside for splinters.”

“Eat your muffin. You may inspect at length, when Tremaine takes Allie riding this afternoon.”

“He has his uses. Now, why have you been crying, beloved? I won’t have it, you know. You’re my wife, and crying—other than for lack of me—is not permitted.”

“May I cry over good tidings?”

Gabriel set his muffin down. “This depends on the nature of the tidings. I do not necessarily consider another three years of commissions the best of tidings, selfish brute that I am.”

“You don’t?” Polly felt nonplussed until she caught the devilment in his eyes.

“I do not. Unless you’ve decided to accept a commission from a certain newly minted marquess, who wants you to paint him in the nude, and, my dear, a miniature of that subject will most assuredly
not
do
.”

“Well, as to that, I have accepted yet another commission, though this one will not directly involve paints, at least not for a while.”

Gabriel considered her, his smile nowhere in evidence. “You tease me, Polonaise. I do not enjoy this kind of teasing, when the limited charms of the pantry are the only ones close at hand.”

She pressed her cheek to his chest. “Gabriel, I’m carrying.”

His hand went still mid-slide around her waist, then detoured lower, over her womb. “Carrying?”

“Your child.” Then, more softly, “Our child.”

His closed his arms around her, the most tender and cherishing embrace Polonaise Hunt Wendover could recall them sharing, and then began to speak in a torrent of low whispers right to her ear.

He told her he loved her, told her he’d take unceasing care of her and of their child—of all their children, for they would have many. He told her she must endure his doting, must learn to bear up under the strain of his clumsy efforts to care for her, and give him at least fifty years to perfect his efforts in that regard.

He told her again that he loved her, and again, and again, and again.

Five days later, five years later, five decades later, Gabriel was still prone to frequent and lavish lectures along these selfsame lines, and his marchioness, his love, his wife, and the mother of his eight children, was prone to listening to every word, and believing each one.

A reader characterized my upbringing—“riding horses and reading novels”—as a bit of heaven, and it was. I am indebted to my late godparents, Bob and Jeanne McCarthy, for adding me to their brood of six as a shirttail cousin, and for making room for my first horse, Buck, on their farm. Bob was a professor of food science; Jeanne had a master’s degree in dairy science. They made a move, midcareer, from our college town to a 138-acre farm twenty-five miles up the valley.

I loved that farm, in part because on a farm, everybody’s contribution is valued. A three-year-old can help shell the peas; a thirteen-year-old can stack the hay wagon. I learned how truly wonderful corn on the cob is when it’s picked only an hour before dinner. I learned how to make ice cream, can peaches, pluck chickens, mind sheep, mend fence, and have an enormous amount of fun.

If I have any insight into the “country squire” aspect of Regency England, it’s because this wonderful family opened their home and their hearts to me—and to my horse!—long before I had any notion I’d ever become a writer.

Are You In Love With
Love Stories?

Here’s an online romance readers
club that’s just for YOU!

Where you can:

•
Meet
great
authors

•
Party
with new
friends

•
Get
new
books
before everyone else

•
Discover
great
new reads

All at incredibly BIG savings!

Join the party at
DiscoveraNewLove.com
!

New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author

Darius

by Grace Burrowes

Click here to order your copy today!

A story that breaks all the rules…

Darius
is a gripping and remarkable tale of desperation, devotion, and redemption from award-winning
New York Times
and
USA Today b
estselling author Grace Burrowes. Her gorgeous writing and lush Regency world will stay with you long after you turn the final page…

With his beloved sister tainted by scandal, his widowed brother shattered by grief, and his funds cut off, Darius Lindsey sees no option but to sell himself—body and soul. Until the day he encounters lovely, beguiling Lady Vivian Longstreet, whose tenderness and understanding wrap his soul in a grace he knows he’ll never deserve…

New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author

Lady Jenny’s Christmas Portrait

by Grace Burrowes

Click here to order your copy today!

They share a dream…

Elijah Harrison is working on the commission that could finally gain him a place at the Royal Academy of Artists when he meets Jenny Windham. She is both a talented artist and an inspiring muse, but if Elijah supports Jenny’s career at the cost of his own, he could lose her forever.

…but can only one achieve it?

Jenny Windham is thrilled to assist Elijah with his portraits for a holiday open house. Working with an artist of Elijah’s stature is her greatest desire…until chemistry develops between them and other desires begin to burn. Jenny isn’t sure which path her life should take, but Christmas with Elijah might be just the thing to light the way.