My Fair Mistress (34 page)

“And that would be?”

“That is for Lady Hawthorne and me to decide.”

Rafe climbed to his feet, topping the younger man by a few inches and a lifetime of experience. “If you love your sister, as I believe you do, stay out of this. I will see to her welfare.”

“As you saw to it before? What did you do to her to lure her into your bed? What tricks and deceits did you employ to steal her virtue and leave her in such straits?”

“I believe, my lord,” Rafe continued,” that it is time you were going. I said I will do right by your sister and I shall.”

Allerton thrust out a warning finger. “You’ve hurt her enough, Pendragon. If you do so again, I promise I will kill you, and it won’t be on the field of honor.”

“Duly noted, my lord.”

Hands fisted in impotent rage, Allerton glowered at him for another long minute, then turned on his heel and stalked from the room. The front door slammed moments later.

Lord Allerton had obviously let himself out.

Knees abruptly weak, Rafe sat down heavily in his chair.

Julianna is carrying my child.

Steepling his fingers, he contemplated his future—and hers.

Julianna threaded a fresh length of rose-tinted silk into her needle, then applied it to the linen cloth tautly secured inside her sewing frame. She was working on a floral design of her own creation, the stitches she took both graceful and skilled.

She liked to sew. Embroidery had been one of her favorite pastimes ever since childhood, when her mother had thrust a sampler and needle into her hands at age four. As a woman grown, she found the activity pleasurable and highly soothing, especially now when she needed to keep her mind occupied and her worries at bay. But even as she concentrated upon forming the intricate pattern of twining leaves and flowers, her mind began to wander into troubling territory.

She wouldn’t be able to stay in Town for too much longer, she judged. A month, maybe two, if she was lucky. After that, her pregnancy would start to show. She could attempt to conceal it, of course, but she ran too great a risk that way.

No, I must leave London and retreat to the country,
she decided. And it must be unfamiliar country, where she was sure she would not encounter anyone of her acquaintance.

But where? She could travel to Scotland, she supposed. The rugged environs of the north would certainly be remote enough for her purposes. But the thought of spending the winter in such a cold, damp clime brought on a shiver, as if she were already surrounded by chill winds and snow.

The Continent would be far more pleasant, a warm, relaxing place in which to deliver her baby. France was out of the question, of course, because of the war. But maybe Italy or Greece, assuming she could find a ship to take her safely there. And assuming she felt healthy enough to make the voyage.

Two very, very big assumptions.

Tying off the thread, then giving the stray end a quick snip, she reached into her basket for more silk—leaf green this time. Seconds after, a gentle tapping came upon the sitting room door.

She gazed up as her butler, Martin, walked inside.

“My lady,” he announced in well-modulated tones. “A caller has arrived. I informed the gentleman that you are not receiving at present but he insists upon seeing you.” Martin’s nose wrinkled slightly, revealing his annoyance. “He refuses to leave until I have consulted with you directly.”

“Did he give you his name?” she inquired, drawing a fresh strand of thread into the needle’s eye.

“Yes. Pendragon, my lady. He said his name is Rafe Pendragon.”

She flinched and accidentally jabbed the sharp point of her needle into her skin. Grimacing in pain, she watched a bright red drop of blood rise on the wounded tip. Flustered, she reached for her handkerchief and pressed the silk against her hand.

“Shall I tell the gentleman you cannot be disturbed?” Martin asked, obviously aware of her unsettled reaction.

Too late for that,
she thought.

“No, no. I will see him,” she said. “Please ask him to come in.”

The butler bowed. “Very good, my lady.”

Her pulse thudded, nervous dread clamoring in her belly.

Rafe is here and there can be only one reason.

Blast Harry for his meddling, and for his insistence in playing the gallant knight. She ought to be furious—and she was—but deep down she knew her brother meant well, even if he had no right to interfere. Had he gone to challenge Rafe? Stars above, surely the two men weren’t going to fight! Or had they already met this morning at dawn, and Rafe was here to offer his apologies for having killed her brother!

Don’t be a ninnyhammer,
she scolded herself.
Of course Harry isn’t dead.

She had no more time for wild speculation as Martin returned, followed into the room by the large, imposing man whose familiar form made her senses swim. Just the sight of him turned her dizzy in ways that had nothing to do with her pregnancy. Curling her fingernails into the seat cushion beneath her, she fought to remain calm.

Dark and beautiful as a warrior of ancient myth, Rafe dominated the room, resplendent in buff pantaloons and a blue cutaway coat that enhanced the luxurious green of his eyes. For an instant, she let herself savor the sight of him, lapping him up the way a cat would a dish of cream.

“Mr. Rafe Pendragon, my lady,” Martin announced.

Working to regulate her features, she strove not to allow so much as a single emotion to show. She couldn’t afford to let Rafe know she still harbored feelings for him, and that in spite of everything, including his cutting rejection, love lingered even now in her heart.

Securing her embroidery needle in a pin cushion, she moved her sewing frame to one side, retaining her seat in a wing chair beneath a bright side window.

“Shall I bring refreshments, my lady?” the butler inquired.

“No, thank you, Martin,” she said in an implacable tone. “Mr. Pendragon will not be staying long. You may leave us now.”

The servant bowed and exited the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Rafe raised a brow at her inhospitable statement, but decided not to take offense. Clearly, she was less than overjoyed to see him, and he couldn’t entirely blame her. After all, he’d cast her aside the last time they’d met, even if his motives had been noble ones.

Striding farther into the room, he couldn’t help but be struck by Julianna’s beauty, lush and vibrant as an exotic hothouse flower in full bloom. If it were possible, she was even more ravishingly exquisite than before.

His pulse quickened, his blood warming as he let his gaze sweep over her. Was his awareness of her stunning looks simply a reaction to his having been parted from her these past few months? Or was she truly that much more beautiful? The result of impending motherhood perhaps. Some women glowed when they were expecting, and apparently, Julianna was one of them.

Without thinking, his gaze lowered to her waist, searching for evidence of a pregnancy. But her figure appeared as always, with no discernible changes.

What a picture she made, he thought, seated within a circle of warm afternoon sunlight—an elegant woman in an equally elegant setting. Refined and airy, the room suited her, the walls painted in delicate feminine shades of pink and cream. A pair of caryatids flanked the white marble fireplace, the toga-draped ladies giving the illusion of holding the mantel aloft. Sleek-legged Chippendale furniture upholstered in green and beige stripes was arranged in comfortable groupings, with several soft Aubusson carpets spread over the polished wood floors.

When his eyes met hers, her chin came up.

“Well, Mr. Pendragon,” she said, “are you going to do nothing but stare at me, or have you something to say? You really ought not be here, you know. I thought we had agreed you would not visit this house.”

His lips tightened.
So we’re back to formalities, are we?
“My pardon,
Lady Hawthorne,
but I did not think a note appropriate under the circumstances, and I rather doubted you would appreciate me crawling through your bedroom window in the dark of night. Or do I mistake the matter?”

A rosy flush burnished her cheeks. “You most certainly do not.”

Glancing away, she curled a hand against the material of her skirt. A pretty shade, he mused, the color not so different from the one she had worn on their very first meeting all those long months ago.

He linked his hands loosely at his back. “Your brother came to see me yesterday.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “Did he?”

“He challenged me to a duel in defense of your honor.”

Her gaze flew to his. “Where is Harry now? Is he all right?”

“I have no idea where your brother might be, and he was extremely well the last time I saw him, although a bit out of temper.” He paused. “You don’t really imagine I accepted his challenge, do you? Please credit me with having more sense than to fight a young man barely out of leading strings.”

“Yes, of course. It is just that Harry can be rather impetuous in his actions at times and, well, he should not have involved you. He had no cause.”

“No cause? From what he told me, he had every cause. Were his assertions untrue? He says, madam, that you are increasing. Was he in error? Are you carrying my child or not?”

A panorama of emotions flickered across her features, as if she were debating whether or not to answer him. Finally, she nodded. “Yes, it would appear that I am.”

Her confirmation knocked aside the tenuous hold he’d been keeping upon himself. Crossing to the chair directly across from her, he sat down hard, his knees suddenly unsteady despite the fact that she had said nothing he did not already know. Still, her confirmation scattered any last fleeting possibility that Allerton had been wrong after all.

Julianna toyed with a piece of ribbon on her dress. “I realize the news must have come as a great shock. It certainly knocked the wind out of me, and I’m the one who’s enceinte.” She paused, something fierce suddenly flashing in her eyes. “But if you imagine for so much as a minute that I lied to you about believing I was barren, then I—”

He cut her off with a hand. “I do not. I know you honestly thought yourself to be at the time. What possible reason could you have had to do otherwise? No, madam, if anyone was tricked it was you. Apparently your late husband was a considerably less potent lover than either of us imagined. Obviously far less potent than I.”

Julianna flushed at his indelicate remark, but seemed to unbend a bit realizing he was not going to blame her for the pregnancy.

“How far along are you, by the way?”

“Roughly three months. I’m not certain precisely when I conceived, though I assume it must have happened during one of our last times together.”

Perhaps our very last time,
he thought after a quick calculation.

Clasping her hands in her lap, she twisted her fingers together. “I am sorry Harry brought you into this. He did so expressly against my wishes.”

“Which means, I assume, that you were not going to tell me about the baby,” he murmured, sudden anger rising inside him. “Didn’t you think I had a right to know? I am the father after all.”

She looked him squarely in the eye. “I didn’t think you would
want
to know; many men would not. And you made your feelings toward me quite plain at our last meeting. I hardly expected you to be overjoyed by the news that I’m increasing. I assumed it would be the last thing you would wish to hear considering your feelings about bringing unwanted, illegitimate children into the world.”

A pronounced silence settled between them.

“You are right,” he said. “I do not like the idea of bringing an illegitimate child into the world, which is why I have come here today.” Shifting forward, he reached out and took her hand. “Julianna, will you marry me?”

Breath caught in her chest, the strength of his touch warm as a brand against her skin. For a long moment, she couldn’t decide which she found more startling—the delightful sensation of his hand clasp, or his unexpected question.

Marry me,
he’d asked?

Once, she would surely have leapt at the offer in spite of all the impediments that stood in the way of their union. For the promise of his love, she knew she would have been willing to turn her back on the life she had always known in order to forge a new one with him—Society and its rules be damned.

But Rafe did not love her, she reminded herself, and as honorable as his proposal might be, it came from a sense of duty and pride. For all the real sentiment involved, he might as well have been arranging one of his many business dealings. There would likely have been more genuine pleasure at the anticipated outcome.

Her hand grew cold inside his own.

“I realize marriage was not in either of our plans,” he continued, “but then neither was the idea of having a child. Circumstances have changed now, however, and so must our priorities. I am sure you agree.”

A shiver rose beneath her skin, making her wish she had her shawl.

“There is still time for a church wedding if that is what you would prefer, but I think it would be wisest not to wait. As it is there will speculation, what with the baby already three months along. I think a special license is our best option.”