“Superbe,”
Augustin declared, as his gaze flicked over the mounted paintings. “I am quite pleased. And you,
Marguerethe
? You are pleased?”
Maggie agreed that she was quite pleased, and only then
did it hit her, that thing about Augustin that had been bothering her. Why, he was not looking her in the eye. That was it! He was not making eye contact with her at all. How odd, Maggie thought. Augustin is acting almost as if he feels guilty about something. How very strange.
I’m
the one who should be feeling guilty, and yet I am quite capable of meeting his gaze. She wondered what he could possibly have done to engender so much guilt. Was it possible that he
had
done something to Jeremy, after all? But no, that couldn’t be! If some harm had come to Jeremy, she’d surely have heard about it by now. Wouldn’t she?
Well, wouldn’t she?
But even as she was wondering, Augustin began speaking again, in the same falsely hearty manner, still not looking her in the face.
“Now,
chérie,
I hope you are prepared for some very great news,” he said, adjusting his cravat. “Very great news, indeed. I did not quite believe it myself when I heard it, but it was confirmed this morning by a note I received from the Lord Chancellor himself. Are you ready,
Marguerethe
?”
Maggie felt up to anything … except facing that painting of Jeremy again. She said, quite truthfully, “Yes, Augustin. I believe so.”
“His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales himself will be attending your exhibition tonight.” Augustin pronounced this with so much pleasure that Maggie could not help smiling, not at the prospect of beholding the Prince of Wales, but at Augustin’s obvious delight at the news. Truth be told, she was a trifle disappointed. She had hoped he was going to say something quite different … that he had learned that her father was coming, or something along those lines.
But she supposed it was a fine thing to be visited by the Prince of Wales, so she said, “Oh, how very nice.”
“
Vraiment,
but you are cool about it,
Marguerethe
!” Augustin cried. “Perhaps you did not hear what I said. The Prince of—”
“Yes, I heard you,” Maggie said with a forced smile. “And I think it’s quite nice.”
“Marguerethe
—
”
And now, it appeared, she had earned
his full attention. “Don’t you understand? The queen has been looking to engage a portrait painter for her grandchildren. Her sending the Prince of Wales to your exhibition must mean she’s considering commissioning you for the job—”
Maggie could not help but be impressed, in spite of her gloom. A commission from the queen? An artist could not ask for a greater honor.
Augustin attempted a smile, and though the result was rather hideous, what with his broken nose and complete insincerity, at least it was a smile. “What say you, mademoiselle, to sharing luncheon with me, in the cafe across the street, to celebrate? There we can discuss our strategy for dealing with the Prince of Wales.”
That was not the only thing they needed to discuss. A tea shop was not the ideal place to break off an engagement, but Maggie supposed it would have to suffice. She would have agreed to anything, anything at all, to keep him from seeing that painting.
Then again, maybe she was being silly. What harm, after all, could one little painting do?
“How could you?
”
Jeremy opened one eye. This pronouncement, uttered as it was so near his ear, seemed to be coming from directly beside him. For a moment, quite forgetting where he was, Jeremy reached for Maggie, thinking to find her curled next to him.
Instead, his hand encountered a very round, but very firm object. Opening his other eye, Jeremy saw, to his horror, that he was touching his aunt’s extremely prominent belly.
Jeremy jerked his hand away and sat up fast, his expression horrified. “Aunt Pegeen!”
Pegeen did not seem to notice her nephew’s shock. “
How could you
?” she demanded again, from where she stood at the side of the bed. “For shame, Jerry!”
Jeremy eyed his aunt apprehensively. Though very pregnant, indeed, she did not look a jot different than when he’d last seen her five years earlier, with the exception of some fine laugh lines at the corners of her mouth and green eyes, and an occasional glint of gray among the dark threads of her hair, which fell loosely about her shoulders. She had clearly only just risen from bed herself, and was dressed in a voluminous green velvet robe, tied just under her breasts with a gold cord.
For the life of him, Jeremy did not know what she was referring to. Did she mean, How could he have gotten himself engaged to an Indian princess? Or was it, How could he
have been away so long and not written? Hoping to distract his aunt from pursuing either topic, he said, carefully, “I thought that Parks told you to stay in bed.”
“Stay in bed!” Pegeen all but shouted at him. “How am I supposed to stay in bed when I learn that my nephew has just come home after five years’ absence? And that he’s malarial, besides? Jeremy.” Here she shook her head at him rebukingly. “How could you? How could you not have written? I’d never have told you about Maggie if I’d known you were ill!”
“Which is precisely why I didn’t tell you,” Jeremy muttered.
“But malaria, Jeremy!” She shook her head some more. “You look terrible.”
“So I’ve been informed.” Jeremy thought about getting out of bed, but realized he was naked beneath the sheets. He couldn’t very well throw back the bedclothes and reveal himself to his aunt. Instead, he complained, “Who let you in here, anyway? Hasn’t your water broken by now?”
“No, it hasn’t,” Pegeen said, and to his dismay she sat down on the side of the bed. “And don’t be smart. Just because you’re a lieutenant colonel now doesn’t mean you have license to be rude to your elders.”
Jeremy snorted at that. “Does Uncle Edward know you’re out of bed? He’s going to be extremely put out with you when he finds out about this … .”
Pegeen waved a hand dismissively at that. “He can’t even keep track of his own children, let alone a wife. Now, tell me about you and Maggie. It was quite wicked of you, you know, Jerry, to stay in the house on Park Lane with her, without anyone there with you. Poor Evers nearly had an apoplexy over it. It was all I could do to convince him not to quit on the spot. We had to offer him quite a raise to stay, you know,
and
assure him that you had every intention of marrying her. Now, what did she say?”
Uncertain which question to answer first, Jeremy tried, “What did who say?”
“Why, Maggie, of course, when you proposed!”
“If you must know, Maggie didn’t say anything when I
proposed to her, because I haven’t gotten around to it just yet—” At his aunt’s sharp intake of breath, Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Look, Aunt Pegeen, I’m happier than I can say to see you, and when all of this is over, you and I will have a nice little visit. But right now, I’ve got things to do. As, I understand, you do, as well.”
“I’ll be in labor for hours yet,” Pegeen said, with yet another dismissive hand wave. “What exactly do you mean, you haven’t gotten around to it just yet? You haven’t left that poor girl hanging, without any idea of your intentions, have you, Jerry? I thought Edward warned you—”
“You’re
in labor
?” Jeremy interrupted, when her words finally sunk in. “You’re actually in labor
right now
?”
She blinked down at him. “Well, only since dawn. It ought to be at least two more hours before I—”
“Pegeen!” The thunderous bellow was accompanied by a great crashing sound. Pegeen jumped, and turned to see what had caused all the commotion. Glaring murderously from the door he’d just kicked open, Edward said, with enough barely restrained fury to make the hairs on the back of Jeremy’s neck rise warningly, “It was my impression that you were going to stay in bed.”
Pegeen tossed her head. “That was an impression held entirely by yourself and Mr. Parks. It was never shared by me.”
“Pegeen.” Edward seemed to be trying very hard not to smash something. “Come back to bed. Now.”
“
Now
? You can’t be serious. Jeremy.” She turned toward her nephew. “Alistair and Anne Cartwright are downstairs in the Gold Drawing Room, along with Sir Arthur. According to Edward, you wanted to have a word with them. I do hope you’re going to try to talk some sense into them. They’ve been just horrid to Maggie ever since—Oh!”
This last exclamation was uttered as Edward strode forward, leaned down, and lifted his wife bodily from Jeremy’s bed, without apparent effort.
“Edward!” Pegeen cried, outraged. “Put me down this instant! Have you gone mad?”
“No,” was her husband’s terse reply, as he headed toward the door. “But evidently you have.”
“I resent that. Throughout history, men have alternately ignored or condescended to women who happen to be with child”—Pegeen’s voice began to grow distant, as Edward carried her out into the hallway—“just because a woman with child is considered an irrational being. Well, I’d like to inform you that there is nothing wrong with my intellect.”
“That,” Edward said firmly, “is an impression held entirely by yourself.”
Jeremy winced, imagining how his strong-willed aunt would react at hearing her own words thrown back at her. Unfortunately, Pegeen was by then too far out of his earshot for him to hear her response to her husband’s taunt. Which was just as well. Jeremy had far more important things to do than listen to his aunt and uncle bicker. Throwing back the bedclothes, he dressed hastily, though with care—after all, it wasn’t just anyone waiting belowstairs: It was his future in-laws. He wanted to make a good impression.
Ten minutes later, shaved and dressed, Jeremy bounded down one of the curved staircases to the Great Hall, still struggling with the flying ends of his cravat. Damned if he shouldn’t have brought Peters along. So intent was Jeremy on knotting his cravat that he very nearly collided with a manservant who was gliding toward the drawing room doors with a tray of sherry glasses in his hands. At the last possible second, the butler noticed the younger man, and abruptly halted.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” he said in startled tones, and Jeremy looked up.
“Evers?” Squinting, Jeremy asked suspiciously, “It is Evers, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is, Your Grace. My son has the pleasure of serving in your London house, while my father had the honor of buttling here for many years … .”
Jeremy could detect no noticeable difference between this man and the one back in London, except for the fact that the one in London had slightly more hair combed across his balding head.
“Well, it’s jolly good to see you again, Evers,” Jeremy said. “How’s this knot look?”
Evers examined the duke’s cravat. “Very nice indeed, Your Grace.”
“Excellent.” He nodded at the tray the butler held. “Bit early for sherry, don’t you think?”
“Indeed I do, Your Grace. However, Sir Arthur became quite chilled on the ride over from Herbert Park, and I thought—”
Jeremy snorted. “I see. Well, hand it over, Evers.” At the butler’s startled glance, Jeremy elaborated, “Go on, give it to me. My aunt’s having a baby right now. I’m sure your services are needed elsewhere. Go boil some water, or something.”
Evers looked offended. “That would fall under Cook’s jurisdiction, Your Grace.”
“Then go and decant some brandy for my uncle. I have a feeling he’s going to need it soon.”
Evers inclined his head, but appeared to disapprove heartily of Jeremy and his resolve to serve his own guests. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he murmured. He had already heard from his son, of course, that the new duke was difficult, but he’d had no idea things had come to
this
. He was going to have to have a word with Lord Edward. This kind of thing simply could not go on at Rawlings Manor. The duchy had, after all, a reputation to uphold.
Pausing before the Gold Drawing Room doors, Jeremy used his free hand to give the points of his waistcoat a tug. He could hear the murmur of voices coming from within the room, Alistair’s easygoing baritone in direct contrast to his wife’s nervous soprano, but her father’s irritable bass overpowering both.
“All I would like to know is why I was forced to leave my comfortable hearth”—Sir Arthur appeared to be maintaining an air of injury—“in order to travel to the home of a man who is not even able to receive us properly.”
“Really,” Jeremy heard Anne say. “I must agree. I can hardly imagine we’re welcome here at Rawlings, with the
mistress of the house indisposed, and Lord Edward so distracted—”
How her father might have replied, Jeremy didn’t wait to hear. Instead, he flung open the double doors and inquired casually, “Sherry, anyone?”
Sir Arthur, who’d been sitting on a velveteen settee of tawny gold, his pudgy hands extended toward the fire, leapt to his feet with surprising speed for a man so portly. “Good Lord,” he cried, his pink jowls quivering. “Is that … Could it be …?”
“It most certainly is,” Jeremy assured him. He set the sherry tray down on an ivory-topped end table, just to the right of Sir Arthur’s stunned eldest daughter, who was staring up at him with as much astonishment as if he had risen from the dead. “How do you do, Mrs. Cartwright?” Jeremy asked her, gallantly lifting one of her gloved hands and raising it in the general direction of his lips. “It’s been quite a long time, hasn’t it? Too long, I’d say. You look pale. May I help you to some sherry?”
Anne, an attractive woman who, Jeremy noted, was dressed in mourning—not for her mother, surely, who’d been dead for a year; could it be for the infant Edward had said she’d lost?—had changed little since he’d last seen her: Except, perhaps, for her complexion, which had always lacked brilliance, and now was devoid of any color whatsoever. He wasn’t sure if the change was due merely to her shock at seeing him, or to her recent disappointments.
“I—I—” Anne licked her pale lips. “Oh, dear,” she said faintly. “I wasn’t aware that you had returned, Jeremy.”
“
Your Grace
, my dear,” Sir Arthur corrected his daughter hastily. “You must address the duke as
Your Grace
. He has come of age, after all.” Leaving the comfort of the fire, Sir Arthur hurried toward Jeremy, his right hand extended. “But we were not told you were expected, Your Grace! This is a surprise, a surprise, indeed!”
“A welcome one, I hope.” Jeremy grinned, shaking Maggie’s father’s hand.
“Oh, indeed, indeed!” Sir Arthur, though he expressed delight at seeing the Duke of Rawlings, still managed to look
nervous. “And you … are well? You have not come home because of an illness, I hope?”
“A trifling one,” Jeremy said dismissively. “But that’s nothing compared with what you’ve gone through this past year.”
Sir Arthur dropped his gaze to the emerald and gold pile of the carpet. “Ah,” he said glumly. “Then you’ve heard of our sad loss.”
“A very great loss,” Jeremy said, placing what he hoped would be perceived as a comforting hand on the portly solicitor’s shoulder. He wasn’t ready to start strangling the old man. Not yet, anyway. “I was grieved to hear of Lady Herbert’s death, very grieved, indeed. I don’t believe it would be an exaggeration to say that your wife, Sir Arthur, was universally beloved.”
“How kind of Your Grace to say so,” Sir Arthur managed to wheeze. To Jeremy’s alarm, he saw tears gathering at the corners of the old man’s eyes.
Raising his eyebrows, Jeremy looked for help from Alistair, who, though he’d risen upon Jeremy’s entrance, had sunk back down again in a plush armchair, some of his blond hair spilling over his forehead. The yellow, Jeremy saw, was intermingled with gray now, but otherwise, Alistair Cartwright looked exactly as he always had. Unlike Jeremy’s uncle, Alistair held no seat in the House of Lords, not being titled. His wealth had been made through shrewd business dealings alone, not inheritance. Consequently, Alistair had aged a good deal less than the man he referred to as his “reform-happy friend” Edward Rawlings.
Meeting Jeremy’s gaze, Alistair shrugged and looked heavenward. Although he clearly loved his wife, he had never had much patience for her father. He was not, Jeremy saw at once, going to be much help, under the present circumstances.
Jeremy dropped his hand from Sir Arthur’s shoulder and said, with forced heartiness, “But I understand there is happy news in your family, as well, Sir Arthur. Isn’t your youngest daughter engaged to be married?”