His Christmas Countess Page 3

  ‘Grant!’

  He ducked under the low lintel and back into the inner room. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Something’s happening.’

  ‘I should hope so.’ He took up the lamp. ‘Let’s see what this child of ours is doing.’

  *

  Grant made her feel secure, Kate thought hazily. Even in those last hectic minutes she had felt safe and when the first indignant wails rent the air he had known just what to do.

  ‘Here she is,’ he’d said, laying the squirming, slippery, red-faced baby on her stomach. ‘The most beautiful little girl in the world at this minute and very cross with the pair of us by the sound of her.’

  Time had passed, the world had gone by somewhere outside the bubble that contained her and the child in her arms. She was conscious of Grant moving purposefully about. At some point he took the baby and washed her and wrapped her up in one of his clean shirts, then washed Kate and helped her into a clean nightgown and wrapped them both up in his coat.

  There was something hot to drink, porridge to eat. Perhaps the Johnsons had left food or had come back. She neither knew nor cared. When Grant had spoken to her, asked her if she could bear to travel, she had nodded. He had sounded urgent, so she made herself agree, told herself that he would take care of them and all she had to do was hold her baby safe at her breast.

  *

  It was bumpy at first, and her nose, about all that was exposed, was cold, but that was all right because Grant was there. Then they were in his arms again and there was noise and people talking, women’s voices, warmth and a soft bed. They must have stopped at an inn to rest.

  Kate looked up at him standing over her, looking dishevelled and very tired. And…sad? This was the man she had married. It seemed unreal. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He sounded almost convincing. ‘What are we going to call her?’

  ‘Anna, after my mother.’ She’d decided that in the course of the bumpy journey. Anna Rivers. And I am Mrs Rivers now. We are safe and all at the cost of a few lies. Not little, not white, but she would be a good wife to him, be happy in her modest home. He would never know.

  ‘Anna Rosalind, then, for my mother.’ When she looked up, surprised by the possessive note in Grant’s voice, he shrugged. ‘She’s an important small person, she needs at least two names. I’ve found you a nursemaid. She’s used to newborns.’ A cheerful freckled face appeared at his side. ‘This is Jeannie Tranter and she’s happy to adventure into England with us. It isn’t far now, only across the border into Northumberland.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  I wonder whereabouts in Northumberland Grant lives…but it doesn’t matter, we’re safe now, both of us, hundreds of miles away from Henry, hundreds of miles away from a vengeful earl and the law. We can go anywhere and no one will take her away from me because she belongs to Grant now. That was all that mattered. We both belong to him.

  The thought drifted in and she frowned. Her baby had a father, but she had a husband. A man she did not know, a man who had total control over her life, her future.

  Something touched her hair and she opened her eyes. Grant was still looking down at them. She remembered to smile at him, then turned her attention back to the baby.

  *

  ‘I’ll take a bath, then I’ll be in the parlour if you need me,’ Grant said to Jeannie Tranter.

  The girl nodded briskly, her attention on the woman and baby in the bed. ‘Aye, sir, I’m sure we won’t need to disturb you.’

  And that’s put me in my place as an unnecessary male. It had been the same the last time. Don’t think about the last time. The bathwater in front of the fire was still hot, the pleasure of scrubbing away the grime of the past twenty-four hours or so blissful. He soaped his hair, ducked under and came up streaming, then found he had no inclination to get out. Baths were good places to think.

  *

  Grant had dozed a little, then woke without any sensible thinking done at all to find the water cool. He splashed out to dry off and find something from his depleted wardrobe to change into. A childbirth used up an inordinate amount of clean linen.

  By the time he was in the private parlour pouring a glass of wine, his legs stretched out on the hearthrug, his brain had woken up. Just what had he done? A good deed? Perhaps, although tying a woman, a complete stranger, to him for life was a risky act of charity. Or was it an entirely selfish act, a gesture to his guilty conscience, as though he could somehow appease his grandfather’s shade by doing what the old man had so wanted and thus fulfilling his promise? The uncomfortable notion intruded that he had found himself a wife and a stepmother for Charlie without any effort at courtship, without any agonising about choices.

  The easy way out? Too late to worry about motives, I’ve done it now. And the child’s a girl, so no need to worry about the inheritance, should it ever arise, God forbid. He’d married a plain woman of genteel birth with a social-climbing brother who was going to be very pleased indeed when he discovered who his new brother-in-law was. That could be a problem if he wasn’t careful. Grant rolled the wine around his mouth as he thought it all through.

  Pushing doubts aside, he had someone to look after the household, someone who appeared to be bright enough not to be a dead bore on the occasions when he was at home. And Kate had courage and determination, that was obvious enough. He had a wife and only time would tell if it had been a wise decision or a reckless gamble.

  There were fifty miles to cover tomorrow, over moorland and open country. If the roads were good and the weather held, they’d do it in the day and he would be only one day later than he had hoped. The inn had a decent chaise for hire, the stables held some strong horses by the looks of them—and they’d be needed, because there wouldn’t be a change to be had until they were over the border. The gelding was sound now, it had only been a bruised hoof.

  The rhyme ‘For Want of a Nail’ ran through his head. In that old poem the loss of the nail meant the loss of the shoe, the loss of the horse and its rider and, eventually, the loss of the battle and a kingdom. Because of his own haste his horse had been lamed, he’d had to stop and he’d gained a wife and child. Grant got up and rang for his supper and another bottle. He was maundering, comparing a disaster to—what? What crazy optimism made him think this marriage between two desperate strangers could be anything but a disaster?

  Chapter Three

  ‘Mr Rivers is a very good rider, is he not, ma’am?’

  ‘Hmm?’ From her position lying full length Kate couldn’t see more than the occasional treetop passing by. ‘Is he?’

  Jeannie, the nursemaid, stared at her. ‘But surely you’ve seen him riding, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I don’t know what is the matter with me.’

  ‘Not to worry, Mrs Rivers. My nana, who taught me all about looking after mothers and babies, she always said that the mother’s mind is off with the fairies for days after the birth.’

  My mind is certainly somewhere and I wish it would come back, because I need to think. Anna was sleeping soundly in the nurse’s arms and Jeannie seemed exceedingly competent. The chaise had an extension at the front so that when the wall section below the front window was removed it could be placed in front of the seat to make a bed where a passenger could stretch out almost full length. Kate had slept heavily and although she felt weak and shaky she was, surely, in a fit state to take responsibility for herself. She should be thinking about what she had done and what the consequences would be.

  I have married the man, for goodness’ sake! A complete stranger. What is his family going to say? Grant was persuasive enough, but surely he couldn’t convince them that he was the legitimate father of this child by a mother they’d heard nothing about before?

  ‘I want to sit up.’ Lying like this made her feel feeble and dependent. Besides, she wanted to see what Mr Rivers—what her husband—looked like on a horse.

  Jeannie handed her Anna and helped her sit up. That was better.
Two days of being flat on her back like a stranded turtle probably accounted for her disorientation. Kate studied the view from the chaise window. It consisted of miles of sodden moorland, four horses with two postilions and one husband cantering alongside.

  Jeannie was a good judge of horsemanship. Grant Rivers was relaxed in the saddle, displaying an impressive length of leg, a straight back and a steady gaze on the road ahead. His profile was austere and, she thought, very English. Brown hair was visible below his hat brim. What colour were his eyes? Surely she should have noticed them? Hazel, or perhaps green. For some reason she had a lingering memory of sadness. But then she’d hardly been in a fit state to notice anything. Or anyone.

  But she had better start noticing now. This was her husband. Husbands were for life and she had begun this marriage with a few critical untruths. But they could do Grant no harm, she told herself as she lay down again and let Jeannie tuck her in. There was this one day to regain some strength and get some sleep, then there would be a family to face and Anna to look after in the midst of strangers. But by then she would have her story quite clear in her head and she would be safe in the rustic isolation of the far north of England.

  They stopped at three inns—small, isolated, primitive. Jeannie helped her out to the privy, encouraged her to eat and drink, cradled the baby between feeds. Her new husband came to look at her, took her pulse, frowned. Looked at Anna, frowned. Swung back on to his horse, frowned as he urged the postilions to greater speed. What was so urgent? Anyone would think it was life and death.

  *

  ‘I think we must be here, ma’am.’ The post-chaise rocked to a halt. Kate struggled up into a sitting position and looked around. Darkness had fallen, but the house was lit and lanterns hung by the front door. Away from the light, the building seemed to loom in the darkness. Surely this was bigger than the modest home a country gentleman-doctor might aspire to?

  She looked for Grant, but he was already out of the saddle, the reins trailing on the ground as he strode up the front steps. The doors opened, more light flooded out, she heard the sound of voices. She dropped the window and heard him say, ‘When?’ sharply and another voice replied, ‘In the morning, the day before yesterday.’

  Grant came back down the steps. ‘In you come.’

  ‘Where are we?’ But he was already lifting her out, carrying her in his arms across to the steps. ‘Anna—’

  ‘I have her, Mrs Rivers. I’m right behind you, ma’am.’

  ‘This is Abbeywell Grange, your new home.’

  There was a tall, lean man, all in black, who bowed as Grant swept her in through the front door. A butler, she supposed, fleetingly conscious of a well-lit hall, a scurry of footmen. The smell of burning applewood, a trace of dried rose petals, beeswax polish, leather. There were evergreen wreaths on the newel posts of the stairs, the glow of red berries in a jug. She remembered Grant’s offering of the holly sprig and smiled. This was an old, loved home, its aura sending messages of reassurance. She wanted to relax and dared not.

  ‘Welcome home, my lord. We are all very relieved to see you. The staff join me in expressing our deepest condolences.’

  Condolences? On a marriage? Then the whole sentence hit her. ‘My lord? Grant, he called you my lord. Who are you?’

  But the butler was already striding ahead towards the end of the hall, Grant on his heels. ‘Master Charles… Lord Brooke, I should say, will be happy to see you, my lord. It has been quite impossible to get him to go to bed.’

  ‘Who is Lord Brooke?’ she asked in a whisper as the butler opened the door into a drawing room. A fire crackled in the grate, an aged pointer dog rose creakily to its feet, tail waving, and, on the sofa, a small boy sat up, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Papa!’

  ‘Charlie, why aren’t you in bed? You’re keeping Rambler up.’ Grant snapped his fingers at the dog. It was obviously an old joke. The boy grinned, then his eyes widened as he saw what his father was carrying.

  Grant settled Kate in a deep armchair by the hearthside and Jeannie, with Anna in her arms, effaced herself somewhere in the shadows.

  ‘Charlie.’ There was deep affection in Grant’s voice as he crouched down and the boy hurled himself into his arms. So, this was why he had been so impatient to get back, this was what the discovery of a woman in labour had been keeping him from. He has a son. He was married? A lord? This was a disaster and she had no inkling how to deal with it.

  ‘You got my letter explaining about the accident?’ The boy nodded, pushed back Grant’s hair and touched the bandage with tentative fingers. She saw his eyes were reddened and heavy. The child had been crying. ‘It’s all right now, but I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me. Then on my way from Edinburgh my horse picked up a stone and was lamed with a bruised hoof, so I lost a day and a night.’

  ‘Great-Grandpapa died on Christmas Eve,’ Charlie said. His lower lip trembled. ‘And you didn’t come and I thought perhaps you’d… Your head… That they’d been lying to me and you were going to…’

  ‘I’m here.’ Grant pulled the boy into a fierce hug, then stood him back so he could look him squarely in the face. ‘I’m a bit battered and there were a couple of days when I was unconscious, which is why I couldn’t travel, but we’ve hard heads, we Rivers men, haven’t we?’

  The lip stopped trembling. ‘Like rocks,’ the boy said stoutly. ‘I’m glad you’re home, though. It was a pretty rotten Christmas.’ His gaze left his father’s face, slid round to Kate. ‘Papa?’

  Grant got up from his knees, one hand on his son’s shoulder, and turned towards her, but Kate had already started to rise. She walked forward and stopped beside Grant.

  ‘My dear, allow me to introduce Charles Francis Ellmont Rivers, Lord Brooke. My son.’

  Kate retrieved a smile from somewhere. ‘I… Good evening, Charles. I am very pleased to meet you.’

  He bowed, a very creditable effort for a lad of—what? Six? ‘Madam.’ He tugged at Grant’s hand. ‘Papa, you haven’t said who this lady is, so I cannot greet her properly.’

  ‘This is Catherine Rivers, my wife. Your stepmama.’

  Kate felt the smile congeal on her lips. Of course, if Charles was Grant’s son, then she was his…

  ‘Stepmama?’ The boy had turned pale. ‘You didn’t say that you were going to get married again, Papa.’

  ‘No. I am allowed some secrets.’ Grant apparently agreed with the Duke of Wellington’s approach: never explain, never apologise. ‘You have a new half-sister as well, Charlie.’ He beckoned to Jeannie and she came forward and placed Anna in his arms. ‘Come and meet her, she is just two days old.’

  The boy peered at the little bundle. ‘She’s very small and her face is all screwed up and red.’

  ‘So was yours when you were born, I expect,’ Kate said with a glare for Grant over Charlie’s head. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she mouthed. The boy isn’t a love child. He’s the product of a first marriage. I married a widower. And a nobleman. She wrestled with the implications of Charlie having a title. It meant Grant was an earl, at least. Which meant that Anna was Lady Anna, and she was—what?

  Earls put marriage announcements in newspapers. Earls had wide social circles and sat in the House of Lords. In London.

  ‘There never seemed to be a good time.’ Grant gave a half shrug that suddenly made her furious. He should have warned her, explained. She would never have agreed to marry him.

  ‘What is her name?’ Charlie asked, oblivious to the byplay. Anna woke up and waved a fist at him and he took it, very carefully.

  ‘Anna Rosalind.’ One starfish hand had closed on Charlie’s finger. His face was a mixture of panic and delight. ‘Would you like to hold her?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Grant placed her in Charlie’s arms.

  ‘Very carefully,’ Kate said, trying not to panic. ‘Firm but gentle, and don’t let her head flop. That’s it—you are obviously a natural as a big brother.’ She was rewarded by a h
uge grin. She could only admire Grant’s tactics. The surprise of a new baby sister had apparently driven Charlie’s doubts about a stepmama right out of his head.

  ‘Grant,’ she said, soft-voiced, urgent, as Jeannie helped the boy to sit securely on the sofa and held back the inquisitive hound. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘The fourth Earl of Allundale. As of two days ago.’

  ‘I suppose that was something else that there was no time to mention?’ Again that shrug, the taut line of his lips that warned her against discussing this now.

  Her husband was an earl. But he was also a doctor, and heirs to earldoms did not become doctors, she knew that. It was a conundrum she was too weary to try to understand now. All she could grasp was that she had married far above her wildest expectations, into a role she had no idea how to fill, into a position that was dangerously exposed and public. Even in her home village the social pages in the newspapers were studied and gossiped about, the business of the aristocracy known about, from the gowns worn at drawing rooms to the latest scandals. How could the wife of an earl hide away? But Grant had no need to fear she would make a scene in front of his son: unless they were thrown out into the dark, she found she was beyond caring about anything but warmth, shelter and Anna’s safety this night.

  ‘You are worn out. Charlie, give your sister back to her nurse and off you go to bed. I’ll come and see you are asleep later.’ Grant reached for the bell pull and the butler appeared so rapidly that he must have been standing right outside the door. ‘Grimswade, can you dispatch Master Charles to his tutor? And you will have prepared my wife’s rooms by now, I’ve no doubt.’

  Grimswade stood aside as Charlie made a very correct bow to Kate, then ducked through the open door. ‘Certainly, my lord. His late lordship had some renovation work done. In anticipation,’ he added.

  Grant stilled with his hand on the bell pull. ‘Not the old suite?’ His voice was sharp.

  ‘No, my lord, not the old suite. The one on the other side of your own chambers. The doors have been changed. One blocked up, another cut through. His late lordship anticipated that you would wish to retain your old rooms even after he had…gone.’