Chapter Two
Fifteen months later
‘My lord, your coach is waiting.’
Edward glanced out over the workers of his textile mill one last time. With a pang of resignation, he gave a curt nod to the foreman, stalked away from the observation deck and out of the door. He heard it shut behind him with a thump of finality. He wasn’t sure when he’d be back.
He would not have the time to give the mill as much attention from now on—not with the Season about to start.
He conjured up a handful of excuses why he couldn’t get in the carriage that was waiting to carry him into his future—an urgent meeting, an unexpected trip, perhaps?
—but he knew none of them would be acceptable to his father.
He dragged himself down the steps, as though he was descending the stairway to hell. But he couldn’t put this off any longer. He was heading to Lady Farringdon’s ball, the first of the Season, where he was to meet his bride.
Arranged bride.
The woman his father wanted him to wed.
He would be formally introduced, and he would have to smile and converse and dance with the lady, before calling on her, courting her and eventually proposing.
Fatigue washed over him, just thinking about it.
But she was the only woman in the ton the Duke had deemed suitable enough for his son to marry—someone high-born, no doubt flawless and without a past.
Bitterness burned the back of his throat for Edward’s feelings on the institution hadn’t changed.
He reckoned that seeing how both of his parents had suffered through their union had put him off marriage for life.
Still, he would go ahead with the wedding his father had planned for him—to produce an heir and continue the Harrington bloodline. In memory of William.
Edward strode out into the bustling sun-drenched street.
Spring in the city. Until recently, he’d been left in relative peace to go about his work.
He was glad he’d found the courage to follow his own path; grateful he’d at least had the chance to live his dream, if only for a short time.
He’d bought the derelict textile mill and through hard work he’d revived it to its former glory. Business was booming.
But now, everything had changed. With his brother’s sudden death, his freedom was about to be taken away.
It had been such a terrible, tragic shock losing William.
The devastation had taken its toll on his already ailing father and a quiet ache throbbed in his own heart, the constant tightness refusing to abate.
The days felt slower, the hours painfully empty now.
And with his brother’s passing had come responsibility because now Edward had to step up and face the ton as the Duke’s only heir.
He had no choice; it was what was required of him, and he did not want to let his father or his brother down.
He saw the coach parked up, waiting to take him to his destiny.
The pressure was on to get this wedding executed swiftly.
With a grimace of determination, Edward sped up, striding out across the street.
As he walked, he used his teeth to loosen the tight fit of his leather gloves, tugging them off and tucking them into his tailcoat pocket.
‘Edward,’ a soft but urgent voice called.
His anger flared. ‘Not another well-wisher wanting to offer their condolences. Not another mother wanting to introduce their daughter now I am heir,’ he muttered to himself.
He wasn’t in the mood. He focussed on the coach just a few feet away, increasing his speed as he saw his footman open the door.
‘Edward,’ the woman called again, more insistent this time, and for a moment, her voice triggered a whisp of a memory.
What woman thought they could be so familiar with him they could use the name reserved only for his closest acquaintances? With a flicker of irritation, he swung his head to look in her direction.
A young woman was rushing across the street towards him, holding a bundle of cloth in her arms. Dressed in a simple gown made of practical grey wool, her attire was a far cry from the fine silks of the upper classes.
Her hair was gathered up into a cap, though a few rebellious blonde tendrils had come loose, and her well-worn boots looked as if they had seen her through long hours of labour.
Was she a worker in his mill? He didn’t think so, for his millhands would never call him by his first name.
He hesitated, studying her face as she drew nearer, knowing it would be rude to ignore her now and continue on his way. His gaze travelled over her unusual tawny-coloured eyes, before dipping to her lips. Bow-shaped. Plump. Perfect.
His blood pounded harder in his veins.
He was instantly taken back to the night of a storm. The night he had sought shelter at an inn and his heart leapt in unexpected thrill. Could it be…?
As his footman called his name, so did the woman, thrusting the bundle of cloth—no, not cloth, but a tiny baby swaddled in blankets—into his hands, and there was nothing he could do but catch the child as his man surrounded the stranger, gripping her arms, pulling her backwards, and she gave a tortured cry, a look of pure anguish on her face.
Edward grappled with the baby, glancing down at it, momentarily stunned. He looked back up at the woman, disturbed. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘He’s yours,’ she blurted, wrestling against his footman’s hold. ‘He’s your son.’
Edward reeled, as if her words had hit him with the force of a lead ball fired from a pistol at close range, hollowing out his chest.
‘I’m not sure if you remember, but a little over a year ago, we met at an inn. We…we were intimate.’ Colour flooded her pale face. ‘This child, he is the consequence of that night.’
Edward’s blood turned to ice.
He was all too aware of the widening eyes of his manservant, looking at him in shock and concern, knowing the significance of such a serious claim, and on this day, when Edward was headed to meet his future bride.
‘Impossible!’ he bit, his voice not sounding like his own.
‘Is it?’ the woman said, defiantly tilting up her chin to face him.
His eyes narrowed on her, trailing the familiar sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and he felt that same punch of awareness as when they’d met.
He had thought he’d never see her again. Beatrice Puddifoot.
Emotion seemed to be rolling off her tiny frame in waves. The look on her face was earnest, making his chest tighten, and she was sinking her teeth into that pillowy bottom lip.
He had never forgotten her.
She was still incredibly beautiful, although thinner than he remembered, and her honey-coloured hair was dishevelled—lacklustre, stray strands cascading over too-thin shoulders.
That night, he hadn’t intended for anything to happen, he had just wanted to enjoy her company for a little while.
But temptation had got the better of him.
He had never wanted, needed, a woman like that before—or since.
He’d behaved recklessly—out of character for a man who had, just fifteen months later, become next in line to be duke.
So this situation—where a woman of a much lower class, standing before him, trembling, telling him he was the father of her child, that he had a son—was one he absolutely couldn’t be in. Not now.
‘I was careful that night,’ he said, his scowl deepening, and his footman sent him a condemning look.
But despite his acknowledgement at what had happened between him and this woman, it was true—he had withdrawn before the end.
He remembered, because it had taken every last ounce of his effort to do so.
‘Obviously not careful enough,’ Bea said, her eyes flaring.
He shook his head. ‘This is preposterous.’ So why, then, had her announcement rocked him to the core? Was it because he knew it was possible—especially because she had been innocent when he’d taken her, a fact he’d realised far too late?
He studied her more closely. Her eyes were red rimmed, with dark shadows beneath, as if she hadn’t slept for days, the pallor of her face unnaturally sallow. Was he to blame for that? Had he compromised her and left her alone to deal with the fallout? The tightness in his chest grew worse.
When he had awoken before dawn, Bea asleep in his arms on the rug, he had gently extracted himself from her embrace, careful not to wake her.
Despite having told her he would one day have to marry someone of status to fulfil the expectations of his position in Society, it had still been a wrench to leave her.
He had felt cold all over; a coldness no rubbing of his arms or pulling on his clothes had managed to rectify.
Yet he had known he’d had to go, before anyone was to discover him there.
If they had been found together like that, Bea would have been deemed a fallen woman.
She would have lost her position at the inn and any chance of a respectable marriage in the future.
Had that happened anyway?
It had moved him—how strong a connection he’d felt to her after being in her company for such a short time.
The things he’d told her—he had not once been so vulnerable and honest with anyone before.
Sex, for him, had never been so good, and it had disturbed him, how tempted he was to stay.
How much he had wanted to wake her by kissing her and touching her and seducing her all over again.
It was the strength of emotions she ignited in him that had finally convinced him to walk out the door and never look back.
He had acted out of character—out of control—and it had scared him.
That impulsive, overwhelming connection he’d felt between them would surely lead to the type of volatile relationship his parents had shared, which had ended in complete devastation.
No, he had refused to allow that intense passion and sentiment to ruin them both, so he had made his decision.
He had whispered his goodbyes and left Bea sleeping.