Chapter Three
The coach came to a gentle stop outside Edward’s private residence in the grounds of Longwood Hall.
He pinned Bea with a look. ‘You will need to step inside for a while.’
She gave him a resigned, curt nod and he handed her the child. ‘Take him now.’
Drained of colour, she seemed to have lost her will to fight. She practically snatched the boy from him and cradled Thomas close to her chest. She brought her lips down to the child’s forehead and placed little kisses there, as if to comfort him as well as herself.
A sudden tightness squeezed Edward’s chest.
Was this boy really his son and Bea the mother of his child? How could he have let this happen? Yet he knew how. His desire had consumed him. He had never wanted a woman like that before or since. It had been the best night of his life…
He studied them both. Given the way she was holding the boy so possessively, he couldn’t believe she had intended to give him up.
He saw that it would have devastated her.
She looked fatigued, her clothes dishevelled and dirty, and his conscience prickled.
Had she and his son been sleeping on the streets?
No Harrington child should have to do so.
And yet, he was to blame for that, wasn’t he?
For his actions had ruined her, leaving her pregnant and penniless, forcing her into poverty.
But then, she hadn’t let him help her, because he hadn’t even known, because she hadn’t even told him. Betrayal warred with his guilt.
He felt hurt—so incredibly hurt that Bea hadn’t come to him sooner.
That if Thomas was his son, she’d kept him from him, and he hated secrets.
Like he’d always said, they had the ability to ruin lives.
To say he was livid about it was an understatement, and the fact that she might have kept the boy from him longer, his son having grown up not knowing he existed if she hadn’t found herself in a situation where she had no means to survive—it didn’t bear thinking about.
Thank God she had finally come to him, and yet the shock had caused him to react defensively, lashing out at her. He scrubbed a hand over his face.
‘What?’ she said, and he realised he was staring.
He had woken up this morning with a sense of dread about his future and what the day had in store for him, but nothing could have prepared him for this woman coming back into his life and telling him he had a son.
‘Out in the street, I thought you were going to vanish into thin air, leaving the boy with me, but now I see it would have taken a great toll on you to remove yourself from his life.’
If she was willing to sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of her child, she must care, and a tiny glimmer of hope sparked inside him. That was something at least.
He began to unfurl himself from the carriage, but her hand on his arm halted him, surprising him, sending an unwanted flicker of heat through his blood.
Damn. He didn’t want to still be attracted to her. He resented her. The woman who had given birth to his child in secret and kept the boy from him.
‘Edward,’ she whispered. He turned back to see her perfect lips had parted in panic. Her face was ashen. Her eyes seemed to plead with him and he looked down at her slender fingers wrapped over his wrist.
Suddenly, he saw her turmoil. He realised she was afraid. Did she fear the same judgement he always had—that he wouldn’t live up to his father or Society’s expectations?
He caved. He lowered his voice and inclined his head. ‘You do not need to concern yourself,’ he relented, wanting to unburden her of her unease. ‘This is my own residence on my father’s estate. We will be able to talk in private. There is no one to scrutinise us here.’
He stepped out and took a gulp of calming fresh air, before helping Bea and the boy down. He was pleased she allowed him to take her arm. When she looked up and saw the cottage, wariness dimmed the fleeting appraisal he’d seen in her eyes.
He ushered her toward the door, acknowledging his housekeeper with a dip of his head.
‘Mrs Potter.’
‘Welcome home, my lord. Is there anything you require?’
Her gaze never left his and he had to admire the older woman for that.
She didn’t even give the slightest hint of noticing his guest—or the child in her arms. He knew he could count on her discretion and loyalty.
She had been the closest thing he’d had to a mother in the years since his own had gone away.
‘Tea, please. In the drawing room. With some sandwiches for my guest and perhaps a few of those delicious ginger biscuits Cook made yesterday.’
‘Very well, my lord.’
He led Bea into the hallway and through into the reception room. He saw her footsteps falter as they stepped inside; her eyes widen in awe as she glanced around the interior, her pretty mouth gaping. She held the boy a little closer still.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘You are very fortunate, Edward.’
He looked around, trying to see the place through her eyes.
It was a simple residence—nothing like his father’s grand hall, which was designed to impress with its marble floors, high ceilings and chandeliers.
But perhaps the cottage walls he’d had painted in a bright sky blue and the mirrors and artworks that decorated them added to the feeling of light and space.
It was his sanctuary—a place where he could disappear from Society.
Though not for much longer. Now that William was gone, his father had already given him his orders that he needed to return to the rooms inside the hall.
‘Would you care to sit?’ he said, gesturing to the Chesterfield, and Bea lowered herself stiffly into the seat, her knees tightly pressed together, tension rolling off her.
For a moment, he felt like a swine, insisting that she come here, but he must not let her weaken him.
He needed to treat this like a business arrangement, and he must not forget, her fate—and that of the boy—depended entirely on his generosity.
Once again, he thought how absurd this was, that they didn’t even know each other—that they just had one night, and the consequences, to connect them.
So why then, could he suddenly recall her beautiful body, lying naked beneath him, and the fact her creamy breasts had fitted so perfectly into the palms of his hands?
How could he remember what it felt like to be inside her, so vividly now, as if it had all come back to him in a rush?
He’d been shocked when he had discovered she was innocent—and that knowledge had only added to his compunction when he’d slipped from the room the following morning.
He wondered if it was that same guilt which was responsible for her so often coming to his mind in the months that had passed.
The boy suddenly woke from his sleep with a loud, piercing cry, filling the empty cottage with noise, and it seemed to Edward as if a warning signal was going off in his head.
Instinct told him to respond, to react, but instead, he watched Bea get up and walk with the child, knowing how to soothe him.
Edward stalked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a brandy.
Tea wasn’t going to cut it. He needed something stronger for the shock still charging round his body.
He poured a second one for Bea and placed her glass down on the table.
Taking a sip of the amber liquid, he leaned back against the cabinet, studying her over the rim of his glass.
He watched, his curiosity awakened, as he took in her slim body pacing as she swung the child gently in her arms, trying to comfort him. The boy began to calm, his cries turning into gurgles, and he marvelled at her mollifying effect. His admiration for her surged.
She threw him a look. ‘Don’t you need to go and change?’
‘Change?’
At the sound of his voice, the boy began to cry again, and Edward winced.
Bea started her pacing once more, drawing his attention to how the material of her simple gown cinched in at her waist, before curving over her bottom, moulding to the shape of her legs.
His body hardened, and he wondered how anyone could stir his attention in such a dowdy garment.
Perhaps it was because he knew what treasures lay beneath.
‘The ball?’ she reminded him.
He had almost forgotten about that! He had been so caught up in his wonder at witnessing Bea take care of his son.
He hadn’t wanted to go before—and he really did not want to go now.
Knowing about this child, how could he contemplate leaving Bea to meet his future bride without resolving this situation?
He drew a hand over his face. No. He needed to think. He had to decide what he was going to do. But it was hard with that incessant noise going on, each cry piercing his heart.
‘What is wrong with him?’
‘Nothing is wrong with him!’
‘Then why is he crying?’ he asked.
‘He’s hungry, that’s all. It’s what babies do!’
And then she sighed, sat back down on the settee and discreetly adjusted her clothing, turning away from him slightly, and he watched as she began to nurse the child.
Silence descended, and he stared in awe as the boy happily suckled on her breast, the upper swell of Bea’s skin exposed.
He could not tear his gaze away from the two of them; the personal, nurturing moment—an intimacy wrapping around them, like a cosy blanket.
‘You feed him yourself?’ he whispered in warm approval. He lowered himself down beside her, a desire to get closer, to learn more about her and his son, making him lean in. He wanted to be present, to appreciate this precious miracle up close.
She glanced at him, over her shoulder. ‘How else?’
Edward shook his head in amazement. ‘My mother used a nurse—for me and my brother.’ He spoke softly, so as not to break the spell of peacefulness that had taken them over.