Page 55 of A Secret Consequence for the Viscount
A minuscule quilted pink blanket was then placed in his hands and he brought it over the doll, her fingers touching his as she finished the job for him.
She had dimples. Deep dimples on each cheek.
‘Do you have a little girl, too?’
He shook his head.
‘Mama only has me and I have her and Uncle Jacob and Aunty Rose and Grammy and Aunty Ilona and Uncle Frank and Vic.’
‘Vic?’
‘My dog. Vic is what we call him, but his long name is Victory. He is black and he always licks us, but Mama does not like that very much. He is this big.’
Little hands were held out as far as her arms could go, but Nick looked past this to Eleanor and saw the horror in her eyes. And the truth.
He cursed beneath his breath as the whole world dropped out of sight and he understood all that Eleanor Huntingdon had tried to hide from him.
Lucy was his. Theirs. Their daughter. Even without any memory he knew that she was. Her eyes. Her dimples. Her age. Her hair.
‘How old are you, Lucy?’
‘I am five years and three-quarters of months. My birthday is in May on the seventh and then I will be six. I know how to write my name and read, too. I can count to lots and lots. Do you want to hear how I can?’
As she began to count Nicholas’s mind calculated the number of months between a week after August the fifteenth and May the seventh.
Nine months, give or take a few days. His vision lightened and his heart beat so fast in his temples he could not hear the spaces in between.
She had his eyes. That thought came through the shock. It was like looking at his own in the mirror, gold shards on the edge of brown. Her cheeks were his, too, high boned and broad. His gaze took in other parts of her greedily, desperately, trying to see everything at once and all that he had missed for so very long. She was perfect and flawless and splendid. He wanted to wrap his arms about her and never let her go.
Rose Huntingdon had bustled in and must have caught Lucy’s recounting of her age because, suddenly, Rose was full of chatter. ‘Oh, how lovely that you could come and have a supper with us, Lord Bromley, but you look a bit pale. I hope you are not catching a cold.’
Jacob began to rise with anger from his place near the fire and Rose peered at him sharply. ‘Georgiana’s cousin has been taken to bed for a month with an ailment of the chest and it is most important to consider one’s actions carefully in the light of such information.’
Underneath the words Nick could hear a breathlessness and a warning and he wondered at Jacob’s wife’s strategies. Her fingers were tightly held before her, the reddened crescent of nails clearly visible on the soft white skin on each hand.
His daughter had risen at her words, her hand reaching out for Eleanor. Small hands still slightly rounded from babyhood. Every tiny detail of her was a joy to him.
‘Dinner is served, so if you will follow me in. Grandmama, perhaps you could bring the Viscount. Ilona, you, of course, should accompany Frank. Lucy, as a special treat you can take Uncle Jacob’s hand and sit with us for a little while before your nanny comes to fetch you. Eleanor, perhaps you and I could bring up the rear.’
Rose’s voice was hard to hear through the rush of noise in his ears.
* * *
Eleanor felt cold with shock, though Rose’s fingers against hers squeezed so tightly it brought her back with a desperate whisper.
‘Get through the meal, Ellie, and then have your conversation. I will arrange it. But for now...’
Nodding, she took in a fearful breath. Frank and Ilona were lovely, but both were great gossips and she needed to hold on to her secrets until she could explain them properly. To Nicholas.
Rose had come into the room and heard Lucy, she was sure of it, for she had never seen her sister-in-law become quite so effusively shallow or overtly bossy. Even Grandmama was looking at her strangely. For such a deliverance Eleanor could only be eternally grateful.
Nicholas was seated as far away from her as Rose could manage, between Frank and his wife and opposite Grandmama, Lucy and she were at the other end of the table, Jacob and Rose between them. Everyone, save Lucy and the Rogersons, looked less than comfortable.
Eleanor could feel the Viscount’s gaze upon her and Lucy, but didn’t look up. She did not know how she might make it through a whole meal with the emotions that raced through her rendering her mouth dry and her pulse quickened. The grand clock in the corner showed only the hour of five forty-one.
She was glad for the wine that the footman poured and when Jacob finished his toast for the New Year she drank down a good portion of her glass. A temporary buttress, a provisional support. She waited as the footman topped it up again.
‘Can I have some wine, too, Mama?’ Her daughter’s voice carried on the air and Nicholas Bartlett turned to listen to her answer.
