Page 46 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
It took more than a few frantic heartbeats and deep breaths to quell the grief and the painful memories.
“Archie was devastated. Repentant. Filled with guilt. It was such a strange condition for him that it couldn’t last. During that brief time, we… we reconciled. I found I was with child again, and he went off to London. When he returned home a few months later, he brought along a company of friends for a hunting party. Male friends.”
Mostly male friends.
“Lord Vernon?”
“Yes. And Sir Morris Pierpont and others. He ought not to have done it, or I ought not to have been here. Had I known to expect them, I would have gone to stay at Bluebelle Lodge. Archie promised they would not bother me but…”
A memory seized her, along with a wave of the panic she’d fought to master. Her bedchamber, invaded. Archie insanely drunk. Lord Vernon following him, an avid interest in his eyes. And the woman they’d brought with them.
Graeme reached for her again, and she put up a hand to ward him off.
“I lost the child. Mrs. Stockwell was my maid at the time, unmarried then, but her husband was courting her. I was still ill when they moved me and Coralie to Bluebelle Lodge.”
“And you stayed there.”
“Yes, mostly. Always, when Archie was in residence here.”
“He didn’t come after you?”
She shook her head. “To put it rather… rather coarsely, he didn’t need me in his bed here.”
“Mrs. Jarrow?—”
“Knows of that?” She shrugged and then pinned him with a hard look. “What sort of wife would allow that in her home? Would you seek that lady’s company?”
Graeme’s lips firmed and his frown deepened, yet she couldn’t entirely sense whether he was feeling disgust or sympathy.
For now, let him judge her as weak. She didn’t care.
There were other sins she was willing to tell him about. Not her own, of course.
“Mrs. Jarrow will allege that my actions are blacker than that. After I moved to Bluebelle Lodge, a maid from Wickworth Hall appeared on our doorstep fair to bursting with child. We took her in—how could we not have taken pity upon her? She gave birth to a son and died shortly after.”
“Archie’s child.”
Graeme’s lips had pressed tighter and his hand had somehow captured hers. His anger was palpable, though she was quite sure—and a little surprised—that it wasn’t directed at her.
Blythe shook her head. “My Georgie was fair-haired and robust like Archie. So is Coralie. Nicholas, on the other hand, is a slight child with very dark hair and amber eyes. He is, like Coralie, a child of my heart but not my body. It’s whispered in the neighborhood that he is my child by Lord Vernon.”
Blythe held her breath, watching Graeme’s reaction, while his hand tightened around hers. She’d seen in her husband and his friends the nature of many men. Like guttersnipe women, they could disparage a reputation without a second thought. And with no father or brother or son to defend her—what was a woman to do? There were better men; she’d known a few. The late Mr. Davies had been one. The Stockwells were also, as far as she knew. The sons of her friend Lady Loughton seemed to be honorable as well.
There were good men in the world and there were scoundrels. Which group did Graeme belong to?
“I see,” he said after a long pause.
His calmness annoyed her.
“I suppose you do. Now you may leave.”
“Not yet, Blythe.”
His heated gaze drilled into her as if he could see into her very heart.
“I will visit Bluebelle Lodge tomorrow. Will you come with me and introduce me to this unexpected cousin of mine and Nicholas too?”
“Certainly.”
