“Ridiculous, am I?” he roared, mistaking her discomfort for disgust. “Listen to me, woman! You are my wife! You carry my unborn child! No, madam, you can put all thoughts of leaving from your mind. If I have to lock you in your room, you will remain with me!” He reached for her.

“No!” Stepping back, she screamed, “Do not do this, please!”

Darcy went again to his cousin’s side, trying to pull him back. “Richard, stop.” Fitzwilliam shrugged him off then appeared to calm for a moment.

Suddenly grabbing a porcelain vase, Fitzwilliam violently smashed it against the wall. “So be it, Amanda, so be it. But the child in your belly is mine, and by God, I swear it will never be raised by you!”

She slapped him then with all her strength, stopped by him as she tried for another. In the stunned silence that followed, Harry’s wails of terror could be heard coming from the top of the staircase where he stood naked, water dripping from his shaking body. He had heard his mother’s screams and immediately darted from his bath, terrified for her. Quickly reaching him, the nursemaid lifted him into her arms and ran with him back to the safety of his room.

“ Enough! ” yelled Catherine, slamming her cane onto the floor. The shocked room became suddenly quiet. “Stop this instant! You are saying things in anger, dangerous, hurtful things, words that can never be taken back nor forgotten!”

Darcy rushed forward to grab onto Fitzwilliam’s arm as his cousin and Amanda stood toe-to-toe, glaring hatefully at each other. Fitzwilliam violently pulled his arm away and stormed from the house, Darcy following in his wake.

“What a bloody mess,” Catherine murmured after a few moments.

Chapter 12

Lady Catherine Julietta Fitzwilliam de Bourgh, countess, socialite, wife, mother, sister, and aunt, sat alone with the sobbing American girl, reflecting on her own long and full life. A woman of experience, age, and status, she had lived through nearly everything the world could throw at her. Little had surprised her through the years.

Oh, there had been the premature birth of her daughter, Anne, and then her daughter’s subsequent lifelong illness.

There had been the sudden marriage of her only sister to the man Catherine had truly loved above all others.

There had been two separate women at court making sexual advances toward her for some unfathomable reason.

There was that unfortunate discovery of an inebriated Prince of Wales naked atop an underage chambermaid on the floor of her favorite coach. They were playing “Hide His Majesty’s Scepter and Orbs.” That had been a real stunner, with the coach subsequently sold as quickly as possible.

And, of course, there was always the fact that gowns she had worn only two years prior could mysteriously shrink, accompanied by an oddly proportionate increase in her shoe size. This, too, never ceased to astound.

But nothing had prepared her for the events of this morning.

When she initially discovered from her favorite informant that her nephew had been brazenly living at Darcy’s for two days with the woman from the Winter Ball, she had come prepared to do battle royal. She arrived with the determination to put a stop to the scandalous affair immediately.

That was before she discovered they were already married.

That was before she discovered they were already expecting a child.

Merde.

And there he was, pacing back and forth, the pain and desperation in his eyes tearing at her heart. He was her problem child, the one she had worried herself sick over for more than thirty-two years now—had been troublesome since the day he was born, sickly and frail. And now look at him, the big ox. His chaotic personality so mirrored her own sometimes that it brought a lump to her throat.

To see him now and witness his world disintegrating around him was more than she could bear. Whether the woman was suitable for an earl’s son or not, they were married and bedded and with child, the deed done.

Another unsuitable wife for yet another of her nephews, she grumbled as the battle raged on before her. Whatever is wrong with these young people today? She crushed her fan in her exasperation. Have they no sense of form or propriety? Do they imagine they can marry anyone they fancy, in some havey-cavey manner, whenever the whim takes them? What was all this modern nonsense about love, love, love? It was enough to make one ill. Why, if tender feelings were a reason for marriage, most of the ton would die single. Generations of bloodlines would disappear. Heritages would be lost.

She grunted. Oh bother! If that was what her beloved rascal wanted, she would move heaven, earth, and hell to fix this for him. She would not risk alienating another nephew. She had worked too hard reestablishing herself with the other fool.

She had learned her lesson with Darcy.

***

Harry’s jacket and stockings lay in a heap by the settee, and Amanda crossed over to pick them up. Suddenly overcome with grief, she sat and began to weep, her handkerchief pressed tightly to her eyes. So many dreams had been crushed this morning, so many cruel words, all her illusions now in pieces.

A hesitant Catherine came to stand before her, waiting for the girl to get a grip on her feelings. She looked about the room and frowned. Good Lord, how she despised public displays of emotion like this.

She rolled her eyes. “Please stop crying, madam.” Catherine tried to sound sympathetic as she poked her finger hard into Amanda’s shoulder, but the muffled sobs only increased. When no other verbal response came forth, she began to tap her foot impatiently. She bent far over at the waist to scrutinize the bawling figure, much as if she were studying a flopping fish on the bottom of a boat, then she straightened herself once again. She cleared her throat. “There, there,” she muttered in a flat, uninterested voice, her attention and gaze wandering aimlessly toward a particularly fine tapestry against the far wall. It was lovely in cream and blue. She must find out something about its design from Elizabeth…

Amanda looked up, her tears subsiding. “Oh my, I should go up and see to my son.” She wiped the backs of her hands across her tears and sighed. “Excuse me, Lady Catherine.”

“One moment of your time first, if you please, madam. I have a few questions. It will not take long.”

Amanda nodded, apprehensive in the presence of this formidable little powerhouse.

Catherine smiled amiably. “How long ago did you trick my nephew into this marriage?” Catherine’s previous heartwarming display of empathy was evidently now officially over.

“I beg your pardon!” Amanda felt her back stiffen. “If you must know, the colonel and I were married four weeks ago.” She sniffled and loudly blew her nose.

“Four weeks ago! Unheard of! You knew each other, what, two or three weeks at the most, and you are already married and with child? I don’t believe you! But I imagine that is how you were able to force my nephew’s hand in marriage.” Catherine’s cold smile grew wide, but her eyes narrowed to slits. “He is a man of great personal honor from a distinguished family. It would be simple for you to contrive a marriage to improve both your class and breeding.”

This was beyond enough. Amanda blew her nose again, even louder. “Excuse me, but I have no need to give you any explanation regarding either my marriage or my expectancy. It is absolutely none of your business!” Amanda sat up straighter and stared directly back, her chin a little higher. “Indeed, the very fact that you feel you can insult me with impunity makes me question your own class and breeding!”

Catherine’s eyes flashed with anger. “Upon my word, you are an impudent little baggage, aren’t you? Of all the ungracious… A common American such as yourself will never be accepted by the ten thousand. I imagine with your experience, you realize that by now!”

Amanda’s eyes blinked rapidly. “The ten thousand what?” She always seemed to have a problem when following these English conversations.

“The upper ten thousand, madam— the Haute Ton! Good heavens, but you are an ignorant chit!”

Amanda placed her arms across her belly and looked angrily back at the countess. “Ah, yes, now I understand you. Well, I have never once harbored any aspirations to be accepted by that vicious and amoral group of inbred ninnies.”

“And what a good thing that was, madam, since you never were! You see, unlike the Americans, we English prefer to embrace our traditions and ensure our bloodstock. As an earl’s son, Richard is far above you in class, my dear. Far above! You have benefited from his unfortunately long-standing rebellious nature. That is all. Even as a second son, he should have been made to choose a bride only from within the select few acceptable families of his rank. It is known as the upper classes and something of which you would never understand.” Catherine’s expression was one of superior condescension.

Amanda’s eyes flashed wide with anger. “I know of which you speak, and indeed we have heard of it happening in America also; however, it is frowned upon and referred to by another word.”

Sneering, Catherine gave a mirthless laugh. “Oh, really, and what word is that?”

“Incest.”

The countess’s head snapped up to glare at the brazen package before her. Well, well, well. The little Colonial had surprised her with her rude effrontery and tactless style. She was beginning to like the woman. Evidently not easy to intimidate, she would certainly need to be a strong wife to stand up to Fitzwilliam.