Slightly Noble Page 5

  “Weston is Drury. His name was in the society column less than a month ago. Apparently, he attended the Radford’s soirée with his wife, a woman who was definitely not a pregnant woman named Abby.”

  “Perhaps Drury wasn’t engaged when she slept with him.” He was grasping at straws now, hoping his new wife had not knowingly slept with a man engaged to another.

  Quentin looked as guilty as a sailor caught wasting water on a becalmed ship. “Drury married Lady Vanessa six months ago, and they were betrothed at least six months before that.”

  “How do you know?” Abby may not be an adulteress, but after the unfounded accusations hurled at his mother, Jack did not want to condemn her without proof. Still, he was not feeling very charitable now.

  Am I too much like my father?

  “Despite my six years at sea,” Quentin said, his expression now smug rather than sympathetic, “I have kept abreast of the latest London gossip, and if I knew Drury was betrothed, then surely, your wife would have known if she is a gentlewoman as the nun claims.”

  Perhaps, even that was a lie. For all Jack knew, his wife was a well-kept courtesan who had learned proper decorum and manners from one of her protectors.

  His heart sank like a scuttled ship, but his temper rose like a sail on the main mast, billowing with anger. If Drury was the father of Abby’s baby, then she was guilty of a similar sin for which Jack’s mother had been accused. The irony fed his ill temper. Despite his mother’s innocence, his father punished her for her supposed actions while Abby gained respectability in the form of a husband and title.

  She was no different from Annabel.

  Before the war, Annabel Beaumont’s father had owned a large cotton plantation. Jack met her at a ball while visiting his mother, but she had considered him beneath her notice until she learned he was heir to a viscountcy. Then she was all smiles and friendly banter, but he was no fool. Annabel would have married a blind leper—so long as he were a titled leper. His mother had been no different. She may not have been an adulteress, but she had married his father rather than his uncle, the man she supposedly loved, because his father was a viscount.

  Women were all the same, always seeking to marry better than their friends.

  “The old man must be laughing in his grave,” Jack said with a snort. “In my attempts to best the bastard, it seems I have saddled myself with the very sort of woman he accused my mother of being.”

  “Your wife may be innocent,” Quentin said, a trace of warning in his voice. “There could be any number of reasons for her to damn Drury.”

  “During childbirth?”

  Quentin’s eyes darkened. “Drury could have forced himself on her.”

  Would that it were true. The perverse thought entered Jack’s mind before he could stop it. What is wrong with me? What man would wish rape on any woman? Yet he had spent so many years defending his mother’s honor, he would rather his wife not be guilty of moral turpitude.

  He huffed out a frustrated breath and forked his fingers through his hair. The black ribbon he had used to tie it back fluttered to the ground. “Is the viscount the sort of man who would force a woman?”

  Quentin sighed and looked away. “From all accounts, he is a true gentleman. Men emulate him and women adore him.”

  And one particular woman had apparently adored him more than she should have. Disappointment weighed as heavy as an albatross around Jack’s neck. “So, it is unlikely.”

  “Likely or not, she is your wife now, so it would behoove you not to pass judgment until you have heard the tale from her own lips.”

  “I do not think she is going to share tales of her sexual exploits with a husband who has never even tasted her charms.” He folded his arms across his chest, the fabric of his fancy frock coat bunching across his shoulders.

  He preferred the loose-fitting shirts and buckskins he wore aboard the Lion’s Pride, but Quentin seemed quite comfortable in the confining clothes of an English gentleman, which goaded Jack even more. Quentin was like a damn chameleon, fitting in wherever he went. In comparison, Jack felt like a baboon in a suit. A big baboon with a scheming wife.

  “You might want to try a little patience and understanding. In this situation, Captain, I do not think your usual tactics are going to work.”

  When Jack wanted to attack, Quentin often urged patience. Meeting somewhere in the middle had kept them both out of trouble. But Jack was in way over his head this time. How did a man tactfully ask his new wife if she was a light skirt, or if she had simply made a terrible mistake?

  He resumed his pacing until the door to the tiny cottage opened and the vicar stepped out to join them. His heart slammed against his chest with the force of a boom. If Abby had delivered a son, Ridge Point was his.

  “Well?” he asked, not showing the patience for which he had just claimed himself capable. Beside him, Quentin chuckled.

  The vicar frowned. “You have a son.”

  “I have a son.” Excitement mingled with fear. A tiny person had been entrusted into his care—a son who would look to him for guidance.

  But the child is not my flesh and blood.

  Would he let that knowledge eat at him the way his father’s suspicions about Jack’s paternity had? Or would he be the kind of father Uncle William had been to him?

  Quentin smiled stiffly. “Ridge Point is yours. You have what you wanted.”

  Did he? He had wanted to bring his mother’s body home to Ridge Point, but he had also wanted to find a faithful and loving wife who would tempt him more than the sea—a wife who would give him sons and daughters to fill the empty rooms of his childhood home. But would his new wife prove loving and faithful? Or would she laugh at the notion and return to London to enjoy the company of any man willing to entertain her? Ridge Point was his, but the rooms would remain as empty as his heart.

  Something dark and resentful coiled in his gut. Upon his death, the title would pass to a son whose veins carried not a drop of Norton blood while any sons of his own loins would be left with nothing—or at least, nothing entailed.

  “Would you like to see your son now?” the vicar asked, his stern words more a statement than a question.

  Jack squirmed under his censorious gaze and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Whatever the mother’s sins, you will not hold the child responsible,” the vicar said with a fearsome scowl that made Jack feel like an ill-mannered child.

  Puffing out his chest, he rose to his full six foot five inch height. “I will do my duty by the boy.”

  “You will do more than just your duty,” the little man said with an irritated huff. Then he turned on his heels and marched back into the cottage.

  With a resolved sigh, Jack turned to follow, but Quentin placed a hand on his arm and stopped him. “Maybe I should wait in the coach.”

  “Abandoning ship at the first sign of a storm?”

  “Hell, the storm is blowing into a gale, and you are foundering on the rocks. I have no intention of going down with you.”

  “There is courage and loyalty for you,” Jack said dryly. “When your captain needs you the most, you scurry away with the rats.”

  “I will be with you in spirit,” Quentin replied with a smooth smile. “But I do not think you need an audience for what lies ahead.”

  He nodded toward the door, and Jack glanced over his shoulder. Both the vicar and the nun stood in the doorway. The vicar looked worried, but the nun looked positively scary. The scowl on her face was enough to make the most hardened sinner repent.

  “Well?” she snapped. “Don’t just stand there. Come in and meet your son.”

  “Captain,” Quentin said as Jack turned to go inside. “After you see the baby, we will get rip-roaring drunk to celebrate your nuptials. We should celebrate, and there is no law that says we cannot do so at the nearest tavern.”

  “Perfect.” Stiffening his spine and trying to bolster his optimism about the future facing him, Jack followed the vicar into the tiny cottag
e.

  Once inside, the nun moved in front of him, barring his entrance into the bedroom.

  “I am warning you now; you had best treat that babe with the proper care. Whatever you think of his mother, the child is not at fault. I expect you to raise him as if he were your own flesh and blood, and—” Her voice cracked and tears glistened in her eyes. She swallowed hard and met his gaze. “I expect you to keep him safe. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do.” Jack dipped his head, feeling properly chastised. He would do right by the boy, unlike his own father who had treated his son like an unwanted bastard despite the truth. But history need not repeat itself. Whatever his feelings toward his new wife, Jack vowed to be the kind of father Uncle William had been to him.

  “Then we should not have a problem.” The nun stepped aside so Jack could enter the dimly lit room.

  “My lord.” The midwife rose from a small bedside chair and held a finger to her lips. “Mother and child are sleeping. The babe is well, but it took some time to stop the bleeding once he arrived, and his mother is quite weak. So, keep that in mind.”

  Jack nodded as the woman brushed by him and closed the door on her way out. Feeling rather awkward and unsettled, he approached the bed where Abby lay propped on pillows. Her ash blonde hair fanned out around her head like a halo and dark, spiky lashes brushed high, noble cheeks creating an angelic picture so pure it was hard to imagine she had very nearly given birth to a bastard.

  He eased down onto a bedside chair, his heart in his throat as he peeked at the tiny, blanketed bundle she held close to her chest. The boy was only half the size of Captain Whiskers, the feisty tomcat and champion mouser who lived aboard the Lion’s Pride. The bundle squirmed. Jack leaned closer.

  A thatch of blond, downy hair covered a tiny skull. Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Dark hair would have made it impossible for him to claim the boy as his own. But what color were the child’s eyes? He raised a corner of the blanket. The boy had round cherub-like cheeks and eyes as dark blue as the deepest ocean.

  Were all babies’ eyes that color at birth? Or were those the eyes of the child’s real father?

  A tiny fist wiggled out from under the blanket and into his mouth. Instead of sucking his thumb, the babe latched onto the side of his wrist. Seemingly content, he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

  Ignoring the warmth seeping into his chest, Jack tucked the blanket under the child’s chin and settled back in the chair. The womanly body on the bed stirred. Then she opened eyes as clear and bright as the Caribbean sky.

  “You are still here,” she said softly, painting the perfect picture of Madonna and child as her hand brushed the soft head beneath the blanket she held so sweetly.

  Her tenderness unsettled him, and his words came out gruffer than he intended. “Where else would I be?”

  She shrugged, the rough brown robe slipping to reveal one slender white shoulder. The sloping curve of flesh and the soft spot between collarbone and throat, that tender patch of skin so sensual and sweet against a man’s lips, drew his attention. He jerked his eyes away from that corporeal display of beauty and met her gaze.

  She regarded him with staid composure. “Surely, you have someplace more important to be.”

  He laughed, the sound bitter even to himself. “More important than by my wife’s side?”

  Chapter Seven

  Abby stared at the formidable captain, her heart pounding so hard against her ribs she could scarcely catch her breath. Dear God it is true. She had married a stranger—a tall, blond rock of a man large enough to hold her son’s head in the palm of his hand. Instinctively, her arms tightened around the precious bundle she held against her chest.

  “I do not recall agreeing to marry you.” She barely remembered him asking. From the time she had gone into labor in the coach until this very moment was a blur. Distorted words and images filled her head like the remnants of a bad dream. She felt fuzzy and disoriented, and her head was pounding. Was childbirth always so mentally exhausting?

  The captain’s already stony features hardened, his brown eyes turning cold enough to chill her blood. Did he have a violent nature to match his fierce countenance? Was he a man as prone to changing moods as Lord Drury?

  How will I protect my child against such a man? She shivered, pulling her baby closer. Her son whimpered softly. She loosened her grip and patted his bottom. The captain leaned forward in his chair.

  “The vicar asked if you would take me to be your wedded husband. You said yes.” He ground his teeth as he spoke, and a muscle jumped beneath his ear. Yet despite his harsh features and formidable scowl, there was something vulnerable in his eyes.

  “I was responding to something you said,” she whispered past a suddenly dry throat. Why could she not remember more clearly? Why did everything seem so fuzzy?

  “The ceremony was legal. There will be no annulment.” He rose to his feet.

  He was incredibly tall and ruggedly handsome. The suit he wore stretched a bit too tightly across his wide chest, and his body seemed as taut as a bow, but confusion seemed to color his expression when he spoke. “I expected some measure of gratitude. After all, I gave you and your son a name.”

  Despite her pounding heart, she met his fierce gaze. “I had a name, not that it was any of your concern.”

  “It is my concern, Abby,” he growled, never raising his voice. “If the name you gave the nun was not your own, our marriage may not be legal. Do you want that?”

  With his wild mane of blond hair, her husband resembled a hungry lion. She inhaled deeply and forced herself to speak, despite her waning courage. “I do not recall asking for your help or your name. And please do not use my Christian name. We are not yet that well acquainted.”

  “And what do you want me to call you?” His words were calm but the softer he spoke, the more violent his expression. Abby had learned the hard way that a man who never raised his voice could be more dangerous than a man who shouted.

  She shivered, suddenly afraid. “I do not want you to call me anything.”

  He laughed, a harsh sound lacking humor, but instead of reacting violently, he sat back in the chair. The lines around his mouth diminished, and the next time he spoke, it was without anger. “Be that as it may, I am your husband, and I choose to call you Abby. Unless you prefer Abigail.”

  The futility of her situation enraged her, despite her exhaustion. She could not possibly stay married to this brute of a man with his unpredictable moods. She had a child to protect.

  Could she convince the vicar she had not knowingly agreed to marry the captain? Or maybe she could have the marriage annulled. If it were never consummated…

  Thinking of the marriage bed chilled her to the bone, cooling her determination. She closed her eyes and saw Simon Weston—Lord Drury’s savage face as he moved over her, nearly suffocating her with his need to sate his lust. She held her child closer. Her son. The precious baby she had delivered after the vicar had married her to a stranger.

  There was no contesting the marriage. No matter that, her husband was not her baby’s father, her son was now his child. Legally, he could throw her out and keep her son. She swallowed, coating her suddenly dry throat. “And what do you get by marrying me? I have no money and no dowry.”

  Liar! She had a dowry, but she was too ashamed to contact her father now. In any event, there was no contract drawn up between her father and her new husband portioning out what he might claim after he married her.

  Regret sat heavily on her shoulders, exhausting what few reserves she had left. What was she thinking, running away with Sister Mary Daphne to forge her own destiny when Papa had already secured her future and found a father for her child? For all she knew, Captain Jack could be a pirate who would lock her and her son in the brig until her father paid a hefty ransom.

  The captain shrugged his wide shoulders. “I get Ridge Point, my mother’s ancestral home. It was part of her dowry when she married my father. When he died,
he tried keeping it from me. I suppose it amused him to think he could dangle it just beyond my reach when he was gone. He knew I wanted that land, and he knew I was unwed. So, the twisted bastard stipulated in his will that my cousin would inherit all real property not included with the patent if I did not produce a male heir before my thirty-fifth birthday. I turn thirty-five in December.” He offered a bitter smile. “And lucky for me, you had a son.”

  “I thought you were a sea captain.” His friend had called him Jack, but he had also addressed him as captain.

  “I am Captain Jack to my crew. To my family, I am Jack Norton and now, Viscount Ardmore.”

  So, he got his precious estate, and she was stuck with a husband she did not want. Was every man but her father interested only in his own wellbeing and what he could take from those weaker than himself?

  She studied her husband’s tanned face. He was eleven years her senior, but he was still handsome despite his sun-weathered skin and harsh features. She wrinkled her brow, trying to concentrate despite the tiredness dragging at her limbs. Something else bothered her besides his odd accent.

  Realization sent a shiver down her spine. He was a peer with entailed property. He probably dined with Lord Drury at the Athenaeum club and gambled with him at White’s. What if her husband took her to London?

  Her chest burned with humiliation. How could she face Lord Drury and the rumors he no doubt would spread about her when he met Lord Ardmore’s wife?

  She straightened, her courage rising. She had never been afraid of a challenge, and she would face this one for the sake of her child. The good Lord knew her life had not always been easy, but Papa had turned things around. So, why had she wished for more?

  Wanting a titled husband seemed so self-indulgent now. Yet, there had been nothing sinister or calculating in her desires. She had just grown tired of never being an equal in the world in which she lived. Now, it seemed, she had gotten exactly what she wanted.

  Her father’s prophetic words came back to her. “Be careful with your wishes, Abby. Sometimes we get what we want only to realize it is not what we need.”