A Christmas BrideChristmas Beau by Mary Balogh

Author:Mary Balogh [Balogh, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Fiction, Romance, Historical, Regency
ISBN: 044024546X
Publisher: Dell
Published: 2012-11-27T00:00:00+00:00

Epilogue

CORA HAD COME HURTLING DOWN TO THE DRAWING room of the Bristol house, in her usual undignified manner. But she had said only that all was well and that Edgar must go up immediately. When Francis had raised his eyebrows in expectation of more information and Mr. Downes had openly asked for it, she had smiled dazzlingly and asked her brother if he was about to faint.

He had stridden from the room without further ado and taken the stairs to the bedchamber two at a time—even though there was a strange buzzing in his head and the air in his nostrils felt cold.

All is well, Cora had said.

His father’s new wife came bustling toward him when he opened the bedchamber door, the doctor at her heels, bag in hand. Letty beamed at him and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek; the doctor bowed and made his exit with her.

Edgar was left alone. Though not quite alone. Helena was lying on the bed, pale and silent, her eyes closed. Beyond her was a small bundle that had him swallowing convulsively. It was moving and making soft fussing noises. But it was not his main concern. She looked too still and too pale for all to be well—and she had labored for all of fourteen hours. He took a few fearful steps toward the bed. Was it possible that she was …

“Damn you, Edgar,” she said without opening her eyes. Her voice sounded strangely normal. “If I had known—though I might have guessed, of course—that you would beget such large children, I would not in a million years have seduced you.”

He could feel no amusement. Only relief—and guilt. It had been unbearably hard to pace downstairs, his father and Francis in tow, for fourteen hours. What must it have been like …

“You had a hard time,” he told her just as if she did not know it for herself. “I am so sorry, Helena. I wish I could have suffered the pain for you.”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “He well nigh tore me apart,” she told him.

He winced even as one of her words caught him like a blow low in his stomach. “He?” He swallowed again. “We have a son, Helena?” Not that the gender mattered. He had rather hoped for a daughter. What he really meant was—we have a child, Helena? Fruit of his body and hers? Product of their love? Their very own baby? The miracle of it all left him feeling paralyzed.

“Are you pleased that I have done my duty like a good wife?” she asked him. “I have presented you with an heir for the Downes fortune.”

“To hell with the Downes fortune,” he said, forgetting himself in the emotion of the moment. “We have a child, my love. A baby.”

She smiled fleetingly. He could see that she was desperate with weariness.

“Meet your son,” she said, and she turned to draw back the blanket from the moving bundle. A red, wrinkled, ugly little face, its eyes gazing vacantly about it, was revealed to his view—for a moment.

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