The Earl's Mistress by Liz Carlyle Read Free Book Online Page A

“What’s he going to do? Come down here and strop me?”
    “He has certainly done it before!” Anne was trembling now, her reticule clutched to her chest, her shawl straggling off her elbow. “And I would not try him, Tony! I really would not! Grandpapa might just— just— ”
    Hepplewood realized then that he had pushed her too far; that Anne was not aggravated, she was on the verge of tears. Suddenly, she flung her things to the floor and clapped her hands over her eyes.
    “No, you’re right,” she sobbed. “He w-won’t, w-will he ?”
    “Well, damn it all,” he muttered, going to her and putting his arms about her shoulders.
    “I hate you, Tony! I hate you!” Anne set her forehead to his shoulder and sniffled miserably. “Why are you always such an ass? Until you were s-seized with good looks and charm, you were so n-nice! And I l-loved you quite utterly!”
    She did cry then, sobbing into his loosely tied cravat like a little child, and clutching at both his lapels. He set a hand awkwardly between her shoulder blades and made soothing circles, his mind tallying up the clues; her old arguments dredged up anew, the irrational tears, her flowing dress—and the belly she was pressing rather high against his waistcoat.
    “Anne, my love,” he finally murmured, setting his lips to the top of her head, “are you by chance expecting again?”
    “ Y-yes !” she sobbed. “Is-is-isn’t it w-wonderful ? But Grandpapa is going to d-die, isn’t he? He will not live to see another child born, will he? He is going to die with only Harry and Bertie and Rob and Barbara and Lissie and th-the twins— !”
    It would have done no good at all to remind Anne that Lord Duncaster was one of the richest, meanest, most self-satisfied men in Christendom, and that to have lived to the great age of ninety-odd years with a more or less happy family and an entire cricket team of nieces, nephews, and great-grandchildren was far from a tragedy.
    But there was nothing else for it; she would not be reasoned with. Most of the time, Anne was the sweetest soul he knew, but she could turn into a raging lunatic during those early months of expecting.
    More worrisome still, she might not be wrong.
    About anything.
    So he made another little circle, gave her a couple of neat pats, and said, when she lifted her head to look at him, “Do you know, Anne, I think you might be right.”
    “I’m always right,” she snuffled. “Philip s-says so!”
    “I’m sure he does,” said Hepplewood, straight-faced. “Go fetch Lissie for a visit. Take her straight to your grandpapa’s, if you wish. Uncle Duncaster isn’t especially well, and it will do them both a world of good.”
    “Well, all right, then,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “Won’t you come up, too?”
    He hesitated. “I can’t, Anne,” he said. “Not for a few weeks. I have business in the country.”
    She pushed herself away from his chest. “I won’t bother to ask what sort,” she said darkly.
    “I must look in on one of my properties.” He glanced again at Louisa’s letter and felt his blood stir dangerously. “But I promise to meet you back in London, hmm ? In a month’s time, or thereabouts. That will give Lissie a long visit with you and Duncaster.”
    “And then we will talk about her future?” said Anne.
    Hepplewood gritted his teeth. He did not know, precisely, how to raise a little girl, but he damned well meant to manage. And no, he wasn’t doing an especially good job of bringing up Lissie—he did not need Anne to point that out.
    He told himself with every passing year that the next year he would snap out of this god-awful rut. But Anne, he feared, was right. Lissie was almost six, and he was out of time. His mother was dead, and the child required more than swaddling and coddling now; she required a family.
    Moreover, Anne was still looking at him expectantly.
    “And then we will talk about her future,” he managed, “if that is what you