She said, “You should take Claudia home to Braxton Hall. She ought to be seen by her physician, for one thing. But more than that, she needs comfort and guidance. The girl needs you, Spencer.”

“But …” Oh, hell. He should just say it. “But I need you. I’ve no idea what to do with her, or even how to talk to her about such a thing.”

She gave him a wry smile. “You’re a man of frightening intelligence. I have faith in you to figure it out.” She reached for the papers on the desk and furled them into a scroll, but not before he recognized them as the still-unsigned purchase agreement for Briarbank. “I’ll be taking these with me.”

He blinked furiously. “I see.”

Yes. In the light of morning, it all was too painfully clear. When her feelings for him clashed against her obligations to family … the d’Orsay pride would win out every time. She would tend to her brother’s needs before his. She wouldn’t allow her family cottage to become theirs. And by refusing to share her, Spencer had driven her away. He’d forced her to choose between her husband and her family, and now he must abide by her choice. No matter how much it hurt.

And damn, did it hurt. As he shifted his weight from one knee to the other, his ribs gave a sharp twinge.

Her gaze fell to their hands as she continued, “There is one thing more I must tell you. I suspect I, too, am with child.”

“Oh, God. Oh, Amelia.” Never had words filled him with such bright joy and such utter misery at the same time. The image of her body swelled with his child, the thought of cradling their infant in his arms … it was like a small star had burned through the atmosphere and blazed a trail straight for his heart. He wanted a family with her as he’d never wanted anything in his life, and nothing should have made him happier than this news. But at the same time, his own arrogant words came back to haunt him. I give you security; you give me an heir. She was leaving him this morning, and she carried within her the perfect excuse to never come back.

Spencer said a fervent prayer to God for a girl.

“Are you well?” he asked, swallowing hard. “Is there anything you—”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, smiling a little at her belly. “Very fit indeed. D’Orsay women are built for breeding, you know. Sturdy.”

Before he could grasp a few of the thousand adjectives that described her with far greater justice than “sturdy,” her gaze slanted away.

“You never finished your game,” she said.

He followed her gaze to the desktop. Atop the blotter, their cards and wagers lay untouched, frozen in time. In the center were his note for twenty thousand pounds and two of the Stud Club tokens: Rhys’s and Leo’s. Bellamy had never laid his token down, and Spencer never had the opportunity to fetch the remaining seven from upstairs.

Not that it mattered anymore.

He rose to his feet slowly, feeling aches in muscles he hadn’t known he’d strained. He suspected his injuries would take turns announcing their presence over the course of the next few days. As he took a step, pain shot through his ribs, and he grimaced, leaning one hand on the desk for support.

“God’s mercy, Spencer.” She was at his side. “What’s happened to you?”

With morning light filtering into the room, she was no doubt noting the abrasions on his skin, the gore spattering his boots, the shredded cuff of his sleeve.

“Took a fall,” he said, drawing a painful breath. “I’ve broken a rib or two, I think.”

“I’ll send for the doctor immediately. Are you cut somewhere? There’s so much blood …”

“It’s not mine.”

She didn’t ask for an explanation. Unfortunately. He could have deflected a question, but this damn endearing patient silence thing she always did … he had no defense to that.

“I was on Juno,” he said quickly, wanting to have it out and over with. “On the way back from Lydney she stepped in a hole and fell. Threw me clear of her, fortunately. I could have been banged up far worse. But her leg was broken, in more than one place. She was in a great deal of pain. No way to get her back here for treatment, and even if there was, she’d have been completely lamed, so …”

“Oh, no.” Her voice broke. “You had to shoot her.”

His eyes burned as he confirmed her suspicions with a nod.

“Spencer.” Wiping her eyes with her hand, she surveyed his torso. “Will I hurt you terribly if I give you a hug?”

“Probably,” he said. “But I’ll take it anyway.”

She moved toward him gingerly and slid her arms beneath his coat, around his waist. And then, with agonizing slowness, she brought her body flush with his and buried her face in his shoulder. It still wasn’t enough. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and crushed her tight to his chest. And yes, it hurt like the devil—but not nearly as much as it was going to hurt when he inevitably had to let her go.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, weeping against his soiled coat. “I’m so terribly sorry, for Jack, Claudia, Juno, everything. I wish things were different.”

“So do I.”

Sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with her wrist, she pulled away. “I’d best go dress and pack my things.”

“Wait.” He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out to her, knowing she’d recognize it even without opening it to view the stitching. If she was truly leaving him, he ought to give it back. Somehow he mustered the ghost of an irreverent grin. “Can’t a duchess afford handkerchiefs?”

Wordlessly, she took it. Stared at it a moment. And then she left.

He stood there for a while, exhausted and in too much pain to move. It might have been a short while or a long while—he really didn’t know. He likely would have still been standing there at midday, had Ashworth not rapped on the door.

“I hope they’re here,” he said, “because they’re nowhere between Colford and Gloucester.”

“She’s here,” Spencer replied. “He’s gone.”

Ashworth grunted. “As it should be, then.” His eyes narrowed as he took in Spencer’s gory boots. “Now, when you say ‘gone,’ do you mean …”

“No.”

“Not that I’d blame you.”

“It’s not his,” he said, indicating the blood spattering his boots. “My mare took a bad fall. Had to …” He swore, glancing at the waxing trapezoid of sunlight shining through the window. “I have to get out there and bury her.”

“I’ll go with you,” Ashworth said. “I’ve dug a grave or two in my time.”

“No, no.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve been out all night already. I can’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t ask. I offered. And I’ve worked through a night or two in my time, as well.” He kicked his boot against the doorjamb. “It’s no more than any friend would do.”

“Are we friends?”

“We’re not enemies.”

“In that case …” Spencer sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’d be grateful for the help.” He gestured toward the desktop and the aborted card game. “Don’t neglect to take your winnings.”

The soldier’s brow furrowed. “We were interrupted. I don’t recall anyone winning.”

“I left the game first. Anything on the table is my forfeit. Technically, Bellamy never placed a bet. Besides, my cards were rubbish. I would have lost anyway.” He shook his head. “I wanted to end this joke of a club once and for all, but it seems Harcliffe isn’t through poking fun at us yet.”

“You think Bellamy will find the man responsible for his death?”

“I think he finds him every time he looks in a mirror. That’s the damn problem.” Spencer took the note and two tokens and held them out. “Just take them, Rhys. Aren’t you the great believer in fate? Perhaps it was meant to be.”

They took their time returning to Braxton Hall, traveling at a slow pace out of consideration for Claudia’s stomach and Spencer’s healing ribs. He rode with her in the coach. It seemed right to keep her company, and he needn’t worry about giving Juno exercise anymore.

God. There’d been so much lost in the past week, he didn’t know where to begin grieving. Juno, his marriage, Claudia’s innocence—all were casualties. The fault was shared among many, but he blamed only himself. Amelia had been right. If he’d only been more open with those around him, all of it might have been avoided.

Still, he didn’t know how to begin fresh. He and Claudia traveled the entire journey in silence, save for the most banal of discussions. Which inn to choose for their stopover; whether the weather would hold fair. He didn’t want to press his ward to talk until she was ready. They had months yet. Ample time to discuss.

They reached home on the fourth day, rather late. But the days were still long in summer, and an extended gray-gold twilight stubbornly held the night at bay. While the servants brought in the trunks and prepared their rooms, Spencer ordered a light supper brought to his library and invited Claudia to join him.

To his surprise, she agreed.

They shared a tray of sandwiches, and then he watched her eat tarts and sip chocolate. When the hour grew late enough that their rooms ought to have been readied for bed, she addressed him.

“Would you read to me? Like you used to do when I was a girl?” She gave her cooling chocolate a deep, searching look. “I … I rather miss it.”

He cleared his throat. “Of course. Have you any particular book in mind?”

“No. You choose.”

He chose Shakespeare—the comedies, naturally. God knew they’d seen enough tragedy of late.

Leafing through the volume, he located Act I of The Tempest and began to read. Claudia curled her legs under her skirt and rested her head on the arm of the divan, closing her eyes. He couldn’t tell whether she was still listening or had fallen asleep, so he just kept reading, for himself. It had been too long since he’d read through Shakespeare. The plays only made sense to him when read aloud, and it felt deuced awkward to sit around by oneself, reading to the candlewick.

He read clear through to the end that night, then drew a blanket over Claudia’s sleeping form and left her to rest undisturbed. The next evening after dinner, he read through three acts of A Midsummer Night’s Dream before her light snoring intervened. They finished the play the next night, and then she asked for an old favorite: Johnson’s Rasselas. He remembered how, as a girl, Claudia had enjoyed the story of the fabled Abyssinian prince traveling the world in search of contentment. It was the adventure that held her attention then—the princesses and pyramids. Spencer wondered if she remembered that in the end, the prince never found the happiness he sought.

As he paused to sip his brandy and turn a page, Claudia suddenly sat up on the divan. “What will become of me?”

At last, here they came to it. Feeling both grateful and apprehensive, he laid aside the book. “There are a few alternatives.”

“What are they?”

“As I see them, they are three. If you wish to be married, I could find a man to marry you. A good man of limited means, who will benefit from the connection. He must agree to raise the child as his own and delay any further”—he shifted in his chair—“childbearing until you are ready.”

She studied her palm. “I don’t particularly like that alternative.”

Thank God. Neither did he.

“If you wish to preserve your reputation,” he continued, “you can give birth in secret. The child would be fostered with a local family, and you would be free to have your debut season, be courted by suitors, and marry where you liked. Perhaps you might see the child on occasion, but you would never be able to acknowledge him as your own.”