Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady. Louise Allen

a very careful breakfast. I hope this nausea will not last much longer.’

      He did not refer to the fact that it was more than morning sickness that was distressing her so. They had no need to speak of the circumstances. ‘You have a confidante, someone with experience of being with child?’ It occurred to him that she would need one. Cousin Dorothy would be no help and Mrs Knight, his housekeeper, had her title from courtesy only. She too was a spinster.

      ‘Our laundry maid has six children,’ Arabella explained. ‘I heard all about her health throughout several pregnancies so I have some idea what to expect. But other than her, no. Papa did not encourage close friendships.’

      ‘Rest and a lack of anxiety should help.’ Elliott hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. What Arabella needed was some experienced female companionship, not an unknown husband whose knowledge of childbirth was entirely derived from the stud farm and the kennels.

      ‘A lack of anxiety?’ That expressive smile suggested that she was far from agreeing with his choice of words.

      ‘Now you know that your child will be secure,’ he temporised.

      ‘That is true.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘Elliott, are you quite sure about this? I lay awake thinking that you must be awake too. Awake and bitterly regretting what you had done.’

      ‘I thought you want what is best for your child.’

      ‘I do, but this is not your fault.’

      ‘It is, however, my responsibility.’ Damn it, he was beginning to sound like the prosy bore Rafe had accused him of becoming. ‘A gentleman does not go back on his word.’

      ‘No, Elliott. Of course not.’ Arabella seemed to withdraw into herself.

      So now he felt like a prosy bore who had kicked a kitten. He consulted his notebook. Might as well carry on behaving like a dull, domineering husband—at least that involved no messy, uncomfortable emotion.

      ‘We will call on my lawyer, Lewisham, this afternoon and he will draw up the settlement so that you and the child are protected. I will also organise your allowance and arrange to have it paid to you quarterly, if that is convenient.’

      ‘An allowance for housekeeping?’ Arabella queried. He could see her making herself pay attention and wondered if dragooning her into coming to Worcester had been a good idea. But the alternative was to leave her with Dorothy and there she would have to pretend all the time.

      ‘No, for your personal use. For gowns and whatever else you wish to spend it on. I thought fifty pounds, but you will let me know if it is not enough.’

      ‘A year?’ She was staring.

      ‘No, a quarter.’

      ‘Two hundred pounds? I can afford a maid.’ She looked more stunned than pleased. She was way out of her depth, he realised. That was another thing that had not occurred to him—he was going to have to show her how to go on at this level in Society.

      ‘I will pay for your maid, and later for the nurse and the nursery maid. And an allowance for the child. This is all for you, Arabella. We will discuss the housekeeping later, but you have Mrs Knight, who has been housekeeper for about ten years and she is very experienced. You will not have much to do in that department.’

      ‘I know all about housekeeping,’ she said with a touch of asperity. ‘This will just be a matter of scale. But what am I to spend all that money on?’ Then that unguarded smile reappeared. It was impossible not to smile back. ‘Books! I can join a subscription library and have them sent. And journals. And embroidery silks—I would like to do fine work and not just darning and knitting. And then patterns for baby clothes.’ Her hand came to rest, unconsciously, on her midriff and something twisted inside him that he could not identify. The baby was real, suddenly, not just an abstraction or a problem. Rafe’s child. Elliott felt a strange pang, almost apprehension. He shook his head to clear it.

      ‘And later you should have a dancing master. You will be called upon to dance very frequently, next Season. We will go up to London when you have recovered from the birth. Then you can have lessons, buy your ball gowns and court gown.’

      ‘Court. Balls. Oh, my.’ The smile faded. ‘Elliott, I fear I am well out of my depth.’

      ‘But I am not. I am used to the London Season, I have many friends in Town. You will soon find your feet and become an accomplished hostess.’ And by then she would not rely so much on him. Life could get back to normal. He would attend sporting events, Jackson’s Boxing Salon, his clubs. During the Season they would go to parties and to balls. And she would go shopping, make calls, look after the child. Out of Season they would pay visits and live in the country. It was all very simple. No mistresses, of course. And no flirting.

      ‘Thank you, you are very kind.’ She fell silent and he let his notebook drop on to the seat and instead studied her face.

      ‘You are quite easy to be kind to, Arabella.’ He found that was true. But what would she be like when she had recovered her confidence and found her feet? ‘Any husband would do as much.’ Husband. This time tomorrow, and we will be in church. Will I make a good husband? A good father? There was that odd pang again. ‘We are nearly there. Will you come with me to see the bishop?’

      ‘I think I should.’ She fiddled with her lank bonnet strings. ‘He is going to think me a dowdy match for a viscount.’

      ‘Would you like to buy a new bonnet first? And a new reticule? What you are wearing is perfectly acceptable, if plain.’ Actually it was downright dull, but it would not boost her confidence to have him say so. ‘But if it would make you more comfortable to have something new, we do have plenty of time. In fact, we could see to all your clothes shopping.’ He rather enjoyed shopping with women, even spoiled and petulant mistresses. This country mouse would be amusing, exposed to the modest sophistication of the county town.

      ‘Thank you.’ Arabella bit her lip, obviously not thinking about bonnets. It would be entertaining to spoil her a little, make clothes a source of pleasure for her, rather than a necessity. ‘I do not think we should mention who Papa is to the bishop, do you? I would rather he does not know where I have gone. Not yet.’

      ‘As you wish.’ She nodded and fell silent and there did not seem much more to say. He saw her wipe a tear surreptitiously from the comer of her eye. But there was a great deal to think about.

      ‘Here we are—Worcester. See, there is Fort Royal, just ahead on the right as we go down the hill.’

      Bella sat up straight and told herself to pay attention. Elliott appeared perfectly at his ease, businesslike even, with his notebook and his plans for her. The image she had begun to build of him last night, formed from the glimpses of rueful laughter, the decisive way he had dealt with her, the feeling that beneath the kindness was a man with a hint of danger about him, wavered. This was a rather solid, very responsible man. Just the sort one would wish for in a husband, she told herself.

      This was all so strange, and so dangerously comfortable—an allowance beyond her wildest dreams, a new bonnet, a comfortable carriage, talk of ball gowns and dancing lessons.

      Bella tried to look at Elliott objectively as he stared out of the window, his face a little turned from her. There was something about the way he held himself, something in the concentration with which he watched the passing scene that had her revising her opinion again. No, Elliott Calne was no stolid and indulgent benefactor, however kind and honourable he appeared.

      Seeing the set of his jaw, she thought that she would not want to cross him. There was a feeling of power and force about him that his brother had not possessed, a suppressed energy as though he was confined within the clothing and trapping of an aristocrat, but wanted to shed them, do something explosively physical. He was a man who had an aim in life, not one aimlessly filling time.

      Elliott sat back and took some papers from his pocket, bent over his notebook again and jotted what looked like calculations. Surely not her allowance still? He dropped a letter