Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

“Don’t you dare look so smug. I tell you, it is not true.”

“I am glad it’s not what I’ve done tonight that made you throw up,” he said, his smile widening. They were the first words that came to him. He was glad he had them to speak, because in truth his mind was reeling at her revelation. He had planned to confront her tonight but one more time, as a sop to his conscience, perhaps. But now, in rapid succession, he was to be a husband and a father again.

“It’s not fair,” she said more to herself than to him. “One time, one miserable time, and the result is that I cry when I don’t want to, retch in my evening gown, say things I don’t mean to say, and look sallow.” She raised angry eyes to his face. “And you have the gall to stand there laughing at me. It is not funny, damn you. God, I should love to thrash you.”

“Then do it,” he said coolly. He pulled open his evening coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat, baring his shirt to her.

She did. She slammed her fists against his belly, letting all her fury loose, until she had no more strength, and fell limply against him.

“Do you feel better now? After our child is born, I’ll let you thrash me again. You’ll doubtless be stronger then.”

“I’ll be strong again in a few minutes.”

He smiled over her head. “Everything will be all right now, Giana, I promise you.” He meant what he said. This headstrong, delightfully stubborn English girl would become his wife. He would hear her out, counter all her foolish objections, and drag her to the altar.

“Nothing will ever be right again,” she muttered. “One time. One stupid time.”

“I know,” he said. “It isn’t fair, is it? You are almost two months pregnant now. We should be married as soon as possible.”

“No,” she said, “I will not marry you.”

“When did you discover you are pregnant?”

“I’ve known for over a week.”

“Ah. Then you must have spent those seven days thinking about every possible thing you might do. Did you decide to bear a bastard? Travel to the Continent, perhaps, to have your child in hiding? Will you give your child up, or pawn him off to society as a long-lost niece or nephew?”

“I thought perhaps he or she could be my mother’s child. She is not too old to bear a child.”

“I am certain your mother would have something to say about that,” he said. “Have you told her?”

“No, not until I decide what to do.”

“The child is mine too, Giana, and you must grant half the decision to me. Do not make my child, our child a bastard. Marry me.”

“I can’t marry you. You’re an American.”

“I am not that officious, am I? Did you in your machinations even consider telling me?”

“Yes, but I quickly dismissed it.”

“Why?”

“I do not intend ever to marry.”

He was not surprised, not really. Not after what Aurora Van Cleve had told him, and what Giana had seen in Rome. He could not very well bludgeon her into accepting him. “I know that you have seen firsthand how some husbands treat their wives. But marriage need not be like that, Giana. You have but to look at your mother. Do you think the duke would ever be unfaithful to her, or abuse her trust in any way?”

“He could if he wanted to,” she said. “All the marriage contracts in the world would amount to nothing if he wished to control her and her fortune. It is the law.”

“So you are afraid of marriage, then. Are you afraid that I would lock you in a back room and gamble away your fortune, bring a string of mistresses into my house, perhaps, and parade them in front of your nose?”

“It would be your right, and your words are very telling, Mr. Saxton. It would be your house.” She straightened and rose from the bench. He let her go. There was a world-weariness in her eyes that made him want to hold her, make her forget what she had seen in Rome. “At least there are no more lies between us, Mr. Saxton. It is your child, but in my body. You are free to leave, and I want you to go. I will inform you of my plans when I have made them.”

“I believe it is not just marriage you fear, Giana,” he said, rising to tower over her. “I think you fear yourself, fear the passion you felt for me. As ill as you were that night in Folkestone, there was a part of you that wanted me, wanted to let you feel a woman’s pleasure, though you scarce understood it.”

“Your male arrogance is showing again, Mr. Saxton. I pray I shall have a daughter and not a son.”

“Prove it.”