Devil's Embrace (Devil 1)

“Would you like to catch some trout for our dinner?”

The thought of fish turned her stomach. “No, I think not, my lord.”

As he gazed at her overlong, she said quickly, “If you would know the truth, I think I am becoming ill, perhaps the influenza. It must be the change in the weather.”

“No, cara, I do not believe that the weather has anything to do with how you are feeling.”

“Then perhaps,” she said sharply, “it has to do with being forced to spend too much time in your company.”

“Now that, my dear, is a distinct possibility.” His dark eyes gleamed. She cocked her head at him, warily.

“I do not feel like arguing with you this morning, my lord. Now, if you will excuse me—”

“What an admission, cara. I begin to think you quite unwell indeed if you do not wish to fight with me.”

“I would that you cease being a bore, my lord, and leave me in peace.” She turned on her heel and would have left him, but his hand closed about her arm. She thought for once that if he wanted to make love to her, she would not be tempted. She felt too miserable.

“How long has it been since you have worn a nightgown, Cassandra?”

“A nightgown?” She was bewildered by the odd question and the gentle tone of his voice.

“A nightgown,” he said again.

She shrugged. “Whatever does my wearing a nightgown have to do with anything?”

“My dear Cassandra, must you always forget that you are a woman?”

Suddenly, she felt herself go pale. She had not worn her nightgown for at least six weeks, since they had been aboard the yacht.

“That’s right,” he said, his eyes glistening with pleasure. “You are not the victim of an illness, Cassandra. Do you not realize what it means that you have not worn your nightgown since we have arrived in Genoa?”

Her mouth went suddenly dry and she shook her head wildly back and forth. “No,” she said, “it cannot be true. No.” But deep inside her, she knew it was.

“You carry my child, cara, our child.”

She stared at him dumbly, so overcome that she could find no words. She was to have borne Edward’s children, in England, not the earl’s. She was to have been his wife. She heard herself say quite calmly, “You have known long that I am pregnant?”

“For a little more than a week.”

“And why did you not tell me?”

“I had hoped you would discover it for yourself and tell me.”

“You have planned this to happen, haven’t you?”

“I have not the power of nature, Cassandra. Of course I could not plan such a thing.”

“Bastard.” She turned blindly and stumbled down the path away from him.

Her foot caught on a knobby growth at the base of a tree trunk, and she went sprawling to her knees. Nauseating bile rose in her throat. She felt the earl’s hands on her shoulders, holding her firmly, his fingers pulling her hair from her face. Her body heaved in dry convulsions, leaving her so weak that she did not struggle when the earl lifted her into his arms. He set her down by the fountain.

“Wash out your mouth, Cassandra, it will make you feel better.”

Numbly, she did as she was told. But no sooner had she spit out the water than the wretched nausea returned. She moaned and wrapped her arms about her stomach.

“I think you need some time in bed, little one, and perhaps a touch of brandy to calm you. In a few weeks’ time, you will feel much better.”

“You seem to be quite the expert, my lord.”