The Valentine Legacy (Legacy 3)

“Actually,” Dr. Hoolahan said as he cleaned the baby and wrapped him in a soft towel, “I was thinking he sounded just like James’s mother.”

Both new parents groaned.

An hour later, Jessie was cleaned up, dressed in a fresh white nightgown, her hair brushed and braided. The baby was asleep in the cradle next to the bed. She watched James stare down at their tiny precious son, then lean down and lightly kiss his forehead. He then turned to her, smiling widely. “You did it. In twenty minutes flat. For a while there I thought Dancy was going to cry, then when I reminded him that he’d just been present at a new record, he did brighten up a bit. He asked me when you were feeling a bit stronger to give his request some more thought. I fear he’s serious. He would delight in presenting you to his colleagues.” James laughed as he shook his head. “I told him to go get drunk on his success.” He bent over and kissed her mouth. She was still too pale for his liking. He sat beside her, took her hand between his, and said, “I did mean to say this sooner, Jessie: I love you.”

“I’m sore,” she said, not looking at him.

“Yes, but you’ll mend. You didn’t tear, and that’s good. I’m so proud of you. And I do love you. Very much. I’ve felt love for you for a good long time now, ever since Gypsom told me that Compton Fielding had taken you. I realized then that I loved you, that I couldn’t bear it if I ever lost you.”

“You’re saying that because I just gave you a son. Every man wants a son no matter what he says to the contrary. It’s brought forth all sorts of grateful feelings in you.”

“Where did you get that bit of errant wisdom?”

She had the grace to flush. She still wouldn’t look at him. “From your mama.”

He smacked his forehead. “I love you. I love our son. I would have loved our daughter equally. When the hell did you ever believe anything my mother said?”

She looked thoughtful even as her hand stroked up his arm to his neck, to his cheek, where at last her fingers caressed him.

“That was the first and last time. I swear it.”

“See that it is.”

“He looks exactly like his father,” Mrs. Wilhelmina Wyndham announced to the parlor at large, as she looked down at her week-old grandson. “A chin as beautiful as Apollo’s.”

“I think he looks like my little Jessie,” said Portia Warfield. “Just look at those green eyes and that sweet little dimple. Jessie had a dimple just exactly like that one, but she lost it when she was no more than five.”

“You don’t lose a dimple, Portia,” Wilhelmina said, her disgust evident. “She never had a dimple. It’s my James who has the dimple. About her eyes. Eyes always change color, but not with this darling child. He will have green eyes, just like James, whose green eyes are a richer and deeper green than Jessie’s are. Yes, they will be James’s eyes.”

James looked from his mother to his mother-in-law and said, “I think he looks more like Bellini, my three-year-old, when he was just foaled.” He laughed and laughed when the two grandmothers turned on him, outrage stiffening every bone that wasn’t already stiff from age in their bodies. “After all, he was all wobbly, wet, nearly bald, but he had the cutest mouth, opening all the time, showing a tongue surely the size of a hand. Just like Bellini when he was foaled.”

“James, that’s ridiculous,” said his mama. “You will cease such comparisons.”

“Yes, James, this is my grandson. He is surely beautiful. He is surely perfect.”

“Just wait until he begins wailing. You will run from the room covering your ears.” Jessie grinned at the people in her parlor as she walked into the room. “In fact,” she said thoughtfully, “I think he should begin to realize he’s starving any minute now.”

Everyone stared at the white bundle in James’s arms.

In one minute to the second, Taylor James Warfield Wyndham let out a yell that set the crystal trembling on the mantelpiece.

YORK, ENGLAND DECEMBER 1825

York Races—the Day Jessie Wyndham Beat Everyone

It took Jessie only a minute to realize that all the jockeys around her were protecting her from the few jockeys from other stables. At first she wanted to yell at them, curse them with every foul word she’d learned from her earliest years in the stables. Then she began laughing. Well, she thought, let them keep up. She kicked Dorsett in his sleek sides and shot forward. The wind pulled at her hair, she felt the air burning her face, she felt a thousand pounds of horse pounding beneath her. She loved it. Lord, she’d missed racing. She quickly outstripped her jockey honor guard. Then she saw one of them out of the corner of her eye. She’d known that any self-respecting jockey wouldn’t allow her to walk away with the race. But she beat him handily, laughing when Dorsett flashed across the finish line, blowing hard, head high. The other horses pulled into a circle around her, and the jockeys threw up their hats and cheered wildly. James walked toward her, looking furious.

Oh dear, was he blind? There’d been no danger, except perhaps from one of her protectors accidently running into Dorsett’s rear end, which hadn’t been at all likely. She wouldn’t have let that happen. She was by far too good a jockey.

“Madam, what the devil do you think you’re doing?” He clasped her around her waist and lifted her down. “Just look at you, your streamers are tangled and blown apart. That bloody hat—you look like a beggar. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, damn you.”

“How about giving the winner a cheer, James.”

He stared down at her, pulled a streamer from around her neck, and stepped back. “May God grant me patience,” he said, then grabbed Marcus’s hat off his head and threw it into the air, yelling, “May our son be as excellent a rider as his mother!”

“Hear, hear,” the Duchess said. “Well done, James.”

“I’ll kill her when we’re alone,” he said. “You outran your protectors. You left them to swallow your dust. You didn’t give a good damn about your own safety. You”—he stared down at her, his heart in his eyes—“you, Jessie Wyndham, were magnificent.” He then took his son, Taylor, from Spears. “What do you think?” he asked his son as he nuzzled his throat. “Do you think I should throttle your mama?”