Prologue

Waterside, Kent—June 1810

M alcolm Ware, Duke of Waterbury, rose, not having gotten much sleep, thanks to his wife's caterwauling while having her babe. He hadn't realized it took so long to produce a child. Mama had Ada while he was away at school, or else he might have had an idea about the length of the birth process.

He rang for his valet, and Barker appeared with hot water, shaving Malcolm and helping him to dress. As he opened his door to go down to breakfast, he paused in the corridor and listened a moment.

Silence.

Perhaps Imogen had finally had the babe. Malcolm hoped it was a boy because he wanted to get his heir and spare off his wife as quickly as possible. His father had not even wed until his mid-thirties, and Malcolm had wondered if his father's advanced age had anything to do with the trouble Mama had birthing children. He had come along quickly enough after their marriage, but a decade stood between him and Ada, his younger sister. That was why he had wed Imogen as early as he had. The sooner he could get sons from her, the better.

The door opened to the duchess' rooms, and a woman stepped out. For a moment, before she closed the door, he caught sight of Imogen in her bed, the sheets tangled and bloody. Malcolm recoiled seeing the glimpse of his exhausted wife.

"Ah, Your Grace," said the woman, stepping toward him, tears swimming in her eyes. "I am Her Grace's midwife."

"How is her labor progressing?" he asked, frightened to hear the answer.

Wearily, the woman shook her head. "Not well, I am afraid. The poor thing has screamed and cried herself hoarse—and still the babe has not come." The midwife paused. "It is because it is a breech birth, Your Grace."

She looked at him as if he was supposed to know what she meant. "Does that make it... difficult?"

"Almost impossible," the midwife admitted. "You see, a babe is meant to come out head-first. Most all of them turn in the womb when it is time, and that is how they exit the birth canal. Your child... well, its feet are now first."

Tears began to flow down her cheeks. "One foot has appeared. The babe is stuck. I did my best to turn it before that happened. That is why Her Grace was in so much pain."

"What are you saying?" Malcolm asked, cold fear pooling in his belly.

"I cannot push the babe back, Your Grace," the woman explained wearily. "Most likely, the babe has already suffocated." She shook her head sadly. "And Her Grace will soon be gone. I came to look for you. So that you might tell her goodbye."

He heard the words and yet could make no sense of them.

"She is only turned nine and ten," he said, as if her youth protected her from such things.

"I am sorry, Your Grace. Please. Go to her. Offer what comfort you can," begged the woman.

Though it was the last thing Malcolm wanted to do, he nodded in agreement, following the midwife as she returned to the door and opened it.

Malcolm eased inside, treading lightly as he moved toward the bed. Imogen looked completely worn out, so small and frail. Her hair was damp with sweat and matted terribly. A sour smell lingered in the air. For the moment, her eyes were closed, and he looked at her as if looking at a stranger. That's how he truly saw her.

Imogen had made her come-out last Season, when he had decided it was time to take a bride. She was quiet, elegant, and incredibly boring. His duchess was also thick as two short planks, having no conversation. She was like a pretty flower, opening to her peak at the Season, and then withering and dying once they had wed. Malcolm had avoided her as much as possible after the first month of marriage because he had gotten her with child. Imogen had been sick the entire time, vomiting with great regularity, keeping mostly to her rooms.

He had spoken to the village doctor about it, learning that while most women experienced some degree of nausea, it usually subsided after a few months. In rare cases, a woman might be ill throughout the time of her increasing.

That had been Imogen.

Looking at her, so tiny and exhausted, he could not recall the last time they had even spoken. And now, they never would after the conversation they would now hold.

She must have sensed his presence because she opened her eyes. Pity moved him, and Malcolm removed his handkerchief, dabbing the tears from her pale cheeks.

"How are you?" he asked, immediately wishing he could withdraw the question.

"Not well, Your Grace," she responded, pain in her eyes. "I am sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Imogen," he said softly, taking her hand for the first time in months. Had he even held it any time after their marriage ceremony?

He couldn't recall doing so—and guilt filled him.

Brushing her hair from her brow, he forced a smile. "Trust in your midwife. You will be fine."

"You think so?" she asked hopefully.

Malcolm hadn't the heart to tell her the truth. "Of course, my lady. Close your eyes now and get some rest. Your babe will be here soon enough."

His duchess did as directed, having faith in him.

Turning to the midwife, he asked her a silent question, wanting to know how much longer his young wife had. No words passed between them as she shrugged.

He could do nothing further and decided to leave the room. As he did, he glanced over his shoulder, seeing the midwife had raised the sheet covering Imogen's body. A tiny foot protruded from her body.

His child's foot . . .

Yet Malcolm felt no connection to it or the mother. He blamed his father for that. The previous duke had been cold and distant, rarely engaging with his family. Once, when Malcolm had been feeling especially brave, he asked his father why the duke never bothered talking to him. His father had seemed stumped by the question and had impatiently flicked his wrist, indicating for his son to leave with receiving an answer.

He went downstairs, forcing one foot in front of the other, knowing he had no appetite. It would be important to prepare his family for the events which would soon come.

Mama and Ada were already at breakfast. Both looked up expectantly. Seeing his face, his mother's mouth tightened. His sister bit her lip, looking distressed.

Looking to Calley, Malcolm said, "Clear the room."

The butler did not have to utter a word as the footmen on duty quickly exited. Calley followed them out, shooting a sympathetic look at Malcolm before closing the door.

Taking a seat, he said, "Imogen and the babe will not make it. The midwife said the babe is breech."

Mama sucked in a quick breath. "Oh, no!"

"That is bad?" his sister asked. "They will die?"

"Yes."

"But surely she can—"

"No," he replied, cutting Ada off. "There is nothing to be done. Most likely, the babe has already died. That is what Imogen is doing now."

Ada began weeping softly. She pulled her napkin from her lap and buried her face in it.

Mama's gaze met his. "This is my fault."

He frowned. "How so?"

"She was too small for birthing babes," Mama said dismissively. "I let my head be turned by her beauty and family's name. The next time we will—"

"The next time?" he asked, his tone low and deadly. "My first wife has yet to expire, and you are already planning for a new one to take her place?"

Mama glared daggers at him. "It is not as if you are attached to the girl, Waterbury. I cannot recall the last time I have even seen the two of you together. Yes, she was beautiful but lacked for conversation. You need someone more lively. I will find you a better bride next Season."

Malcolm couldn't begin to think of attending the whirl of social events. He had been grateful of his babe's upcoming birth conflicting with the Season, giving him an excuse to remain in the country.

"I will find my own bride, Mama. In my own time," he said, his tone brokering no questions. "Make yourself useful and plan Imogen's funeral."

Ada burst into tears. "I never thought you cruel, Waterbury, but that is a horrible thing to say."

"Life is not always easy," he told his sister. "Death is a part of it."

He pushed to his feet and exited the breakfast room, finding the footmen waiting outside. He gestured for them to return to their posts, as Calley approached him.

"Your Grace, I just received word that Her Grace passed while delivering her child," the butler said solemnly. "The babe is also gone."

"Thank you," he said brusquely. "Send for the clergyman. He can meet with the dowager duchess and discuss the service to be held."

"I shall have the staff wear mourning bands," Calley said.

Malcolm recalled the black bands worn about the servants' upper arms after the death of his father.

"Yes, see to it. Inform Cook that mourners will be returning to Waterside after the burial. She will know what to do."

"Yes, Your Grace."

He walked woodenly to his study, locking himself in. Seating himself behind the desk, he wondered what was wrong with him. Surely, this feeling of detachment was wrong. He had just lost his wife and child.

And felt nothing.

He cursed softly. His father had been an unfeeling man, remote, withdrawn from his family, even aloof with his friends. Malcolm was repeating those same mistakes. He had wed Imogen because his mother had told him she would make for an excellent duchess with her looks and breeding. Instead, he had gotten her with child and Imogen had retreated even further within herself as she spent the majority of her time in the duchess' rooms. Malcolm had gone days—even weeks—without thinking of her or remembering that he was married.

Now, he was a widower at six and twenty.

He knew he would shed no tears for his wife and child. It struck him he did not know what gender the babe had been. He sat for hours, his thoughts drifting, knowing he was unhappy and yet not having a clue what might make him so.

When he finally emerged, Calley informed him that his mother had asked to see him. He found Mama in her sitting room, as dry-eyed as he was.

"Sit, Waterbury," she said, so he did so.

"I have met with the clergyman and Cook. The service for Her Grace will be held tomorrow afternoon, with mourners being allowed to call upon us after the burial."

"Thank you for handling the matter," he told her.

She sniffed. "It was the least I could do. I know her death has not truly affected you, but it has your sister. She spent hours each day with Her Grace. Reading to her. Talking. Doing her hair."

"I was not aware of that," he admitted.

She studied him a moment. Malcolm refused to flinch under her scrutiny.

"You were not aware of a great many things regarding your wife," Mama said bluntly. "Not that it would have prevented her tragic death and that of her child. In that regard, you remind me of your father."

"I am not Father," he quickly protested, ignoring the truth.

"Not yet. But you are growing wintry and distant as he was. Oh, I am not saying you must make a love match the next time around, but it would not hurt to take some interest in your next wife, Waterbury."

"That will be a while," he told her. "But I am not like him."

Yet Malcolm knew his denial rang hollow, like the Apostle Peter denying the Christ three times before the cock crowed.

Her mouth trembled. "I hope that is not the case. While I always knew a typical ton marriage meant a couple usually going their own ways, your father took it to the extreme. Each time I lost a child, I thought perhaps this would be the time he offered comfort to me." She paused. "He never did."

"Each time?" Malcolm asked. "What do you mean?"

She shook her head, impatience in her tone as she said, "You are oblivious to anything that does not revolve around you, Waterbury. In that respect, you are exactly like him. Surely, you do not believe that when Ada arrived, it was the first time I had been with child since you?"

"Actually, I did," he said. "How would I know differently?"

Her mouth thinned. "I suppose you are right. Suffice it to say there were several babes. None of them survived. Some, I lost after only a few months. Twice, I gave birth to stillborn ones."

"I . . . never knew," he said, feeling terrible.

"I tried my bloody best to give that man another son," Mama said bitterly. "Over and over, I allowed him to come to my bed. To touch me. To give me hope when he planted his seed. And time and again, I was sorely disappointed." She swallowed. "After Ada came, the doctor said there could be no more attempts."

Malcolm took her hand. "I wish I had known, Mama. That must have been lonely for you."

"As lonely as it was for that poor girl you wed," she snapped, yanking her hand from his. "She was as abandoned as I was. I am sorry she did not challenge you enough, Waterbury. Try harder with the next one. At least share tea with her. Or dinner. Attempt to see her some each day. It is not much to ask."

Guilt weighed heavily in him now. He had spent far too little time with Imogen. No wonder he felt so disconnected to her death and that of their child's. Their child. A babe which the two of them had created. He had forgotten about both mother and child for most of the time Imogen had lived at Waterside.

He could not do the same the next time around.

Malcolm vowed to be a better man—a better husband—when he finally did decide to take another wife.

"Excuse me," he said, leaving his mother and heading to the duchess' rooms.

The midwife was long gone. The bloody sheets, as well. The bed had been made up with fresh linens. A lone maid was tidying the place.

"Where is Her Grace and the babe?" he asked.

The maid looked at him nervously. "We washed them and dressed them, Your Grace. They are in the library now. Mr. Calley had them taken there."

"Thank you."

He passed through the hallways, heading straight for the library before he lost the courage to do so. Opening the door, he saw a footman standing nearby, while his sister sat next to a long table in the center of the room. Imogen was laid out on the table.

"Wait outside," he ordered the footman, who exited, closing the door behind him.

Crossing the room, he placed a hand on Ada's shoulder. "You are sitting vigil?"

She nodded. "I was too young to do so when Papa passed. It is the least I can do for Imogen."

"Mama tells me you spent quite a bit of time with the duchess."

"I did. She was not very bright, Waterbury, but she was sweet." Ada's lips trembled. "She was also frightened about giving birth. Since her mother died when Imogen was twelve, she had known nothing about her wedding night or how a babe was made or born."

Ada brushed tears from her cheeks with her fingers. "She was afraid of you. She said you hurt her that first time you came to her."

Regret filled him. "I did not know she had no knowledge, Ada. Yes, the first time a man and woman come together, it does hurt the woman. Not for long and only the one time, but I wish I had known. I tried to be as gentle as possible with her."

His sister nodded. "She said you did. That you talked to her and tried to help her relax. But she did not like what you did to her, Waterbury. It makes me afraid of what is to come when I wed."

He pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms about her. "You are but ten and six, Ada. You have a couple of more years before you make your come-out. Everything will be fine. I promise."

Gently, he stroked her hair as she wept.

"Will Mama tell me more about what happens?" she asked.

"If she does not, then I shall tell you what you need to know myself."

"Thank you," she said meekly.

Malcolm released her, retrieving another chair and placing it beside Ada's.

"We will sit vigil together," he told her.

"All night?" she asked.

"If that is what you wish."

Ada took her seat again, while Malcolm went to view his wife and child. Imogen looked as if she slept. The babe was nestled against her, Imogen's arm about it.

"Do you know if it was a boy or girl?" he asked.

"A girl," she replied. "She does not have a name, though, Waterbury. And she should have one."

"I agree."

Malcolm leaned down and kissed the babe's brow. He placed his hand on her head.

"You are Eunice," he said. "That was your grandmother's name. Your mother missed her own mother a great deal. I think calling you Eunice would have pleased her very much."

He went to the chair and sat, taking Ada's hand in his.

His heart might be one of stone, but he did care for his sister's feelings. She had lost a sister-in-law and friend, and he wanted to bring comfort to her.

"Thank you, Malcolm," she said, calling him by his given name for the first time since he had taken the title five years ago.

"You are welcome."

The next day, he watched as the coffin was sealed and taken to the Ware crypt. He would not come and visit this wife and child of his. They were his past.

Instead, Malcolm would look to his future—and hope he could become a better duke and better man than his father.