The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(8)
“Your Grace?” Maria, his wife’s dresser, hurried toward him, eyes reddened. “Oh, sir, Madam needs you. She—”
He waved an impatient hand, cutting off her words as he strode to the main bedchamber. Bracing internally, he entered.
Something akin to a collective sigh filled the room. A half dozen people scurried around on the room’s periphery, but his vision focused only on the figure writhing on the giant bed. Horror suffused his chest, chasing away all previous emotions.
The brunette gnashed her teeth as a violent trembling shook her distended belly, almost like an invisible giant shook her. Beside her, a gray-haired man held one arm, while a couple of housemaids prevented the other from flailing. Blood stained the nightdress, stained the bed linens; too much blood it seemed from one small person.
Another low moaning sound swelled into a scream, piercing his soul.
He yanked his gaze away to focus anywhere but her face, her once adored, once so beautiful face. He focused instead on the carved bedposts twisting upward to a labyrinth of intricate cavorting gargoyle-type creatures. He’d always hated this bed.
“Is he here?” The voice, a hoarse whimper, drew his attention again, stealing past his internal barricades.
“I’m here, Pamela.”
“William?” Blue eyes he’d once described as moonlit turned to him, focused on him.
For a moment he was transported back in time, back to last summer, when she’d last looked at him with something approaching kindness in her eyes. That single night when he’d tried to convince her of his love, show her his love, had tried to put aside his wretchedness in a final desperate attempt for an heir. Back before she’d taken up with Lord Wrotham again.
His heart hardened. “What is it?”
She whimpered, her face tensing, squinting, lines of pain furrowing her forehead as her back arched once more. “Oh, dear God!”
Her desperation seized him, stirring long-depleted compassion. From somewhere deep within he found the rest of the prayer. Lord, help her, heal her.
She gasped, eyes closed, the pains finally releasing their hold, as the accoucheur looked up at him, beetling gray brows pushed together.
“The child?”
“We … cannot get it out,” Dr. Metcalfe said in a low voice.
“But surely …” He gestured helplessly to the bloodstained medical instruments. “Perhaps someone else?”
“There’s no time, sir.” Maria gazed up from her mistress, eyes filled with accusation.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
The finality of those words pummeled within. No. Lord, no! If only his resentment had not precluded his appearance sooner. If only he—if only she …
“William, please.” Pamela’s hand strained toward him. “Please believe I am sor—” Her words ended in a scream, before she slumped back motionless.
He staggered back from the bed, out of the way of the rush of women.
No! It couldn’t end like this. God!
Horror crawled across his soul as the limbs refused motion, as Metcalfe received no response to his frantic pleas.
Lord God!
“She’s gone.”
“No!” A terrible wailing sound emanated from the far side of the bed. “Not my lovely!”
The screams, the sobbing, the frantic ministrations of the doctor seemed to fade as weight clanged against his chest like Westminster’s bells. Nausea heaved within. Emotion lined his eyes, clamped his throat. No …
“You! You did this to her!” Maria staggered to her feet, finger outstretched in accusation. “I will never forgive you for what you have done!” She spat.
He dodged, though not quickly enough, as some of her spittle landed on his coat. She lifted a hand as if to strike him, so he grabbed her arm, twisting her around until she faced away from him, panting foul curses as the room’s inhabitants watched in horrified fascination.
“And I will never forgive your role in all this.” Swallowing the shakiness, he murmured in her ear, “You let your mistress play the whore, then have the nerve to blame me? How dare you?”
“Your Grace—”
William ignored the doctor, thrusting the Frenchwoman to the door. “Get out. Leave my home immediately. Jensen!”
“Here, Your Grace.”
“Please ensure this person never darkens our doors again.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Your Grace—”
“You’ll be sorry, Duke of Hartington!” She spat another vile obscenity. “I’ll make you sorry that you breathe!”
“I doubt it.” How could she, when he already felt that way?
Jensen, now assisted by some of the footmen, dragged the screaming maid away, her curses mixed with vulgar French he had little desire to understand.
“Your Grace!”
He spun to face the doctor. “What?”
The elderly man held a small bundle in his hands. “It’s a girl.”
“What?”
Dr. Metcalfe moved closer, holding the child toward him.
The tiny face seemed too tiny, too red, too still. “Is she—?”
“Alive, yes. For how long, I can’t say.”
His throat clamped, as for a moment, something melted in his heart. He reached to touch the tiny fingers. “How? I thought—”