Memories clawed at him. The two of them had had the road to themselves that afternoon, laughing and kissing as they rode with the snow swirling around them. The clop-clop of the horses’ hooves rhythmically hitting the earth created a romantic, memorable moment.
“This is the most wonderful day, Evan,” Amelia enthused, snuggling closer under the blanket. “Tell me again that you will be all right if this turns out to be a girl instead of a boy.”
Evan lightly touched her pert red nose with his forefinger. “Yes, darling. I love this child, whatever it may be. I mean that.” He kissed her nose, basking in her smile.
They spent the afternoon discussing names again, cuddling together under the thick cover as the driver took them on roads, some with perfectly shaped canopies covered in fluffy snow crystals. It had been a day full of beauty and only the hundredth time they had discussed names in a fortnight. They both liked the name Jason, after his father. However, she liked Edward, saying it was a potent name, and as his second name, it was her favored choice. They decided if it was a girl, the baby would take Amelia’s mother’s name. By the time they returned, he realized that they had still made no decision on the boy’s name, but it mattered not. They would meet the babe first.
Stark quiet invaded his thoughts. How long has Dr. Pembroke been up there? It is too quiet. Unable to wait another minute, Evan threw his drink into the fire and hurried from his office, taking the steps two at a time, praying. The thirsty wail of a baby caused him to stop and look up. There are no voices. He reached his wife’s room in a trice and flung open the door.
Amelia’s lifeless body lay on sheets still pooled with blood.
“My lord, she . . .” Her maid’s tear-stained face saw him approaching, and she hurried away from the body to stand near the wall.
“No!” he howled, moving Amelia’s hands to his shoulders and pulling her up to him as he cried into her damp blonde hair.
Dr. Pembroke put a hand on his shoulder, and he pushed it away. There was no comfort. He could have no life without Amelia.
A weak cry sounded behind him, and he tried to turn from Amelia to see the baby.
“My lord, you have a son,” the midwife whispered brokenly, offering the small child to him.
Swiping at his face, he looked down at the bundle of wrinkled pink skin. Carefully laying his wife back down, he reached for the baby. Blue eyes framed by tiny wisps of blond hair looked into his face, and a small hand grabbed his finger and held on.
“Edward. You are Edward.” He smoothed back the baby’s hair as the door opened.
His sister had arrived. Through swollen eyes, he watched her glance first at Amelia, then at Edward before rushing to his side.
“Evan, oh my God! How… what can we do to help?” Catherine said tremulously, pressing her hands to her ashen cheeks.
“She is gone. My Amelia is gone,” he cried hoarsely, thrusting the baby into her arms.
“Where are you going?” she screeched after him.
Evan stopped and half-turned to face his sister. “I need air,” he croaked, looking down once more at the bed and noticing the rattle and cloth doll he and Amelia had purchased just that day. “Please understand.”
I am broken.
Chapter One
December 1816
London, England
Evan Prescott pushed himself up from his mattress and squinted at the windows. The deep green velour curtains had been pulled back, allowing the bright morning sunshine to beam into his room—and straight into his face. “God’s teeth, Charles! It is too early to get up,” he groaned loudly. Irritated with his valet, he buried his head into his pillow, pounding on the mattress. A vague memory of Charles trying to yank off his boots while he slept pricked his senses. Except for his boots, he was still fully clothed. There had better be a good reason for waking me at this ungodly hour.
His head hurt a lot—testament to his almost nightly routine of brandy, cards, and more brandy. As long as he continued to hold a winning hand at the table, he saw no reason to quit, and he had no memory of losing the previous evening. His new routine kept him focused on the part of his life that he could control, the part that—outside of a resounding headache—did not hurt. He liked the cards because he was always a winner. He was not a winner in marriage.
Evan still felt numb from the loss of his wife. Amelia had died in childbirth. They had been betrothed by their parents. They had been neighbors, then playmates and lifelong friends, and finally man and wife. He had loved Amelia. His wife had died meeting her obligation to give him an heir. That was how he saw things now. He hated the word—obligation. He could not hide his feelings. He had hated his familial obligation and now he had another obligation, a parental obligation. Evan had a son and knew nothing about parenting. He had not even seen his son in months. His sister felt strongly that he needed to know his son, but Evan did not know how to fulfill that responsibility. He could hire someone, he supposed. He dared not think of Amelia and what she would say if she saw him today.
Charles had been part of his household as long as Evan could remember, having also served Evan’s father, the former Earl of Clarendon. The man took more liberties than a valet
