Page 2 of The Viscount Needs a Wife (All for Love #2)

E mrys Fitzgerald, Viscount Ashford, surveyed his three offspring with misgiving.

“We are not going another step until you tell us where we are bound, Papa!” Miss Lizzie, the eldest at eight years old, was the instigator of this mini rebellion, and she was regarding her sire with a minatory eye, her arms akimbo and her feet planted firmly apart.

He contemplated picking her up and placing her in the carriage, but decided such high-handed tactics would result in repercussions down the road that he didn’t wish to deal with.

“Yes, Papa,” agreed Charlotte, or rather Charlie, his second daughter, crossing her arms and assuming a stubborn expression in imitation of her sister.

Charlie was six and was a miniature of her mother with strawberry-blonde curls and deep-green eyes, a resemblance which caused him no small degree of pain.

Everyone predicted she would be the beauty of the family.

Little Ewen regarded his older sisters with bewilderment and stuck a thumb in his mouth. Ewen was three.

Lizzie and Ewen resembled him more closely, which was a shame for Lizzie, since he knew he was not handsome, and a female version of him was unlikely to become a beauty.

Not that such a thing could diminish his love for her one whit, of course.

All three of them had such firm hold of his heart that he would gladly die for them in a blink.

“It is supposed to be a surprise,” he protested.

“We don’t like surprises,” said Lizzie firmly. “Tell us!”

“Very well,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “We are going to The Castle and the Watsons will be there.”

Lizzie looked at her sister with a burgeoning smile and whooped. “Yay! Zibby and Emanuel!”

Charlie grinned and said breathlessly, “Japheth and Zeke!” Charlie flung her arms round Emrys’s legs and hugged him. He patted her curly head as she looked up at him and said, “Thank you, Papa!”

Unable to resist, he bent down and picked her up. “You’re welcome, poppet.” He looked at the other two. “Now will you get into the carriage?”

Lizzie nodded enthusiastically and, grabbing Ewen’s hand, clambered into the carriage dragging Ewen with her.

Hastily Emrys set Charlotte down and picked up Ewen, depositing him on the seat, and helped Charlotte up the steps.

With a wave to his coachman, Jacob, he climbed up after the children, and they were at last underway.

They had left his grandmother’s house in Bath two days ago, and the girls had pestered him for their destination all the way, speculating on it as they stared out the window and tried to guess their location and direction of travel. That is, until this morning’s little rebellion.

Ah, well.

At least the weather was excellent, if hot.

It was late July, and the roads were in fine shape.

They were making good time, and he expected to reach their destination in Leicestershire by mid-afternoon, the principal seat of his friend the Duke of Troubridge, dubbed The Castle.

Though it wasn’t actually a castle, as the name was only a romantic carryover from its origins as a Norman keep.

Nothing of the original building was left except a few tumbledown walls and a scattering of stones in the grounds.

The Watsons in question were the younger siblings of the duke’s new wife, Sarah, who was the eldest of the Vicar of Littledon’s brood of eight children.

The children had all become acquainted on the occasion of the duke’s wedding some four months earlier and had become fast friends.

As the carriage rocked its way along the road, Emrys watched his offspring playing a guessing game, trying to identify objects they could see out the window, and was glad for the first bit of joy in what felt like a long time.

Though it had truly only been four months since his world fell apart.

He had gone from being—so he’d mistakenly thought—a happily married man, to a cuckold and then a widower in the space of three weeks, and the experience had torn the heart from his chest and left him a wreck of his former self. It was really only his children that had kept him from unravelling.

The last time he left The Castle, after the wedding, it had been only himself and Caro in this carriage.

The children had ridden in the second one, a hired vehicle, with the servants.

And Caro had been furious with him. Seated opposite to him, the anger had come off her in waves as she stared out the window and refused to look at him, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

“For God’s sake, Caro, you cannot believe there is anything in it!” he’d protested.

“If there was nothing in it, why did the duke feel compelled to give you a black eye?” she’d asked, throwing a scorching glance in his direction.

He’d put up a hand to the swollen purple extrusion forcing his left eye almost shut. It was still giving him a thumping headache.

“Because he’s a bloody jealous blackguard, and he overreacted!”

“Language, Ashford!” she’d admonished him, using his title rather than his given name, which she always did when she was annoyed with him.

He’d sighed and closed his other eye, leaning his aching head back against the squabs of the carriage seat.

“And what, pray tell, was he overreacting to?” she’d asked sweetly.

“That Sarah gave me a hug,” he’d said sullenly.

“Sarah! On mighty intimate terms with the new duchess, are you not?”

“Caro, you know damned well you have been on first name terms with Robert for years. It was made clear we were to address her as Sarah.”

“And why was the duchess compelled to hug you?”

“I was upset.”

She sniffed. “What could you possibly have to be upset about?”

His self-control snapped at that point, and he’d leaned forward. “Because I found your blasted lover’s letter!”

She’d blanched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” But then she’d flushed guiltily, as red as she had been pale moments before.

He’d watched this display of disingenuity with a sick feeling. “How long have you had that letter, and why the bloody hell did you feel compelled to bring it with you on this trip?”

She’d opened and then closed her mouth, her hands wringing in her lap. He didn’t miss the tears starting to her eyes, and his heart turned over.

“It’s from Greathouse isn’t it? I recognized his writing.”

She’d swallowed visibly and nodded.

His hand had clenched on his knee. “The prick! He has the gall to pretend to be my friend, and all the while he is sending my wife love letters!”

“He is your friend!” she’d protested. “He feels most uncomfortable about it, really!”

“Really?” His sarcastic tone could have cut glass.

“He didn’t say anything for a very long time. I had no idea he felt—” She’d stopped then, swallowing and searching in her reticule for a handkerchief, wiping her eyes.

“You should have shown me that damned letter the moment you received it!” he’d said, trying to ignore the effect her tears were having on him. He never could abide it when she cried.

“I know!” she’d said, sobbing freely by then. “You’re right. I should have. I’m sorry, Emrys.”

“Caro!” He rose and moved to the seat beside her, putting an arm round her and drawing her against his chest. “Don’t cry, love. If it’s just a letter, I can overlook it. When did he send it?”

“S-six months ago!” she’d said haltingly. A cold feeling settled into the pit of his stomach.

“And you’re still carrying it around with you? Why?” He had drawn back.

She covered her face with her hand, sobbing hard. “I’m sorry Emrys! I t-tried! I r-really did! I t-tried to resist... but I love him... I’m so sorry...” she whispered at the last.

He’d closed his eyes as her words hit him like hail, stinging pings against his skin. Unreal and shocking. A numbness spread through his chest where his heart should be. He felt ill.

He had moved back to the other side of the carriage and stared blindly out the window. They said not one word further to each other beyond the necessary and the mundane for the rest of that interminable journey back to London.

Three days later she had moved out of their home in Cavendish Square and three weeks after that she was dead, the result of a carriage accident in France, whence the lovers had fled.

Caroline had been thrown clear of the carriage.

She’d hit her head on a stone and never regained consciousness.

Greathouse had been uninjured beyond a broken wrist. But now he had to live with her death for the rest of his life.

Emrys shook his head to clear it of its melancholy thoughts and drew out the book he had been reading and opened to the page he was up to.