Page 42 of His Accidental Duchess

Even her name made Theodore tense up, even though she had been dead for seven years.

“Yes,” he said tightly. “Isabella.”

Stephen glanced around, leaning forward and dropping his voice in a rare display of discretion. “What happened with Isabella was… was unusual.”

“She played me like one of her harps,” Theodore snapped back bitterly. “The whole of the tonmust have been laughing at me.”

“You know quite well it was not that bad. You and Isabella might not have had a great deal in common, but you shared a desire for secrecy.”

In an instant, Theodore was no longer in the grimy front room of Clara’s Heart, sipping watery brandy, but back in The Hyacinth Room.

The air stank of blood, worse than anything he’d ever imagined. Childbed, it seemed, was far worse than Theodore could have understood. In the clubs, gentlemen made light of the children they had—and their bastards—and never seemed to give a second thought to the women who birthed them. Theodorehad never given it a second thought.

It was impossible not to think of it now.

Isabella was stretched out on the bed, white as the sheets underneath her. At least, as white as the sheets had beenbefore her labor began. He stood at her side, stiff-backed, and tried not to look at the mess of bloody sheets and cloths the grim-faced midwives were shoveling into baskets and carrying away. To be burned, no doubt. The entire mattress would have to be burned.

“Theo?” she rasped, her voice sounding like that of an old woman.

He swallowed hard, trying to wrap his head around what his wife had just told him.

“We will discuss this later,” he said, desperate to get out of the hot room that stank of death and copper.

Isabella made an odd, rasping sound, and he realized that she was laughing. Or trying to laugh, at least.

“Later? There won’t be a later for me. I’m dying.”

He tried not to look at the blood. There was a great deal of it. He focused on his wife’s pale, gaunt face instead.

“Nonsense. You’re strong. I’m sure you’ll pull through.”

She didn’t bother to contradict him. “You must keep it a secret, Theodore.”

The scent of blood was almost unbearable. “I cannot. I won’t.”

Isabella’s eyes, red-rimmed and sunken, widened. “You must. You must! I’m dying, Theo! I won’t see another dawn! Please promise me. Please! I am begging you. Will you do this last thing for me?”

He closed his eyes momentarily. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but he had no idea how to say any of them, and he almost certainly did not have the time. In the end, he settled for a single word.

“Yes.”

The strain faded from Isabella’s face. She let out a long sigh and let her head fall back against the pillow, her long black hair straggling out around her like seaweed.

“Name her after my mother,” Isabella said drowsily. “Call her Katherine. Mama would have liked that. She always wanted a granddaughter.”

“And what does the newest Duchess say about all of this?”

Stephen’s words roughly jerked Theodore back to the present. He cleared his throat, adjusting his position. He swore that he could still smell copper.

“She says that she and Henry are just friends. A likely story.”

Stephen shrugged. “It could be true. I never thought that Henry was the type to, er, seek out the affections of ladies.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean Anna is not in love with him, does it? My Duchess must be mine, Stephen, and so must my heir.”

“Well, that’s fair enough, I suppose. What do you intend to do?”

Theodore shrugged. “She wants us to spend time together.”

---