Page 86 of His Runaway Duchess

Clarissa’s father had flown into a rage when he learned that the Duke was marrying her friend.

“You bore his child!” he’d thundered, over and over again. “Does that count for nothing?”

No,Clarissa could have told him. No, it did not.

The Duke was not a romantic man. He had enough money of his own but wanted a wife with good breeding and a title to secure his position in Society. He was attracted to Clarissa, but her grandfather was only a merchant, and Miss Emma Wyndham’s grandfather was a baron.

So, Miss Emma became the Duchess of Thornbridge and tried to pretend that the tiny grave dug in the back of Clarissa’s rose garden did not belong to a baby at all, let alone her husband’s firstborn child.

“Clarissa?”

She glanced up sharply and found Emma looking at her anxiously.

“I was thinking about attending this Season. You should come with me. I’ll find you a good husband. The Duke has plenty of decent friends. You can stay with us, and we’ll go to parties together. It’ll be like old times.”

Clarissa forced a smile. “That would be nice.”

Emma’s face relaxed in relief, and she leaned back against the pillows. The baby was still grousing, his tiny face creased up.

She doesn’t deserve him,Clarissa thought, with a flare of rage. She doesn’t deserve any of this.

She edged closer to the crib, peering inside. The baby blinked up at her, momentarily distracted. A wave of affection swept over her, just like when she’d held her own baby for those brief moments before her little heart stuttered to a halt.

This should have been mine.

“Would you like some tea?” Clarissa heard herself say before she could stop herself.

Emma smiled at her. “Oh, yes, please. I’m dry as a bone. No wine, I suppose?”

“No, no wine.”

Clarissa went over to the table at the back of the room. Various birthing supplies were scattered around—rags, bowls of cooling, bloody water, a pair of sharp scissors, a wooden spoon to bite down on, and more. And a pot of tea, sent up by the midwives only a little while ago.

Clarissa poured a cup, then slid a hand into her apron pocket, her fingers curling around the glass dropper bottle.

She wasn’t entirely sure what was in the bottle. When she had given birth, the doctor had called them ‘drops’. Morphine, perhaps? It hardly mattered. He’d allowed her a couple of drops in a cup of tea after the birth, to dull the pain and help her sleep. When she had asked for more, he’d refused, telling her that too much of the stuff would stop a person’s heart. It had to be administered carefully, he’d scolded her.

And then he’d gone ahead and forgotten to pack up the bottle. Perhaps he was too flustered, having delivered a baby that died so quickly. Perhaps Clarissa’s howling grief had unnerved him.

She stared down at the bottle in her palm, the viscous liquid sloshing about inside. She couldn’t even say why she’d brought it, except that it might help with the pains of childbirth.

Unscrewing the bottle, Clarissa upended it in one fell swoop. There was barely half a bottle left, and her heart sank.

It wouldn’t be enough. She shook the bottle, hoping to squeeze out a few extra drops.

What am I doing? This won’t work.

“Is the tea ready, Clarissa?” came Emma’s fretful voice from behind. The baby was wailing again, his cries setting Clarissa’s teeth on edge. “I’m dry as a bone.”

Clarissa clenched her jaw. “Just coming.”

Emma’s taut face relaxed into a smile as she took the tea. “Oh, thank you. Ah, it’s the perfect temperature to drink, too. Why aren’t you having any? You must be thirsty.”

“There’s none left.”

“Oh, we should have had a smaller cup each, then. Go and ring the bell, we’ll have tea and cake. You deserve it.”

“Of course,” Clarissa responded woodenly.

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