Page 1 of The Duke's Bride in Disguise
Prologue
London, 1798
Alastair Fairfax, Sixth Marquess of Havisham, was not afraid to admit that he loved his wife--even if it was most unfashionable to do so. What he was afraid to admit to—out loud at least—was that he loved her more than his three sons.
Oh, don't think that he did not adore the three strapping lads whom his wife, Adeline, had gifted him during the first decade of their marriage, for he did. It was just that when it came to their happiness, or the happiness of anyone else for that matter, Alastair could wholly admit that they were a secondary concern as compared to his wife.
Which was why, despite the recommendation of several physicians not to, Alastair agreed that he and Adeline would try for a fourth child—a girl. All that Adeline wanted in the world was a daughter, and who was Alastair to deny her such a thing?
After months of trying, which the marquess thoroughly enjoyed, the Marchioness of Havisham conceived, and thus began the unenjoyable portion of their mission. For nine months, Lord Havisham walked on eggshells; anytime his wife sneezed, coughed, or passed wind—not that he would admit that this was an act she was capable of—the marquess would suffer a fit of the vapours. For months, Adeline made sure to carry a bottle of smelling salts on her person, lest her husband fainted dead away.
At last, the day of the labour dawned and the marchioness was whisked away to her bedchamber, to be attended to by three of London's most eminent physicians, two laying in women, and an accoucheur for good luck. As the day wore into night, and back to day again, the marquess was struck by a realisation; he had been so consumed by his wife's happiness, that he had not even thought of his own. What would he do if Adeline, as many doctors had warned might happen, died during childbirth? The thought was too much to even contemplate, though as Adeline's labour pains continued into a third day, it was all that Alastair could think of.
Finally, after three bottles of brandy, several dozen cigars, and some work on Adeline's part, a babe was born. Alastair, who was never usually a man to do anything in a hurry, took the runners two at a time as he made his way upstairs to see his wife. His knock on her bedchamber door was answered by Dr Philips, who gave the marquess a rather strained look.
"Your wife is asleep," he whispered, as he slipped outside the door, "Her body is exhausted and she is very, very weak. I fear for her, my Lord, but if we pray and remain calm, God willing she might survive."
"And the babe?"
Again, Dr Philips looked most uncomfortable as he replied, "Is with the laying in woman, in the room yonder. She gave a few cries when she was born, which seemed to bolster your wife's spirits, but she too is very weak."
A girl. Thank goodness, after all that, it was a girl.
Alastair made his way into the room opposite his wife's chambers, where a small nursery had been prepared for the new baby. The room was dim, lit only by one candle, and silent as the grave.
"Hullo," Alastair whispered to the laying-in woman, who sat in the rocker in the corner clutching a bundle of blankets. "I've come to see my daughter."
"Oh, my Lord," the laying-in woman, who had been on her feet for the best part of three days, leapt back onto them at the sight of the marquess. "Forgive me, I wanted to hold the poor mite as she—as she—"
As she slipped from the world.
Alastair did not need the woman to finish the sentence, for he knew in his heart—and from the room's silence-- that his poor, dainty daughter had not lived.
All that work and Adeline's health had been sacrificed for nothing.
"Dr Philips bade me come in here," the woman continued, gibbering a little with nerves for she had never spoken to a marquess. "He was afraid it would kill her Ladyship, if she were to know that the poor, wee bairn was gone."
"Kill her?"
Alastair broke out into a clammy sweat at the thought that there was still a risk Adeline might expire, despite having survived the worst.
"Aye," the laying-in woman nodded fervently, her soft Scottish brogue not doing anything to take the sharpness from her words. "Her Ladyship is very weak, 'twould snuff her out like a candle if she heard."
Gracious; Alastair had not thought of that. The melancholia he felt at his daughter's demise, was replaced by an urgent need to do something—anything—to ensure his wife's continued health.
An idea came to him, so preposterous that initially he dismissed it. But then, the marquess caught sight of the unmoving, bundle of swaddled blankets in the laying-in woman's arms, and took such a fit of despair at the sight of them, that he knew he could not present this poor, sad sight to his wife.
"I will need you to fetch me another baby," he said, in as even a manner as he could muster.
"Beg pardon, my Lord?" the woman questioned, thinking that perhaps she had not understood him.
"I said," Alastair repeated, "That I will need you to fetch me another baby. I cannot tell my wife that her daughter did not live—as you said, the news will surely kill her."
"But, where am I supposed to fetch a baby from?" the laying in woman asked in confusion; the good people of Grosvenor Square were not likely to have any spare offspring lying about.
