Page 165 of Trade of a Lifetime (Trade Wind 1)

Before her own sob came, Clara heard David’s intake of breath when they made it past the huge hydrangeas. There at the end, surrounded by a mound of freshly turned earth, was the foot-tall baby hydrangea that she and James planted two weeks earlier.

Clara knew pain and delight in the new, bright green shoots that had grown since she last saw it. Her child wasn’t growing anymore, but this plant was, and one day, it would support bluish-lavender blooms.

“I can barely stand to look at it,” she admitted out loud to David and herself. “It’s so beautiful, and I hope it flourishes. But it’s not fair. I didn’t want this shrub. I wanted the child!”

He wrapped his arms around her as she gasped for breath, tears pouring over her hands pressed to her cheeks. She leaned into his chest, trying to breathe, trying to remain upright. For minutes, he held her while she cried.

Eventually, she stepped back, wiping her cheeks. “I didn’t know I had any tears left.”

“I’m so sorry, Clara. I’m so sorry.”

Behind the questions she saw in David’s eyes were larger shadows of deep sadness about the child. She wilted with relief, not seeing anger or horror. Yet.

“With all my heart, I knew I needed to be here. I was going to stay a week or so—before leaving to be married. I’ve stayed to recover after the…but David, I’m still to be married.”

He raised his chin. “Who? Who is it? How long have you—”

“For some time.”

His mouth fell open. When he recovered, he demanded quietly, “Who?”

Behind David, James appeared in the corner of her eye. His nearly black hair shone in the sunlight; his broad shoulders cast a shadow. He was walking down the path toward them, about to turn into the dense shade.

“James,” she breathed aloud, smiling as she saw him.

David froze. “James? Lord Fronde?”

“James Robertson,” she corrected, watching him stride down the lane of hydrangeas towards them.

Hearing him now, David whirled.

“You?” David’s voice didn’t boom; the words came out like those spoken by a dying man on the last breath that escaped his lungs. He took a step back.

As her brother’s body transformed from limber to rigid, she walked around him to stand between him and James.

James moved to her side, his lips flattened.

David’s hands fisted, and he took two steps forward. This time, his voice rose powerfully. “By God’s name, Clara, youknowwho this is!” His eyes widened. “When you told me in the carriage, I thought it was a terrible jest. You were serious…”

Nodding, she looked at James, but his eyes moved to the tiny hydrangea plant. He drew Clara softly to his side, and she took his hand.

Clara’s heart fell as David stared openly at their joined hands, his incredulous expression clouding with horror and anger—the reaction she feared all along.

His jaw set, he bit the words out at James. “Behind my back—”

Clara interrupted him, wanting David to look ather. “We met at your house that day, by chance. Then we…became acquainted.”

She tried to sound bland, but she could see that her brother understood the meaning—and was looking more upset by the second as he looked from her to James.

“It was no coincidence that you were at that ball,” David pieced together.

Clara glanced at James, relieved to see that he stood with quiet humility. She squeezed his hand, grateful, understanding the discipline it took.

James spoke quietly, “I can imagine I’m the last person you expected to find by her side. I understand that.”

“Ah, do you?”

David drawled in the English way that Clara knew James hated, but she saw the tremor in her brother’s hands. When she heard James take in a deep breath, she squeezed his hand even tighter, and spoke to her brother before James could.

---