Susanne Dietze - A Mother For His Family

Alexander and Callum—whichever was which—doubled over, hands pressed against their diminutive satin waistcoats, silent laughter escaping their ruddy little faces. Why, they weren’t just amused by Louisa’s tantrum. No doubt the rascals caused it.

She touched the boys’ shoulders. Not hard, but enough for them to spin toward her, their eyes wide.

“What did you do?” She enunciated each syllable.

They glanced at one another. Her eyes narrowed.

“Nothing—”

“’Twas his idea—”

“Dear me,” the clergyman lamented, retrieving Helena’s prayer book.

Louisa thrashed. Lord Ardoch cupped her golden curls, and below his hand, under Louisa’s dress, something moved.

Helena’s stomach rippled. “Inside her gown.”

Her husband’s brows lifted. She may not know him well, but it was not difficult to discern his utter befuddlement. With a huff, Helena thrust her hand down the backside of Louisa’s lacy bodice and grasped something hot and furry.

She yanked. A thin, hairless tail dangled between her fingers.

A yip, like an angry Pekinese’s, escaped her throat and her grip went slack. A gray blur fell from her hand and shot under the pew. The clergyman clutched Helena’s flowery prayer book and the boys fell to their knees. Not out of penitence, but to hunt the rodent.

Lord Ardoch held out Louisa to Helena, but Margaret hurried forward and took the sobbing girl, leaving Helena feeling foolish with her arms extended and empty, and half her new family either weeping or crawling about the floor.

Tempted though she was to swoon, she’d never managed to escape in such a convenient fashion, so she fixed another frozen smile on her face.

Lord Ardoch pulled one of the twins to stand. “Enough.”

“But he was a good mouse.” The boy’s lip stuck out.

The lad cared about the mouse more than his sister? No blood or rips marred Louisa’s white gown and the child’s cries had hushed, but Helena would have to summon a physician to be certain. “Your sister could have been bitten.”

“That one never bites.” The second twin folded his arms. “He goes about under our waistcoats all the time and all he ever does is tickle.”

Gemma and Tavin’s ward, Petey, broke from the pew. “I want him in my waistcoat.”

“Not now.” Gemma pulled him back.

“The only creature that beastie will be acquainted with now is the kirk cat, but that is the least of your concerns.” Lord Ardoch’s brows knit. “Apologize to your mither for causing such a scene at her wedding.”

Her wedding, and oh, dear, what had he called her? Helena’s stomach swirled as the twin’s eyes widened. Then narrowed.

“She’s not my mither!”

Well. Louisa was not the only one with strong lungs in the family.

“I won’t call her mither, either,” the other boy said. At least he wasn’t screaming.

“You will not disrespect your m—your st—Lady Ardoch.” Emotion bleached a rim of white around her husband’s tight mouth. “Apologize now.”

The boy’s lips twisted, as if he’d been presented with an unappetizing dish. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Helena forced yet another smile. “This is a new situation for us all. Perhaps together we might think up a name for you to call me. You cannot call me Lady Ardoch forever.” And perhaps they could discuss it later, in private, rather than in front of their assembled wedding guests.

Margaret took the twin’s shoulder. “Leave Lady Ardoch alone, Alex. ’Tis her wedding day, after all.”

“Margaret.” Lord Ardoch’s snap brought color to the girl’s cheeks. “Your tone leaves much to be desired. Your aunt deserves a better welcome than this.”

Margaret hid her face in Louisa’s bonnet, but her mumble of “She’s not my aunt” was nonetheless audible.

“I apologize.” Her new husband looked sincere and poised. Every bit the politician he was, working to pass bills in Parliament.

“None of us has had much time to get used to the idea.” Her frozen smile didn’t waver. She’d not show how embarrassed the children made her feel.

What had she felt when she’d entered the kirk? Warmth, love? She felt neither anymore, neither in her heart nor radiating from her new family.

Perhaps God had felt the need to punish her further by reminding her that the marriage was as much a sham as the wedding turned out to be. But Helena had been taught that a duke’s daughter should exude confidence and poise, so she held her head high as she walked beside him through the kirk door.

Where she was met by shouts and hands. Dozens of them, as children reached out to her.

* * *

John withdrew the purse he’d shoved into his pocket for this moment and pulled out a shiny coin. “Will a shilling do, lady wife?”

She didn’t take the coin. Instead, her face froze in a detached expression that looked too much like her haughty father’s for John’s taste. Meanwhile, the village children enclosed them, open-handed and noisy with congratulatory hoots. Why didn’t she take the coin? Was she as arrogant as her father, dismissing others below her in rank?

John’s jaw set. She was the new Lady Ardoch, and she must comply with tradition before displeasure—and then distrust—grew in the villagers’ hearts.

He reached for his bride’s hand and pressed the shilling into her palm. He’d been in politics long enough to know how to keep his voice level and diplomatic, but be able to convey a sense of urgency, and he strove to use that tone now. “The first one you saw.”

“The first?” Her gaze lifted to his, breaking her emotionless facade.

“Is it not customary for a bride to give a coin to the first child she sees after leaving the kirk on her wedding day?”

“I do not know.” Her fingers closed over the coin.

A trickle of shame slid down the back of his neck. He’d judged her as arrogant, like her father, jumping to the conclusion she didn’t wish to engage with the villagers, when in truth she’d been ignorant of local customs. He opened his mouth to speak, but she turned away and leaned over a ginger-haired girl in a brown frock. The cooper’s daughter. “I saw your smile first. Thank you for your welcome.”

“Thank ye, m’lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy.

John emptied the purse of its contents and tossed the handful of dull gray sixpence over the children’s heads. While they shrieked and lunged for the coins, he offered her a small smile. Behind them, the children and wedding guests followed them out of the kirk. He waved at the crowd before assisting Helena into the landau they would share to Comraich.

John settled against the squabs beside her as the carriage lurched forward. “You must know how sorry I am about the scene the boys caused. And Margaret, and, well, all of it.”

“As I said, it will be a transition for us all.” Her expression was polite, which made it impossible to know what she thought.

It occurred to him that his first private words for her as husband and wife were an apology. Half the villagers following after their carriage assumed they were taking advantage of their privacy by murmuring words of affection, maybe even kissing.

Not that he wanted to do such a thing. Never. That one brief kiss he’d pressed on her lips was the only one they’d ever share, and while it had been quick, it had felt important, as if it sealed the vows he made to her—

John blinked. What had they been discussing, before his gaze caught on her lips?

Ah, the children. “My bairns know better. It’s no consolation, but they’ve been without a proper governess for some time. A candidate arrives tomorrow, and I’ll instruct the housekeeper to hire her.”

His bride’s brows raised a fraction. “No need. I shall see to the matter.”