The Heir - Catherine Coulter [3]
Angry bile rose in the doctor’s throat. Hadn’t the man heard his wife’s screams? They’d been endless. The face of every servant in this huge mansion was leached of color. Surely the earl, her husband, had heard her. Surely he had been at least a bit concerned about her.
The doctor would never forget her suffering. He wanted to kill this man, not for making her pregnant, but for not caring if she survived or didn’t. It was one and the same to him, the bastard. Yes, he wanted to kill him. Very much. Maybe shoot him cleanly between the eyes. However, he couldn’t. He managed to control himself, saying in his detached professional voice, although he really wanted to shout it, “I’m afraid that it will not be possible, my lord.” He paused, seeing the earl’s face darken. It was a handsome face, a strong intelligent face, and Dr. Branyon hated that face as much as he hated the man. Ah, but he was delighting in this news he had for this damned man. “You see, my lord, Lady Ann very nearly lost her life birthing your daughter. When I said she will live, I meant it was very close. She nearly bled her life away.” He paused a moment, relishing the words even before he spoke them. He said finally, “She will be unable to bear you further children.”
The earl roared to his feet, shouting, “The devil you say, Branyon! Why, the girl is but eighteen years of age! Her mother assured me that her hips were wide, that she would be an excellent breeder. I even spanned her belly myself and although she is small, her pelvic bones were beyond my reach. Her mother has borne six children, four of them boys. Damnation, I selected her because of her youth and her mother’s assurances. I will not tolerate this. You must be wrong.”
Her parents had let this man touch their daughter? Let him put his hands on her belly? Jesus, it made him sick. “Unfortunately, my lord, the lady’s years make very little difference, nor do the width of her hips. She will bear no more children, either boy or girl.” God, how I hate this man. I am the keeper of life, yet I want to kill him. My poor Ann . . . you are nothing to him, just as Magdalaine was nothing. And now he has another daughter to ignore, perhaps even to send away. At least you will not have to suffer him again.
The earl turned abruptly away from the doctor and cursed long and fluently. He did not hear the doctor leave the library to return to the upstairs bedchamber, to keep vigil over his wife.
3
Arabella
THE STRAFFORD TOWN HOUSE
LONDON 1810
Sir Ralph Wigston peered over his spectacles as he droned on with his duly practiced, and, hopefully, elegant phrases of condolence. He had painstakingly committed the brief message from the Ministry to memory, believing that he owed the mental effort required not only to the earl’s lovely widow, but also to the Earl of Strafford himself.
The late earl had been a splendid man, renowned for his powerful intelligence, his uncanny ability to read the enemy’s mind and act immediately upon his intuition to his majesty’s advantage. He willingly took risks where other men would have wavered and backed away. He had been bold, dauntless, and had died as befitted such a fine leader of men, in battle, leading, shouting orders and encouragement. Proud he was, very proud and unbending, and a determined autocrat, demanding unswerving obedience, but, of course, that was as it should be. He was a man to trust, a man to revere, a man to follow with unquestioned loyalty. His men had worshiped him. He would be missed