Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

Who knows?” 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.

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 sorely.

But now the Earl of Strafford was dead, and Sir Ralph had to continue his passionate performance for his widow, who looked particularly beautiful in her black mourning gown. He did not wish to be accused of according the late Earl of Strafford less than his very best. Nor his beloved widow.

He cleared his throat, for this was more difficult. “We do, however, regret to inform you, my dear Lady Ann, that the earl’s remains have not as yet been recovered from the conflagration that ensued.”

“Are you not then being premature with your visit, Sir Ralph? Is it not very possible that my father still lives?” The words were spoken with a cold flatness, and underlying them, Sir Ralph sensed a flicker of hope, almost a challenge to his authority and position. He carefully stored away his few remaining phrases and bent his myopic gaze upon the Earl of Strafford’s daughter, Lady Arabella. She didn’t resemble her mother at all. She was the very image of her father, with her inky black hair and light gray eyes. He cleared his throat. “My dear young lady, let me hasten to inform you that I would most certainly not be executing this most unhappy mission were your father’s demise not a proven fact.” He had spoken too harshly, and hurried to soften his tone. “I am truly sorry, Lady Ann, Lady Arabella, but there were trustworthy witnesses whose word cannot be gainsaid. Exhaustive searches were done. Countless men were interviewed.” He wouldn’t talk about all the charred remains that had been duly examined. “There is no doubt that the earl died in the fire. It was an overwhelming fire. There was no chance of survival. Please, do not entertain the idea that there is a chance he still lives, for it is quite impossible.”

“I see.” Again that cold, emotionless voice. Sir Ralph disposed of his remaining phrases neatly and quickly. “The Prince Regent wishes me to assure you, Lady Ann, that there is no question of the speedy disposition of the earl’s estate, in view of the reliability of the witnesses. I will, if you wish it, notify your solicitor of this tragic circumstance.”

“No!” the earl’s daughter bounded from her chair, her