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“That was bad luck.” And there was something so gentle about her voice that Esme felt imperceptibly soothed and even forgiven.

“Henrietta—do you mind if I call you Henrietta?” At her smile, Esme continued. “I’m a miserable excuse for a human being. But I do love him, and it’s just so impossible!”

Henrietta was trying to work it all out. “You love Lord Bonnington—”

“I truly am not a loose woman, for all my reputation,” Esme interrupted. “I spent one night with Sebastian, only one. But it happened to be the night before Miles and I reconciled due to our decision to have a child. My husband said he needed to 94 Eloisa

James

speak to Lady Childe first—” She peered at Henrietta through swollen eyes. “Do you know about Lady Childe?”

At Henrietta’s nod, she said, “You must think that we’re a most degenerate group of people. But we’re not, truly. Miles and I married in error, and then years later he found some happiness with Lady Childe. Except that he desperately wanted an heir, and so obviously he had to inform her . . .”

She trailed off.

“And the previous night you and the marquess, ah—”

“Exactly,” Esme said miserably.

“The marquess has left for the Continent, has he not?”

Henrietta had a vague memory of Imogen excitedly recounting the entire sordid tale of the Bonnington scandal as culled from The Daily Recorder’s News from Town.

“Yes. And I don’t know whether the baby is his, or whether the baby is Miles’s.”

“Then you do not have a problem at all,” Henrietta said, smiling brilliantly at Esme. “Because this baby is yours, not anyone else’s.”

“Well, I suppose that is true, but—”

Henrietta put a hand on her arm. “I truly mean it, Lady Rawlings—Esme. This child is yours. When he is born, he will be a blotchy little thing whom no one but yourself could love. Have you ever seen a newborn?”

Esme shook her head.

“They’re quite homely. And from what I’ve heard, you have a devilish time getting them into the world, and then there they are, without a hair to their name, and all splotchy in the bargain. But he’ll be yours. If you want him, that is.”

Esme wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Oh, I do, I do! I want him. Or her.”

“Then I fail to see the problem. The child is born under the aegis of your marriage.”

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“If it was just me, I wouldn’t feel so hideously guilty,”

Esme said. “But there’s Darby as well.”

“Darby is a grown man,” Henrietta said crisply.

“Yes, but you don’t understand. Darby was quite wealthy until around a year ago. And then his father died, and Darby became the guardian of his two small sisters. But he was Miles’s heir—”

“Heir apparent. I have very little sympathy for a perfectly healthy gentleman like Mr. Darby. His way is clear, and I have every expectation that he will take it. He needs must marry an heiress. Luckily enough for him, he has the face and figure to carry it off.”

“But it’s so unfair,” Esme protested.

“I don’t see anything unfair about it.”

“But don’t you see—”