Excerpt of Fool for Love by Eloisa James

Some men turn into walruses when they're angry: all bushy
and blowing air. Others resemble pigs, with pillowy cheeks
and small eyes. Simon Darby turned into a Cossack. His
eyes took on a slanted look. High cheekbones that spoke of
generations of Darbys turned formidable, angular, and
altogether foreign. To Gerard Bunge's mind, the man looked
positively savage.

The last time the Honorable Gerard Bunge himself could
remember being so enraged was when his doctor informed him
that he had caught the pox. Even remembering the moment
made him queasy. There was that uneasy sense of heavenly
retribution, not to mention the unpleasant treatment lying
ahead.

But even less would he like to be told that his
inheritance had disappeared. After all, diseases come and
go, but life is so expensive. Even handkerchiefs are
prohibitive.

Darby was probably in shock. So Bunge repeated
himself. "There's no question about it. Your aunt is
increasing."

When Darby still didn't answer, Bunge strolled over to the
litter of china dogs lining the mantelpiece and thought
about poverty versus the pox again. Definitely syphilis
was preferable.

"I said, Lady Rawlings is enceinte. I mean tosay, the
Countess of Trent paid her a visit in the country, and
described the lady as waddling. Did you hear me, Darby?"

"They likely heard you in Norfolk."

Silence.

Bunge couldn't stand silence himself, but it wasn't every
day that a man had his inheritance snatched out from under
his nose by an unborn babe. Tossing back his deep cuffs,
he pushed the china dogs into a neat row. There had to be
fourteen or fifteen of the lolling, garishly painted
little things.

"I suppose these belong to one of your sisters," he said
over his shoulder. The thought of Darby's sisters made
Bunge feel a bit uncomfortable. After all, if Esme
Rawlings's child was male, they had just lost their
dowries.

"Actually, the dogs belonged to my stepmother," Darby
remarked.

Quite the mortality rate in Darby's family, Bunge
reflected: father, stepmother, uncle, gone in under one
year. "I wish your aunt weren't increasing, damned if I
don't," he said, displaying a rare flash of generosity.

He swallowed a curse as the sharp edge of his starched
linen collar nipped him in the neck. He had to remember
not to turn his head so quickly. The new high collars were
the devil to wear.

"It could hardly be construed as your fault. I gather my
uncle and aunt had an unexpected rapprochement before his
death."

"Startled me to the gills when I heard he died in his
wife's chamber," Bunge agreed. "Not that Lady Rawlings
isn't a beautiful woman. But your uncle hadn't lived with
his wife for years. He was snug in Lady Childe's pocket
when I saw him last. I thought Rawlings and his wife
weren't even on speaking terms."

"As far as I know, they rarely spoke. Presumably they
engaged in heir-making without speech."

"Some are saying the child isn't Rawlings's, you know."

"Given that my uncle died in his wife's bedchamber, he and
his wife likely engaged in activities that led to this
child. You will please me by squashing any such rumors."
Darby's eyes now wore their customary expression of
detached amusement.

"You're going to have to get married," Bunge pointed
out. "Course that won't be too difficult for you, catching
a rich one. Heard that there's a wool merchant putting his
daughter on the market this season - everyone's saying
she's a woolly breeder." He erupted in a cascade of high-
pitched laughter.

But Darby's eyes hardened into distaste. "An unappetizing
possibility." He gave a little half bow. "Much though I
adore your company, Bunge, I have an appointment this
afternoon."

Cool bastard, Bunge thought to himself, but he let himself
be propelled toward the door. "Are you going to tell your
stepsisters?"

"Naturally. Their esteemed aunt is going to have a baby.
Josephine will be delighted."

"Does she know that the babe will do her out of a fortune?"

"I fail to see why inheritance issues should disturb a
child still in the nursery."

"And you never know. Lady Rawlings might have a girl."

"A pleasing thought, under the circumstances."

"You're a cool one. Don't know what I'd do, if I had two
girls to get off on the market, and - "

"You would do admirably." Darby rang the bell, and his
butler, Fanning, appeared with Bunge's coat, hat, and cane.

As he walked back into his study, the mask of detached
amusement fell from Darby's face. He had choked back his
rage in front of the painted popinjay who had so delighted
in telling him of his aunt's pregnancy. But anger swelled
in his throat.

"God-damned bitch." The words burned like poison in his
mouth.

Whatever his uncle was doing in his wife's bedchamber, it
didn't involve fornication. Rawlings had told him last
July, just before he died, that the doctor had ruled out
connubial acts - and since he'd been a little in his cups,
he'd added that Lady Childe was agreeable. No need to
mention his wife, and he hadn't. His mistress, Lady
Childe, was the only person remotely interested in Miles's
ability to shake the bedsheets.

And yet he died in Esme Rawlings's bedchamber a week or so
later. Suffered a heart attack in his wife's bedchamber.
And now the woman was increasing - waddling, even?
Doubtless the child would be born on the early side. The
house party took place last July. If the child were
Miles's, his wife was six months along at the most. And
why would the elegantly slim Lady Rawlings be waddling at
only six months, with three long months to go?