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James had closed himself up in his study with a bottle of brandy, most of which was now gone. Though oblivion beckoned at the bottom of the bottle, he merely pressed the fingers of his left hand to his temple and willed away the impulse. His right hand cradled the forged marriage license, which had spent the last two months languishing in the back of his desk drawer.
Pregnant. God, what damnable irony. She had been caught neatly in the trap he had set out for her after all. All of his nefarious schemes had come to fruition and all he could feel was shame. Guilt. Horror.
She had been so happy to share her news with him, so pleased to inform him of his impending fatherhood. The joy that had sparkled in her eyes had been unmistakable. Even in the throes of her morning sickness, she had been delighted.
She had absolutely no idea that unless his appeals came through, their child—perhaps his heir—would be born a bastard.
The nausea that churned in his gut had nothing to do with the brandy. He had been so resolute in his inability to love that he hadn’t even entertained the prospect until it had been too late to save himself from it. And now it was too late for Jilly—for them.
It would not matter to her that he had repented of his cruelty, that he’d been striving toward righting the wrong he’d done her. It would not even matter that he loved her desperately. How could she forgive him for what he had schemed to do to her? She had placed her trust in him, surrendered to him her heart, though it had been broken before by unworthy hands. He would never be worthy or deserving of her forgiveness. Kirkland, at least, had had some measure of honor. He had pursued her honorably, even if he had abandoned her.
James had given her only a pretense at courtship, designed to bring about this very situation. He hadn’t even thought to protect her from such a circumstance once he had realized the depths of his affection for her. And if anyone discovered her condition before they were safely, honestly married, there would be no salvaging her reputation.
He did not consider himself a particularly pious man, but for the first time in memory, he prayed—prayed that the multitude of letters he’d sent over the last several weeks, his influence, Nick’s influence, could work the miracle he needed.

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