tle frightening at the moment when he felt as if he had so many secrets pinned up inside him. “Why do you not wish to have a family?”
Oliver shrugged, feeling uncomfortable with the conversation. It was too closely related to his other secrets. “I simply do not.” He looked toward the door. “I should be going. It’s getting late.” He bowed and then moved to take his leave, but Elizabeth hurried past him, and blocked his exit. She gave him a challenging look when he stopped in front of her.
“I don’t think Mary would appreciate you using her newborn child as a blockade,” said Oliver.
Her eyes were on him again. “It’s only me, Oliver. Surely you can tell me why? We tell each other everything.”
He stared in her eyes. “Do we?” Thoughts of Hatley proclaiming that Elizabeth loved Oliver flashed through his mind. If she loved him, why had she never told him?
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Nevermind.” He shouldn’t have even begun that topic.
She took a step toward him. “No, what did you mean by that?”
Blast. He had gotten himself stuck in a conversation that couldn’t happen. As unwanted as the first topic of children was, moving back to it was his only option to keep him from admitting to Elizabeth that he indeed had one large secret he was keeping from her.
“Fine. I don’t wish for children because…I don’t trust myself with them.” Just like he didn’t trust himself to love Elizabeth as she deserved. “You know the model I had for a father. If there is any chance I could ever end up becoming the same sort of man he was, I won’t take it.”
Her face softened. “You are not your father, Oliver.” She shifted the baby in her arms and reached out to lay a hand on his forearm. Normally her touch would be a comfort. Normally he would sink into the pressure of her hand against him and soak in her attention.
But right then he felt restless, vulnerable, scared.
He wanted to run away but her hand was holding him still, forcing him to hear her. “You are loving and trustworthy. Gentle and loyal. There is not one sliver of anger or violence in you. I have no doubt that—” her words became thick, “—whoever you choose to love in life will be the luckiest of recipients.”
He watched her blink back a few tears.
She loves you.
He was helpless to her words. Numb. The protective voice whispered again that they were just empty words. She didn’t know the future. He remembered his mother telling him of a time when Frank Turner had not been so angry. Of a time when he would not wake in the morning and immediately reach for the closest bottle of brandy he could find. Oliver's future felt too much out of his control. All he could do was stare at Elizabeth, speechless.
Finally, she pulled her hand away and looked up at him with the smile she always gave him when she was pretending to be happy with something. “Have you ever held a baby?”
Instantly he took a step away. “No. Nor do I wish to today.”
She chuckled a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, come on, Oliver. Surely if I can deliver a child you can be brave enough to hold a sleeping one, for a moment?”
He swallowed the lump in his throat and eyed the bundle in her arms. “But he’s so small and fragile.”
“Making him all the easier to hold. Now, come here and quit being so cowardly.” He did not want to hold that baby. But the teasing grin on her lips was drawing him to her again.
“What do I do with my arms?” he asked, feeling stupid and awkward as he attempted to take the child from her.
She repositioned the baby out of the crook of her arm and into her hands, stepping completely into Oliver’s space so that her hair was just under his nose. “His head goes in the crook of your arm, like so.” She was putting the baby in his arms, her arm brushing against his chest as she securely settled the baby in. “There. And put your hand under him like this to make sure you don’t drop him.” Her hand was so soft as it brushed over his and repositioned it.
He should probably be focusing on the baby and making sure he didn’t drop him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Elizabeth. She was beautiful with her hair falling out of her knot and her smile soft with the setting sun. Realization of just how deeply he loved her was settling like stones in his chest.
She didn’t move away once the child was settled in his arms. Oliver couldn’t help himself. He reached up and brushed the curls from her face to behind her ear, letting his knuckles graze the soft skin of her cheek. Her eyes raised slowly to his. Something in her expression looked nervous. Or hopeful. Or longing.
“See”—her voice was a breathy whisper—“that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Holding the child? Or…touching her?
“No. It wasn’t.”
The silence between them was heavy, and the air was sparking with questions and unspoken words. His heart was beating loud and strong, begging him to open his mouth and tell her. Tell her he loved her. Take a chance. Tell her he was scared. Tell her that he’d loved her for a long time but was too afraid of hurting her to act on his feelings. He ached to resolve his worries with her.
The sound of boots approaching from the hallway made Elizabeth blink, breaking their trance, and she stepped back. A moment later, a servant walked through the open door and curtsied. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lady, but Lady Hatley has requested that I take Lord Cunningham to her for his feeding.”
“Yes, of course,” said Elizabeth, sounding a little jumpy. Her eyes bounced from the maid to the baby and up to Oliver. “I’m afraid you will have to continue your practice another time, Oliver. Little Lord Cunningham cannot afford to miss a feeding.”