The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

“Well, of course he does.” It was Lord Geldrick who chimed in first, nodding vigorously and giving Damen a look of genuine sympathy. “It's your first child. I don't blame you a bit for your concern, Sheldrake.”

“You shouldn't,” his wife teased, her eyes twin­kling. “You acted the same way when I was with child—especially the first time.” She leaned forward, touched Stacie's arm. “Best wishes to you both. And don't worry about feeling ill. The sensation will pass in a few months. After that, you'll be hungry enough to eat three banquets a day.”

“I'm relieved to hear that.” As she said it, Stacie re­alized it was true. She also realized how good it felt to speak with another woman about her condition-something she hadn't yet done. In fact, she'd been so worried over the killer stalking her and Breanna that she hadn't stopped to give much thought to the more normal concerns surrounding pregnancy.

As if on cue, a wave of light-headedness accosted her, made her teeter on her feet.

“Stacie?” Damen felt the motion, whipped about to face her. “What's wrong?” Lines of worry tightened his face. “You're white as a sheet.”

“I'm fine—really.” She blinked to clear her head. “Just a bit dizzy.”

“We're sitting down.” He was already guiding her away from the group. “If you'll all excuse us.”

“Certainly,” Lord Crompton said, backing away to let them pass. “Tend to your wife, Sheldrake.”

Damen intended to do just that. He drew Stacie over to an airy corner of the roo

m, then eased her into a chair. Turning toward the hallway, he signaled Wells with his eyes.

The butler was beside them in an instant.

“Miss Stacie? Are you ill?” he demanded.

“No, Wells, just dizzy.” Stacie wished the room would right itself.

“You've eaten almost as little as Miss Breanna did today,” Wells admonished with a frown. “And you're eating for two. I'll bring you a plate of food.”

“Good idea,” Damen answered for her. “And some­thing cool to drink. Not laden with spirits.”

“Of course not, my lord.” Wells sniffed. “I wouldn't think of it.”

“Of course you wouldn't. Forgive me, Wells.” Damen raked a hand through his hair. “I guess I'm more unnerved than I realized.”

“I understand. No apology is necessary.”

“Would you both stop staring at me as if I'm on the verge of death?” Stacie demanded, looking from one man to the other. “The guests will start thinking I have some rare disease.”

“I'll be very discreet,” Wells assured her. He glanced about the room, took in the merrymaking. “Believe me, no one has even noticed us. They haven't any idea what we're talking about.”

Even as he spoke, Lady Dutton was passing the news of Stacie's pregnancy on to the Marchioness of Radebrook.

By the time Wells arrived back from the refreshment table, there wasn't a guest in the room who didn't know that the Marquess and Marchioness of Shel­drake's first child was on its way.

“I'm so glad we're being discreet,” Stacie said in amusement, after the twelfth person had congratulated her. “Wells, you should know by now there's no keeping a secret in the ton.” “Maybe it's better this way,” Damen muttered purposefully to his wife, simultaneously smiling his thanks at the retreating Duke of Maywood, who'd come over to offer his best wishes. “At least the guests re keeping you so busy you can't dash off to interrogate Breanna. That wa s where you were headed when you nearly collapsed at my feet, wasn't it?”

“Yes.” Anastasia knew better than to insult her husband by lying. “Or rather, I was considering in ching my way over to Breanna.” Her curious gaze returned to where her cousin was still chatting with Royce. Breanna was obviously unaware that Stacie was feeling light-headed, or that the room was abuzz with news of her near-swoon. In fact, Breanna was unaware that anything out of the ordinary had taken place. Odd, considering how attuned to each other she and Stacie were. It would take a major distraction to preoccupy Breanna to the point where she wouldn't sense that an event involving Stacie had taken place. Evidently, Royce Chadwick was such a distraction. “Damen, surely you noticed—” “I noticed.” Damen followed his wife's stare. “But I think you're reading' far too much into it. Royce is keeping an eye on Breanna—a practical idea under he circumstances. He knows I'm attached to your side for the night. You need no further protection. Breanna, on the other hand, is alone. So, he's serving as her sentry.”

“Indeed,” Wells agreed with a sniff. “There could be no other explanation for it”

“A sentry.” Stacie rolled her eyes at the two men. “I see. And as her sentry, Royce took her for a half-hour walk on a night that's so cold no one else would dare venture out and he'd therefore be assured of complete privacy.”

“No,” Damen countered. “Knowing Royce, he probably took her for a walk to try to keep her mind off her anxiety. Breanna's coping with an enormous emotional burden. Not only is she grappling with her own fears, she's terrified for you and the babe.”

“That's true.” A pained expression crossed Wells's lined face. “Miss Breanna feels responsible—unfound­ed though her guilt might be—for jeopardizing you all. She feels that if she'd never taken that shot—”

“I'd be dead right now,” Stacie stated flatly. “Brean­na saved my life. I've told her over and over again that she's not responsible for the threats of a madman. But she won't be appeased until he's found and stopped. Nevertheless...” Stacie broke off, still studying Breanna pensively. “None of this has any bearing on what's happening here tonight. After all, worry wouldn't bring a glow to Breanna's cheeks, nor would her overly acute sense of responsibility cause tendrils of her hair to topple.”

Wells frowned, puzzled. He polished his spectacles, then shoved them back on, peering worriedly toward Breanna. “Miss Breanna's hair looks fine to me.”