"I'm twenty-three!" wailed in her mind.
Resolutely shutting the words out, she headed determinedly down the corridor that ran above the master suite.
"Higgs, have you seen her ladyship?"
The housekeeper was bustling down the corridor, her arms full of fresh linens, two parlor maids in tow.
"Not since just after luncheon, my lord. She was in her parlor, then."
Amelia wasn't in her parlor now; Luc had just been there. Frowning, he turned toward the front hall.
The second parlor maid skidded to a halt and bobbed. "I saw her ladyship going up the main stairs, m'lord. When we was on our way to get these." She lifted the folded linens in her arms.
"That would be about fifteen minutes ago, my lord," Higgs called back.
"Thank you, Molly." Luc strode for the stairs.
As he climbed, he slowed. Wondered why Amelia had gone to their apartments, wondered what she'd be doing when he found her.
Wondered what he would say — what excuse he would give for his appearance.
Reaching the first floor, he paused, then shook aside his reservation. He was married to the damn woman — he had a right to join her whenever he wished.
He strode straight to the bedroom, opened the door — one quick glance told him the room was empty. Disappointment tugged; he looked at the connecting door to her private rooms, then stepped into the bedroom and shut the door. She might have heard his footsteps in the corridor; if he came from this direction, it would appear he was just looking in on her.
But when he sauntered into her sitting room, that, too, was empty. Frowning, he returned to the bedroom, then checked his private room, a place he rarely used, but she wasn't there, either.
Returning to the bedroom, his gaze fell on the bed. Their bed. The bed in which, ever since that afternoon they'd spent in it, they came together without so much as a veil between them emotionally or physically. What reigned in that bed was the truth — what he didn't know, couldn't tell, was whether on her part it meant love.
For himself, he no longer doubted it, but that only made his uncertainty greater, made his question more crucially important.
If what she felt for him was love, then he and their future stood on rock-solid ground.
If it wasn't love… he was in a hideously vulnerable position.
There was no way he could tell. No matter that he'd watched her like a hawk, he'd yet to see any outward sign that she loved him, any evidence that what she felt for him when she took him into her body was more than purely physical.
He stared at the bed, then turned away. For other men, perhaps that — her physical giving — would be assurance enough. Not for him. That belief was one he'd lost long ago.
From the door, he glanced back at the bed. What it now embodied both frightened and buoyed him. At least he had time — a few months. Until the end of September. No need to panic.
Marriage lasted for a lifetime — nothing in his life was currently more important than convincing Amelia to love him, and show it, at least enough so he would know. So he could feel confident, and emotionally safe, again.
Quitting their room, he headed back to the stairs, then paused, nonplussed. Where was she? Intending to descend, he reached for the balustrade — and heard a sound. Faint, distant; he couldn't place it. Then he heard it more definitely, looked up.
A second later, he left the downward flight and took the stairs up to the top floor.
The door off the gallery stood open. Beyond it, looking out over the valley, lay the nursery. He approached the door; courtesy of the runner, Amelia didn't hear him. Leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, he watched her.
She was half turned away, facing a large cot standing between the windows. Taking notes.
The sight made his heart catch, had him quickly calculating… but no, not yet. The emotion that had surged was familiar; in the face of her occupation, it had scaled new heights. He wanted to see her with his babe in her arms — that want was absolute, intense, now an integral part of him. And, thankfully, one facet of his love for her he didn't need to hide.
She lifted her head; he considered the note tablet in her hand. As yet unaware of him, she read what she'd written, then slipped tablet and pencil into her pocket.
Leaving the cot, she moved to a low dresser under one window. She pulled out two drawers, peered in, then slid them shut. Then she looked at the window, studied it, reached out and tugged at the bars set into the frame.
His lips curved. "They're solid. I can vouch for it."