The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

Equally impossible to deny the reality of what she’d seen. He wouldn’t—didn’t think he could—do that.

He couldn’t go on that way—denying what was so real and true, so powerful and potent.

They couldn’t.

It’s time.

Undoubtedly, yet he was drained, wrung dry by the past hours, the past day; he wasn’t up to explaining and reassuring her, not yet.

Holding her gaze, refusing to turn aside and hide the truth any longer, he told her, “Sanderson said the baby was unharmed. That as long as you recovered, our child would survive.”

Nearly overcome by the tide of emotion the words evoked, he raised her hand and pressed a long, fervent kiss to her knuckles.

Her expression had blanked. She blinked. “Baby?”

He’d wondered if she’d realized. “It’s early days yet, but Sanderson’s probably the most experienced practitioner around, and he was sure. He said you’re somewhere between one and two months along. We’re apparently to be blessed in January.”

He was somewhat cravenly relieved to see that she was as distracted by the news as he was. Ever since Sanderson had told him, his mind kept returning to and fixing on the fact—on the prospect of holding his own child in the new year. Of sharing those precious moments with her.

Gently, he eased his fingers from hers and rose. “I’ll get you some water.” He crossed to the side table where a pitcher and glasses stood waiting.

Stacie’s eyes tracked Frederick, but she wasn’t truly seeing him. Instead, her mind was filled with the vision of her cradling a babe—hers and Frederick’s.

If anyone had asked if she wanted children, she would have said yes, but now the prospect was staring her in the face…she wanted it with a desperate ardor that stole her breath.

She hadn’t known it—she—would be like this.

Then Frederick was back with a glass of water. Her arms were still weak; he helped her to sit up, helped her guide the glass to her lips so she could drink.

When she pushed the glass away, he turned and placed it on the nightstand, within easy reach.

He wasn’t, she realized, meeting her eyes, not even when he glanced back at her and said, “There’s color in your cheeks—I think it’s safe to say you’ve turned the corner.” His lips quirked a fraction in self-deprecation. “Sanderson felt confident you would.”

He hesitated, his fingertips trailing over the back of her hand—as if he’d intended to reach for it, but wasn’t sure he should. Then he drew in a deep breath and said, “As you’re awake, I’ll send for Ernestine.”

She would have turned her hand and caught his and argued, but he raised both hands, rubbed his eyes, then drew his hands down over the achingly weary planes of his face.

“I need to get some sleep.” Finally, his eyes met hers. “When you’re fully recovered, we can…discuss whatever you wish.”

Her mind was still reeling as she watched him walk to the bellpull and tug it. She wanted to insist he stay and sleep beside her—where else?—then she realized she wasn’t, as she’d supposed, in the bed they now shared but in the one in the marchioness’s apartments.

They’d been redecorated, too, using the same garnet-red fabrics as in the main bedchamber. The only real difference was that the furniture in this room was lighter, more feminine in style.

Someone had come to the door, and Frederick had spoken with them. Now, he closed the door, glanced at her, then walked toward the connecting door leading to his bedroom.

The way he moved told her just how dragged down he was; small wonder he wanted to get some rest before discussing the issue that now lay between them.

With his hand on the doorknob, he paused and looked back at her, as if, despite all, he didn’t want to leave her.

She summoned a smile, weak though it undoubtedly was, and managed to raise a hand and wave him on. “Go. You need to recover, too.”

That he did testified to the reality she dreaded. He held her gaze for an instant more, then dipped his head to her, opened the door, and left.

She watched the door close behind him, then the smile fell from her face. She needed time, too—to assimilate all that had changed between them and decide what she ought to do.

Chapter 18

Stacie awoke the next morning alone, feeling much improved physically, but with a problem more fraught than any she’d ever faced looming before her.