“I was ill,” she countered, although she knew it was a weak defense. She had been ill because of all that dratted champagne she had consumed in an effort to drown out thoughts of the man who had jilted her.
“As you are now, albeit for a different, far happier reason.” He settled himself on the bed at her side and took her hands in his to bring them to his lips for a series of reverent kisses. “That is the true beauty in love, is it not? We can see each other at our lowest moments, but nothing lessens or alters our love for each other. These are our vows, are they not? For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey.”
“Till death do us part,” she agreed, her stomach blessedly feeling as if it were settled.
Some days, she woke to vicious nausea. Others, she woke to the need of a chamber pot. According to Ellie, who was ahead of her in the adventure of bearing a child, she would soon be through these days and could look forward to less discomfort until she reached the end stages, and her discomfort became caused by her girth rather than by the need to cast up her accounts. It was a tradeoff Izzy was not convinced she would appreciate, but then, there would be time for that assessment later.
When her belly was big and round with their child.
Their child.
Her hand crept to her belly, giving it a gentle caress meant more for the tiny life within her than for herself. It was almost impossible to believe this wretched morning illness would result in a baby a few months from now.
“Let us not speak of death, for we have both experienced far too much of that,” her husband said, his hand covering hers. “Let us instead speak of life.Thislife. The one we have created together.”
“Yes. We have much to look forward to.” Rather a lot of sleepless nights, if Ellie was to be believed.
But also, love.
So much love.
She thought of her darling niece Margaret, and her heart,oh. Her heart was filled.
“God, yes. We have so much to look forward to,” Zachary agreed, his gaze as tender as his tone. “Everything, in fact. But for now, the question of the morning is tea, toast, or dentifrice?”
“Dentifrice,” she decided, accepting his aid as she got out of bed, wincing at the sour taste of last night’s supper in her mouth. “Most assuredly dentifrice.”
* * *
His wife was completelyand utterly in possession of his heart, now and forever. Which was why, as Zachary sat opposite her at the breakfast table, reading the news of her former betrothed no longer marrying the American heiress Miss Alice Harcourt, Zachary’s breath caught. It was also why an invisible fist squeezed that tender organ in a vise-like grip. Why he froze, crumpling the paper and causing her to take note of his distress.
“Is something wrong, my love?”
He lowered the paper at her dulcet voice, the concern so evident, and met her gaze. She was ethereally lovely this morning, as usual. Dressed in a morning gown of bold, brash colors with all manner of ornamentation, the swollen roundness of her belly scarcely hidden in the busyness.
“There is news,” he told her, not bothering to avoid the subject.
“Oh?” Her brow wrinkled. “Something bad?”
Christ, he hoped not. He knew not. He knew Izzy’s love for him was deep and irrefutable. But he could not deny that a part of him remained vulnerable when it came to the matter of her former feelings for one Mr. Arthur Penhurst, heartless arsehole and traitorous betrothed.
“It would seem that Mr. Arturd Penhurst and his betrothed, Miss Alice Harcourt of New York City, have reached the decision not to marry,” he said, deliberately resorting to his insulting pet name for Penhurst. Becausecurse the bastard, that was why. He had never deserved Izzy. Hadn’t even deserved the goddamned mud on her boots.
“Arthur and his heiress are not marrying after all?” Izzy did not appear concerned, continuing to cut her breakfast into manageable portions.
“Right.” He felt mildly ill, and terribly displeased with himself for his vulnerability.
“Ha! Bravo, Miss Harcourt.” His wife grinned at him. “I can only hope she realized what a self-important bag of wind he is and changed her mind.”
“You do not have regrets?” he asked, needing to know.
“Regrets?” She frowned. “About Arthur and Miss Harcourt? Of course not. I can only commend her for seeing the true man beneath his façade far sooner than I did.”
“I meant,” he forced himself to say, “about you and I. I know you loved Penhurst, and now he is free once more.”
“I thoughtI was in love with him,” she corrected, rising from her chair. “In truth, I was in love with the idea of him. In my youthful fancies, I imagined him to be an entirely different man than he was.” She was before him in an instant, settling her rump on the breakfast table, her massivetournureknocking about some cutlery and glassware. “Oh dear.”
There were no attendants at this breakfast, no servants to overhear.
