Her tiny fist reached from her blankets to grab at his dangling cravat. She gave a mighty tug and he pulled it from her hand with a delighted laugh. My heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. Michael turned to me, seeking out a laugh at his predicament most likely. When he found none, he must have misread my expression. He bounced over with Meg, holding her out to me.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t.”
“Of course you can. You just make sure to support her head, like this.”
He leaned back slightly, using gravity to keep her against his chest. With his free hand, he laid one of mine out along my chest. Gently, he laid her along my arm, her tiny head in my hand. He wrapped my other arm around the outside, ensuring Meg stayed put.
It was too much. It was everything, and it would never be enough.I wanted this. Desperately. Until right this moment, my fears had been an abstract problem for a future married Juliet.
But now, this second, I wanted this man’s arm around my shoulder, just as it was now. With a baby in my arms. Our baby. With sleek dark waves and bright blue eyes. His more olive complexion would look very fine with my eyes.
My throat was closing, knotted tight. Years and years of my father’s promises and complaints swirled around me.
“Your mother was barren. All she managed, after years and years, was you. A sniveling girl. You’ll be just the same, just as fruitless to a husband. If anyone puts it together, I’ll never be rid of you.”Or worse still, “It’s a blessing that you won’t breed. Then you can’t inflict your hysterics on my grandchildren.”
Tears were welling up, and I blinked them back before he noticed. There was no explaining this. Not to Michael or Kate. Not to anyone.
Small, adorable whines began to escape the sweet girl in my arms. Her mother rose, reaching for her. It took everything in me to fix the placid smile on my face. To hand over the tiny bundle in my arms that cost me everything. In mere moments, I gave over a dream I never knew I had.
Because even if I was able to have a child, it would never be with the man whose arm just left my shoulder bereft. And try as I might, as easily as the image of the child Michael and I would create appeared, I couldn’t see Rosehill’s son in my arms.
Eventually, Kate was convinced to return Finn to his mother as well, and we set back off toward the house.
The jovial attitude from earlier had escaped us all. I could barely manage the effort of holding back the tears. Michael and Kate were equally quiet.
When we approached the house, Michael slowed. “I think I’m going to ride this afternoon, ladies.”
“Will you join us for dinner?”
“Tomorrow, perhaps. Duchess, I’ll see you in the morning?” There was a tinny quality to his voice. When I nodded, genuine and eager, he smiled. “Good.”
He turned off, heading toward the stables. Kate and I continued our trudge up to the house in silence.
I had not had one of my fits since I had arrived in the country. Desperate to stave it off, I breathed in and back out for five. Twice more and the knot began to recede.
I decided to think no more of it, to lock those thoughts back in the box they came from. It was either the truth, or it was not. And regardless, the truth was that the child with the blue eyes and dark waves was never to be. No matter the state of my womb.
Eighteen
THORNTON HALL, KENT - JUNE 1, 1814
JULIET
The sun’s rays,warbling in the reflection on the lake, warmed my back as I embroidered in the drawing room. With some skill, I managed to avoid thinking of the events of that afternoon, of the little boy or girl who would never be. Today was no different.
Kate’s talented fingers plucked out a new tune on the pianoforte off to the side. I did not recognize it, but I could recognize the beginnings of something lovely. Mr. Tom Grayson seemed to be playing a game of chess against himself. Not being a player myself, I could only assume he was winning. Agatha had kindly feigned a megrim once again. Those seemed to be a regular occurrence and a gift to all involved. And, once again, the viscount was nowhere to be found.
I was in the midst of my second attempt at the periwinkle gown’s bodice. Kate had gifted me more of the shimmery golden silk thread, and I had chosen to create an appliqué rather than stitching directly into the gown, the source of my failing previously. Inspired by mornings at the bridge, I used forget-me-nots and dogwood blooms in place of the indistinct flowers and vines of the previous design.
I filled in a petal with vertical satin stitch to catch the light, intending it to contrast the more textured French knots. I was pulled from my work by the sight before me. Michael. More specifically, Michael’s forearms. He had shucked his coat and rolled his sleeves before pulling a writing desk over to the window, ostensibly for more light.
He occupied himself writing to Augie. I had never met the man, but I was unreasonably invested in his relationship with Anna. The unconscious, giddy smile that crossed her face whenever he was mentioned in her presence was more than enough for me to wish them well.
Thoughts of their budding romance floated away when Michael flexed his hand, stretching cramped fingers. Long, straight cramped fingers with square, well manicured nails, attached to wide strong hands—lord, what was wrong with me? Lusting after a man’s hands. Hands with defined muscles and veins running along the back into muscular forearms.
I turned back to my work, determined to focus. Then he rolled his shoulders and crooked his neck to one side, glancing out the window. Oh! He must be doing this on purpose, he simply must be.
The quill dropped from his hand with a clatter, ink splashing across the pages and pooling beneath it. The wooden chair clattered to the ground as Michael startled with a wordless cry, racing to the door.
