“There’s no need. I’m paid well to care for you.”
“You are?”
“Lord Devereaux sent instructions as soon as he returned here married, to care for you should you need of anything. He pays a regular stipend—an overly generous one, if you ask me, but he was very insistent. Did you not know?”
Oliva shook her head.
“I-I didn’t think he had the means. I…” She hesitated, her cheeks warming with shame. “Forgive me. I should not speak of such things.”
He snapped his bag shut and rose. “In my experience, few husbands—even those of means—make such an arrangement for their wives.”
He bowed, then exited the chamber.
Was he trying to tell her that her husband had made the arrangement because he cared for her? But even if that were true, what would he think when he discovered that she was with child, after he’d expressed so bluntly that he had no wish to be a father?
Olivia placed a hand over her belly.
“Hello,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I placed you in danger today, but I’ll be careful in future.”
She closed her eyes, trying to form the image in her mind—cradling her child in her arms, handing him to his father, who smiled down at him with love…
But she could not.
“I’lllove you,” she said. “Perhaps you might love me.”
She closed her eyes, unwilling to voice the words.
Even if nobody else does.
Chapter Thirty-One
Two more daysand I can be reunited with her.
About bloody time.
London had never held any pleasure for Charles, and right now he utterly was sick of the place. Sick of the buildings crammed against each other, sick of the bright colors and sharp voices of Society’s finest all trying to outdo each other in ostentation, sick of the endless noise, even at night in a place that never seemed to take rest, and most of all…
Most of all, he was heartily sick of being separated from his wife.
But soon he could hold her in his arms again—not to mention indulge in giving her a taste of pleasure.
“Well! You’re looking a little less like a thundercloud today, sir.”
Fuck off, John.
The valet grinned. Charles drew in a lungful of air and glanced at his surroundings. At least Hyde Park gave him some respite from all the brickwork, though there was no relief from the people who, with their gaudy silks and bright waistcoats, visited the park to be seen rather than enjoy the little haven of greenery that made a passable attempt at resembling the countryside.
At least he could be thankful for having a limited acquaintance, which meant that few people stopped him to engage in inane conversation about the inclement weather that London had been suffering now winter was upon them, or the latest gossip about the prince regent’s mistresses. In fact, the only soul Charles recognized—theDuke of Foxton—was too occupied with the painted ladies adorning each perfectly tailored arm to give him more than a cursory nod.
A volley of childish squeals filled the air, followed by a cacophony of quacks, splashing water, and a nursemaid’s high-pitched admonishments. A young girl raced away from the edge of the Serpentine, toward a tree, yelling with laughter. Charles caught sight of a second child, a boy of five or six, swinging from a branch of the tree, then the boy released his hold and fell to the ground, landing in a heap beside a rhododendron. A lady dressed in bright-blue silk let out a cry and approached the child. Charles winced, in anticipation of the child receiving a beating, but instead, the lady scooped the boy into her arms, and they filled the air with their laughter.
“For shame!” a female voice huffed as a couple passed by. “But I suppose it’s not unexpected, given her tomboyish nature. Earl Thorpe is to be pitied for marrying that misfit.”
“He doesn’t look all that pitiful, my dear,” the woman’s companion said in the muted voice of the henpecked husband.
A tall man approached the lady and joined in the laughter, then he picked up the girl and placed her on his shoulders. Charles found himself smiling at the little family—father, mother, son, and daughter—indulging in the simple, natural pleasure of a little tomfoolery. He knew Thorpe by sight, having seen him at Oxford, though they’d never moved in the same circles. He’d seemed a stuffy fellow, overly fastidious about decorum.
But marriage to a misfit must have transformed Thorpe—lucky bastard, able to appreciate, and be part of, the happiness of a child who was given free rein to express joy in merely being alive.
