She turned her head, wincing at the ache in her neck to see Dr. Cheam rising from a chair.
“You’ve had quite an adventure, Lady Devereaux,” he said. “First you tumble down the stairs, then, as if that’s not exciting enough, you see fit to throw yourself off a cliff. I rather wonder whether—”
He broke off as Charles rose to his feet, anger in his eyes.
“Of course, I’m just jesting.” The doctor held up a phial. “I can give you a little more laudanum if you’re still in pain, though I’m not an advocate of its use when a woman is with child.”
“I’m in no pain, Dr. Cheam,” Olivia said.
“Is there anything that you need?”
She glanced at the huge hand engulfing her own, then lifted it to her lips.
“No, Dr. Cheam,” she said. “I have everything I need—and will ever need—right here.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Five months later.
Devil’s breeches, couldhis beloved wife be in any more pain? Why weren’t theydoinganything? Surely no creature could endure such suffering for so long?
Charles winced when Olivia dug her fingernails into his palm as she shook with another spasm. She threw her head back and let out a primal roar, her face contorted with agony. He gestured toward Mrs. Brougham, but she ignored him.
They all ignored him.
So many bloody women, together in a confined space! It was enough to make a man weak with fear. And he would have been, save for the one person who made him strong.
His wife—the woman he’d fight the whole world to protect from harm.
Yet here she was, lying before him, racked with agony—agony that he was solely responsible for.
Dear God, what will I do without her?
He let out a whimper as she turned her face toward him, her eyes glazed with pain.
The midwife’s crisp tones cut through the air. “Lord save me from weak-bellied men! Why a man thinks he has the stomach for a birthing, I’ll never understand.”
“Mrs. Cheam, Lord Devereaux is—”
“He’s aman, and as such, has no place here.”
Olivia’s spasm subsided, and she lay back while Susie placed a clothover her forehead. Treacherous little creature—Charles would never have forgiven Olivia’s maid for the role she played in her mistress’s accident, but an impressionable child, swayed by an older sister she’d worshipped, was perhaps to be forgiven. Her crimes had been born of folly rather than evil—at least, that was what Olivia had said. And Susie had tended to her mistress since that day with penitence and devotion.
“That’s enough, Susie. Don’t crowd your mistress.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Duchess Whitcombe shooed the maid aside then took Olivia’s free hand.
“Your moment has come, dearest,” she said. “Listen to Mrs. Cheam and all will be well.” She glanced at Charles. “Lord Devereaux, I really think it’s best if you join my husband in the drawing room. Olivia doesn’t want you distracting her, and I don’t want you fainting.”
He arched his eyebrows, and she let out a huff.
“You think you’re different from other men? My Montague passed out when I gave birth to Horatio. He’d convinced himself that he had the constitution of an ox, but at the first sight of blood, he fainted like a baby bird falling out of the nest. Fell against the armchair, cracked his head open, and bled all over my finest carpet. I suspect he soiled his breeches also.”
Olivia let out a giggle between gasps for air.
“You think I jest, dearest?” the duchess said. “Poor Susie here, I am sure, does not wish to mop up the floor, or wash her master’s breeches, after such an event—especially considering the enormity of the luncheon he consumed today. Two helpings of meat pie, and—”
