John glanced at the pile of devilled kidneys on the side table, longing in his eyes, then nodded and approached the door.
Sometimes—just sometimes—the valet possessed enough insight to be sensible of the feelings of others. It was a well-known fact that new brides bled like sows on the wedding night and were delicate the following morning. And Charles was hardly a small man—both in stature and, according to the whores he’d taken over the years, in girth.
“Mr. Richards, there’s no need—” Olivia began, but the valet interrupted.
“There’s every need, Lady Devereaux,” he said. “I’ll take my breakfast in the kitchen.”
She nodded, then reached for her teacup, which rattled against the saucer as her hand shook. She resumed her attention on the plate in front of her, though she merely pushed her food from one side to the other, then back again.
Charles approached the side table, his gaze wandering to the sheetsof paper stacked beside the dishes, a pencil placed at the side, and helped himself to eggs and a spoonful of kidneys. Then, dismissing the attending footman with a wave of his hand, he resumed his seat and began to devour his food, forcing himself not to glance in his wife’s direction.
At length, she spoke.
“May I ask you something?”
He nodded.
“Last night… D-does it always hurt?”
Only for the woman, and only the first time.
She stared at his hand gestures, then glanced at the pile of paper.
Shit—how could he bring himself to writethatdown?
He contented himself with shaking his head.
“A-and the blood,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “Eleanor said…” She shook her head. “It matters not. I-is that why you cut yourself…that night at the inn? So, the maid tending to the sheets…”
Devil’s breeches, he wasn’t prepared for the sort of conversation that should take place between a bride and her mother.
But Olivia had no mother, only a sister-in-law who’d failed in her duty in preparing her for the marriage bed.
“Whydidyou do it?” she said. “I-I mean…cut yourself that night?”
A wife whom her husband neglects on the wedding night is a source of ridicule. I would not have everyone at the inn gossiping about you.
She watched his hands, then gestured to the paper. “Please, I don’t understand you.”
He plucked a sheaf from the side table and scribbled on it.
So as not to shame you.
She read the words, then returned the paper and picked up her fork, once more pushing a kidney about the plate.
“A-am I now with child?”
Bloody hell, had the duchess not told heranything? Such matters were not suitable for the breakfast table, even between women.
Wrinkling his nose, he picked up the pencil, wrote on the paper,and thrust it at her.
I hope to God you are not.
She stared at the paper, then crumpled it in her hand.
Perhaps he’d been too harsh, but surely she didn’t want to bring a child into the world. Nothere. He had endured nothing but misery in this godforsaken house. It was enough of a sin to have this innocent creature endure a life here, let alone a child.
“What do you mean?”
