Her cheeks are warm, whether by questions, or from the heat of the fireplace behind her. “Five years in March.”
I tack the envelopes down onto the wrapped and ribboned boxes, but my frowned face is aimed at her—because, I’m sorry, but she’s been married for five damn years, and I didn’t know a thing about it?
“Do you have children?”
She shouldn’t.
I mean, I’ve never seen her pregnant.
But five years of marriage in our world, that should mean at least one child, preferably two.
One to take the reins of a family empire—the other to sell, to use as a pawn for networking.
Most aristos families get started on heir production within the first year. It’s even considered a blessing from the gods to conceive on the wedding night—and a lot of work goes into that night.
It’s the sort of night I push out of my mind, no matter who the husband might be. It’s a dark night, one to not think about, and just hope the brews are enough to knock me out for the entire thing.
Still, the dread spreads through my chest like ice, and it’s a relief when Abigail steals my attention back to her.
“I have two.”
I blink at her, stumbling out of the horrors of the wedding night, and back onto the rug, where we card and wrap gifts, and I’m safe for another year.
Then I hear what she told me.
“What?” An incredulous look warps my face. I still, the pen firm in my hand, and I sputter, “You havetwo children?”
Her nod is slight.
For a heartbeat, I just stare at her, my face a furrowed mess of disbelief, then a scoff chokes me. I toss the pen to the discarded wrapping paper, then shove the two boxes aside to make way for the last one.
Abigail pushes the final box closer to me.
Identical to the ones I just carded and ribboned, this one must be Oliver’s.
That’s confirmed when Abigail says, “The gold watch.”
I keep my moody frown on her. “What are they?”
Abigail’s brows lift. “Pardon, Miss Olivia?”
“Your children,” I intrude. “Are they boys, or girls, or one of each?”
“A boy and a girl,” she says, soft, and hands me a final address card. “Twins,” she adds, proud. “They turn three next month.”
I sink my weight.
My bum presses into my heels, legs folded too long, starting to ache, but I just frown at her. “When were you pregnant?”
Her cheeks are on fire now.
It must be the hearth, since she’s so close to it.
“The staff of a house often schedule these things,” she says.
My answer is a raised brow. “Schedule…? Like… you planned your pregnancy around me?”
“Yes, Miss Olivia.”
