Sarah’s hands paused. “If I may speak freely, Your Grace?”
“Always.”
“You’ve been cooped up like a hen for two months—begging your pardon. His Grace means well, but no woman thrives within the same four walls forever, however fine those walls may be.” Her eyes twinkled. “And you’ve a look about you tonight. My mama had that look the day she birthed my youngest brother.”
“What look?”
“Like you’re preparing for battle, Your Grace. Question is, what sort of battle?”
Before Marianne could answer, another pain struck—sharp, insistent, and accompanied by a new pressure low in her frame. She gripped the bedpost, breathing through it.
“Your Grace?” Sarah’s voice wavered. “Shall I fetch His Grace?”
“No!” The word emerged more sharply than she intended. “I’m perfectly well. The baby is merely… assertive.”
Sarah did not look convinced but resumed her work. When she finished, Marianne looked every inch the duchess—elegant, composed, and only marginally green about the edges from discomfort.
Adrian’s reaction as she descended the stairs—very slowly, gripping both the bannister and Timothy’s offered arm—was gratifying enough to justify the entire ordeal.
“You look…” he began, and then seemed to lose language entirely.
“Enormous?” she suggested.
“Magnificent,” he corrected at once. Then, with reluctant honesty: “And enormous. Magnificently enormous.”
“Such poetry,” Catherine teased, radiant in rose-coloured silk. “No wonder Marianne succumbed to you.”
“She succumbed because I threatened her enemies and compromised her in conservatories,” Adrian replied. “Poetry played no part.”
“The threats were romantic—in context,” Marianne said, then halted as another pain gathered. She hid it by smoothing her gloves, but Adrian’s sharp gaze caught the flicker.
“You’re unwell.”
“I’m perfectly well.”
“You’re pale.”
“It’s the fashion.”
“Marianne—”
“Adrian, if you tell me to stay home one more time, I shall return to my father’s house until the baby arrives.”
The threat was empty—she could barely walk to the carriage, let alone orchestrate a household move—but it had the desired effect. Adrian subsided into worried silence, though his hand remained firmly at her back, ready to support her at the slightest sign of distress.
The carriage ride to Covent Garden was both endless and far too brief. Each bump in the road sent new sensations through her body, each one stronger than the last. She found herself gripping Adrian’s hand hard enough to leave marks, though she tried to disguise it as affection rather than desperation.
The opera house loomed before them, ablaze with gaslight, already buzzing with the little Season’s audience. And every one of them was eager to gawk at the Duchess of Harrowmere—heavy with child and unashamedly in public.
“Last chance to retreat,” Adrian murmured.
“Never.”
A fierce pain stole her breath, but retreat was impossible now—the carriage door was opening, footmen were standing ready, and all of society was watching to see if the merchant duchess had finally overreached.
Adrian stepped down first, then turned to assist her, needing Timothy’s support as well. The moment her feet touched the pavement, something shifted—dropped—settled with startling finality.
“Oh,” she breathed.
