“We will make time.”
“The baby will not.”
“The baby must!”
“That,” she gritted out as another contraction seized her, “is not how childbirth works.”
Their argument broke off at Mr Peterson’s arrival. One glance at Marianne’s face and he shifted at once into professional command.
“How far apart are the pains?”
“Two minutes? Perhaps less?”
“And your waters?”
“Broken. Just now.”
“Then we must get Her Grace to a private room immediately. This child is coming now.”
“Now?” Adrian’s voice cracked. “Here? At the opera?”
“Unless you prefer the event take place in your box before half of London, yes.”
That galvanised Adrian into action. He swept Marianne into his arms despite her protests and strode for the door with grim purpose. Heads turned; fans fluttered; whispers rose in waves as the Duke of Harrowmere carried his very pregnant duchess through the corridor.
“Is she—?”
“Goodness gracious!”
“At the opera?”
“How shocking!”
“Someone fetch a midwife!”
The passage to the retiring room—one of the few spaces with any privacy and a decent chaise—felt endless. Adrian’s jaw was set with barely contained panic while Marianne breathed through contractions that were now nearly continuous.
“This is not how I planned it,” she panted.
“You planned this?” he demanded, scandalised.
“I planned to be at home. In our bed. With you safely banished to your study with brandy.”
“Instead, you are having our child at Covent Garden!”
“It seemed appropriate—full circle!”
“Full insanity!”
They burst into the retiring room, which was swiftly cleared of fainting debutantes and curious matrons. Catherine took command with tidy ferocity, dispatching Timothy for supplies, ordering screens for privacy, and conjuring hot water and clean linens as if by sorcery.
“This is really happening,” Adrian said faintly.
“Yes,” Marianne managed, another pain building. “And you are staying.”
“Of course I am staying.”
“Good. I intend to hold your hand. Possibly break it.”
