“Bed. Now.”
“You are being tyrannical.”
“I am being anxious,” he countered, carrying her upstairs. “There is a distinction.”
“Is there? Because from where I’m sitting—or rather, being carried—they seem remarkably similar.”
He deposited her on their bed with gentle care that belied his commanding tone. “Stay there. Don’t move. I’ll have Sarah bring tea and—”
“Adrian.” She caught his hand before he could turn away. “I am perfectly well.”
He sat beside her, cupping her face in his palm. “You frightened me. When you swayed like that, I thought—” His jaw tightened.
“What did you think?”
“I thought I might lose you.” The quiet intensity of it made her throat tighten. “I cannot lose you, Marianne. I have only just learned how to love you. I need more time. A lifetime.”
“You have me,” she said softly, pressing his hand to her cheek. “I am not going anywhere.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
He kissed her then, slow and desperate, as though anchoring himself. When he drew back, his forehead rested against hers.
“The physician will still see you.”
“Adrian—”
“Non-negotiable.”
She sighed, resigned. “Very well. But when Mr Peterson declares me in perfect health, you will owe me an apology.”
“Gladly,” he said, brushing a kiss across her brow. “Rest now.”
He stood. “I’ll check on Catherine.”
“Don’t terrify Lord Timothy.”
“I make no promises.”
After he left, Marianne lay back against the pillows, her hand drifting to her stomach. The nausea had subsided, replaced by a fluttering nervousness that had nothing to do with bad fish or exhaustion. She had been refusing to name the possibility, but the signs were growing impossible to ignore—the missed courses, the morning queasiness, the newfound aversion to breakfast.
Yet it was surely too soon. They had been married but a little while, and Adrian—dear, overprotective Adrian—was only just learning to temper his guardianship of Catherine. How would he bear the prospect of a child? The image of him hovering for nine months, catastrophising every faint or flutter, was at once endearing and alarming.
After some time, a knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Your Grace? Lord Timothy is asking to speak with His Grace privately. Something about an important matter. I thought you would wish to know.”
Marianne sat up too quickly, and the motion sent a fresh wave of dizziness through her. “Where are they?”
“In His Grace’s study, Your Grace.”
She rose carefully, steadying herself against the bedpost. If Lord Timothy wished to speak with Adrian on someimportant matter, there was only one subject it could concern. And she most certainly was not going to miss that conversation—dizziness or no.
She made her way downstairs with the stealth of one long practised in navigating her husband’s moods. The study door was slightly ajar; the voices within carried clearly.
“—understand your concerns, Your Grace,” Lord Timothy was saying, his tone respectful but steady. “But I assure you, my intentions toward Lady Catherine are entirely honourable.”
