“Marianne?”
She looked up to find Adrian in the doorway, his expression shifting from irritation to alarm in an instant.
“I thought you were resting.”
“I wanted to hear—” The world tilted again, and this time Adrian caught her before she could fall.
“That is quite enough. Catherine, send for Dr Peterson at once—and ask the steward why he has not arrived sooner.”
“Adrian, I am—”
“If you sayfine, I shall lock you in our chamber until you are.”
“That’s imprisonment.”
“That’s marriage,” he retorted, sweeping her into his arms. “Our marriage, at any rate.”
Mr Peterson arrived within the hour—a testament both to the Duke’s influence and to the generous retainer that ensured his prompt attendance. He was young and modern in his practice, which was precisely why Adrian preferred him to the older physicians who prescribed leeches and mercury for all ills.
“Your Grace,” he bowed to Adrian, then turned to Marianne. “Your Grace. What appears to be the trouble?”
“Nothing—” Marianne began.
“Nausea, dizziness, fatigue, loss of appetite,” Adrian interjected grimly. “For at least a week.”
“I see. Might I examine Her Grace privately?”
Adrian’s jaw set. “I am remaining.”
“Adrian—”
“I. Am. Remaining.”
Mr Peterson, recognising futility when he saw it, inclined his head. “Very well. When did Your Grace’s last courses occur?”
Marianne felt herself blush. “I… cannot quite recall.”
“Five weeks ago,” Adrian said quietly. When she looked at him in surprise, he shrugged. “I told you. I notice everything about you.”
“I see.” Mr Peterson’s expression remained professionally neutral. “And have you experienced any other symptoms? Sensitivity to odours, perhaps? Tenderness in certain areas?”
“Yes,” Marianne admitted quietly. “Both.”
The physician smiled. “Then I believe congratulations are in order. Unless I am mistaken, Your Grace is with child.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Marianne watched Adrian’s face shift through disbelief, wonder, and terror before settling somewhere indescribable.
“Adrian?” she said tentatively.
“A child.” His voice was rough, almost reverent. “You are carryingmychild.”
“So it appears.”
“Our child,” he said again, as though testing the sound of it.
Mr Peterson cleared his throat delicately. “Perhaps I should give you some privacy. Your Grace, I shall leave instructions with your lady’s maid about diet and rest. Avoid excessive excitement, no riding, light exercise only. I’ll call again in a fortnight to check your progress.”
He departed with professional efficiency, leaving Marianne and Adrian staring at each other across a chasm of unspoken emotions.
