“Say something,” Marianne finally whispered.
Adrian moved to the window, his back to her, shoulders rigid with tension. “I don’t knowwhatto say.”
“Are you... disappointed?”
He turned sharply, incredulous. “Disappointed? Marianne, you are carrying my heir—our child. How could I possibly be disappointed?”
“Then why do you look as though someone has died?”
“Because someonemight.” The words burst from him, raw and anguished. “You might. Childbirth is dangerous. Women die—strong, healthy women—bringing life into the world, and I cannot—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair in agitation.
“Adrian—”
“My mother had three stillbirths after Catherine,” he said hoarsely. “Three. Each one nearly killed her. The last did, in itsway. She never recovered—grew weaker and weaker until a mere chill finished what childbirth began.”
Marianne crossed to him despite his defensive stance. “I am not your mother.”
“No, but you aremine,” he said, seizing her shoulders, his grip a little too firm. “Mine to protect, to keep safe—and I have failed already. I have put you in danger through my selfish desires, my need for you—”
“Stop.” She pressed her fingers to his lips. “You have not failed. This is what happens in marriage, Adrian. Sometimes, families grow—it is part of life.”
“Not if it costs you your life.”
“Everything worth having in life carries some risk. Carriage rides, country roads—you, of all people, should know that. But we take those risks, because fear cannot be allowed to rule us.”
His hands moved to cup her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones with desperate tenderness. “I cannot lose you.”
“You will not.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“No,” she admitted. “But Icanpromise that I am strong, and healthy, and attended by one of the best physicians in London. And I promise I want this child—ourchild—more than I have ever wanted anything, save you.”
“Marianne—”
“And I promise,” she added, eyes glinting, “that if you spend the next eight months catastrophising every flutter and treating me as if I were spun glass, I shall make your life miserable.”
Despite everything, his lips quirked. “You already make me miserable.”
“Miserably happy?”
“Miserably terrified.” But he pulled her against him, burying his face in her hair. “A baby. We’re having a baby.”
“We are.”
“Catherine’s going to be an aunt.”
“Lord Timothy will have to hasten his courtship if he hopes to marry before I’m too large to attend.”
“You’ll not attend any weddings while with child,” Adrian said at once, his protectiveness already reigniting.
“Adrian—”
“No excitement, the physician said. Weddings are excitement.”
“Adrian—”
“In fact, you should avoidallsocial engagements. Far too stimulating.”
