“If you think to keep me confined here for eight months—”
“Nine,” he corrected serenely. “Possibly ten, to be safe.”
“Adrian Blackwell!”
He kissed her—effectively ending the argument. When they parted, both breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Let me be terrified,” he murmured. “Let me be impossible and overprotective and drive you half-mad. It is the only way I know to love.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But you must let me live, too. Our child deserves a mother who engages with the world, not one hidden away like a secret.”
“You could never be shameful,” he said, touching her cheek. “But you are my secret. My treasure.” His hand drifted to her still-flat stomach, wonder overtaking fear. “There’s truly a child in there. Part you, part me.”
“Hopefully with your intelligence and my common sense.”
“Your beauty and my stubbornness.”
“Spare us all if it’s the reverse.”
He laughed—rusty but real. “Catherine must be told. She’ll be insufferably delighted.”
As if conjured by name, Catherine knocked. “Is everything quite well? Mr Peterson left looking terribly pleased.”
“Come in,” Adrian called.
Catherine entered, eyes darting between them—between Adrian’s hand upon Marianne’s waist and the gleam in their expressions.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh!Truly?”
Marianne nodded, emotion welling in her throat. “You’re to be an aunt.”
Catherine flew across the room, throwing her arms about them both. “A baby! How wonderful! When? How are you feeling? What can I do?”
“Breathe,” Adrian advised, though his arm came around her in fond restraint. “The child will not arrive for many months.”
“But there’s so much to arrange! The nursery, the layette, names—”
“Catherine,” Adrian warned.
“What? I’mexcited! My nephew—or niece—oh, I do hope it’s a girl. Imagine a tiny Marianne running about, terrorising society from the cradle!”
“Goodness gracious,” Adrian muttered, though his eyes were bright with laughter.
They were interrupted by the butler announcing Lord Timothy’s return. He’d apparently been walking in the garden, giving the family privacy while wrestling with his own emotions.
“Shall I receive him?” Catherine asked, trying to contain her eagerness.
“In the drawing room,” Adrian agreed. “With suitable supervision.”
“You mean with you glowering in the corner?”
“I do not glower.”
Both women gave him identical looks.
“Iobserve,” he amended stiffly, “with protective intensity.”
“You glower,” they said in unison, then laughed at his affronted expression.
