But in that moment, in their bed, there was only them—Adrian, Marianne, and the tiny possibility growing between them. It was terrifying, wonderful, and absolutely perfect.
***
The next morning brought a fresh challenge in the shape of Marianne’s father, who arrived unannounced just as she was attempting to coax down breakfast without surrendering to nausea.
“Papa!” She rose too quickly; the room spun.
“Sit down before you fall down,” Edmund Whitcombe said briskly, his keen eye missing nothing. “You are green as grass and swaying like a sailor. How far along?”
“I—what—how did you—”
“I have seen that shade of green before. Your mother had it for months with you.” His expression softened. “Besides, Harrowmere sent word yesterday. Wanted my advice on tonics and physicians, of all things.”
“He did?” Marianne looked to Adrian, who was attacking his eggs with peculiar intensity.
“You needed rest,” Adrian said defensively. “And I needed information. Your father was the sensible source.”
“And here I thought dukes knew everything,” Edmund said dryly, taking a chair. “Turns out they are merely men who panic when their wives start breeding.”
“I do not panic.”
“You sent me three letters yesterday. Three. The last asked whether strawberries were safe.”
Catherine choked on her tea. “Strawberries?”
“Marianne mentioned wanting some. I needed to be certain—”
“They are fruit, not arsenic,” Edmund cut in. “Still, I admire the concern. Shows you are taking matters seriously.”
“How could I not? It is Marianne. And our child.”
Something in his voice softened Edmund further. “Aye, well. You’ll do, Harrowmere. You’ll do.”
They were interrupted by the butler announcing Lord Timothy’s arrival for his museum outing with Catherine. The young man entered with barely contained excitement, a leather portfolio under his arm.
“I have brought the drawings I mentioned,” he told Catherine, then bowed to the others. “Your Graces. Mr Whitcombe.”
“Lord Timothy,” Edmund said, eyeing him with the look that had undone many a rival. “Ashford’s boy? The one studying buildings?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Practical study. Too many lads waste themselves on poetry and philosophy. A building stands. A sonnet leaks.”
“Mr Whitcombe!” Catherine protested. “Poetry has value too.”
“For wooing, perhaps. But can one live in a stanza? Keep dry beneath a metaphor?” Edmund’s eye twinkled. “Still, I suppose your young man might build you a houseandwrite you verses—a most enviable combination.”
Lord Timothy coloured to the tips of his ears. Catherine’s flush matched. Adrian looked as though he were contemplating murder—then thought better of it.
“We should depart,” Catherine said quickly. “The museum awaits.”
“Take your maid,” Adrian said at once. “And Thomas.”
“Thomas is your valet.”
“He is also ex-military and could break a man’s arm in three places without breaking a sweat.”
“Adrian!”
