He grinned and dropped a quick kiss on her cheek, though apprehension hovered over him like a cloud. Her demeanor change was as predictable as the weather on an open sea. “You’ve months to go, my sweet. I’m afraid patience is required. Something of which you appear short of.”
“I shall persevere.” She gave him a captain’s salute, then frowned. “How long will you be gone this time?”
“A day or so. I must check on Marcus. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Then why are you packing a bag?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Her lip poked out in a petulant pout. “When are you going to let those quarters go? When am I to meet your sister? It’s like I’m…” She stomped her foot. “Nothing but your dirty little secret.”
Irritation flooded him, but he bit it back. “Corinne, please, not this again. I’ve explained numerous times, it’s too dangerous.”
“It’s lovely,” Maeve breathed, jarring Harlowe into the stifling chamber.
“It needs air,” he said with a sharp edge.
Ignoring Maeve’s too observant eyes, Harlowe blinked and grasped for the steadying breath that remained just out of reach. He strode to the window, unlatched it, and shoved it open, then passed a palm over his face.
Had he truly treated her as his dirty little secret? The memories surged through him with force. Poor Corinne. She’d seemed to live beneath an umbrella of low expectation, hating it all the while with no idea how to dispel what she didn’t understand. She had been so young.
Sadness had enveloped her like a fog that neither he nor Rowena had been able to successfully penetrate. Had Corinne lived, her natural melancholia would have suffocated their marriage. Though she’d been sweetly thrilled with her pregnancy, he knew now that her happiness would have been short-lived. Guilt crawled over his skin, which he had no notion how to dispel.
Not to mention the unseen dangers he had no memory of. Those fears had opened another door: had Corinne been used in the crossfires of something? And if so,of what?
Maeve pretended not to notice Brandon’s discomfort as he dove for the window. The unused nursery was unsettling to say the least. “It’s beautiful,” she said, taking in the elaborately covered crib. It was blatantly clear to Maeve, Corinne desperately wanted a boy as she considered the fringed, sky-blue, chenille throw. The sheets in the cradle were of the softest silk and matched cushions in the nearby chair. How much time had Corinne spent in this chamber where no expense had been spared? Maeve’s heart broke for the sad, quiet girl she remembered.
Maeve strolled across the room, opposite of the window, hoping to spare Brandon unwanted attention, to a dresser. She pulled out the top drawer and found several stacks of cloth nappies. She looked in the next drawer and gasped. “Oh my.” Maeve lifted out an enchanting christening gown trimmed in Belgian lace. Carefully refolding the gown, she placed it back in the drawer, and smiled at Agnes. “It’s a lovely room.” She strolled over to a rocking horse and tapped it, sending it into motion, watching Brandon from the corner of her eye. His back was still to them. “Perhaps we can take a look at the nursemaid’s chamber.”
“Of course, milady.”
Brandon could follow at his own leisure.
Here, too, no expense had been spared. The bed was not the usual narrowed framed sort, but a size to accommodate the possibility of a child crawling in with his caretaker, should he become frightened in the night. It was perfect.
“If’n I might ask, ma’am, how… how old is the child now?”
“He’s a little over a year, I believe, and looks just like his father. He’s very rambunctious. Of course, Harlowe and Nathaniel—that’s his name—Nathaniel won’t be moving here. Lord Harlowe and I are not betrothed, Agnes,” she said softly. Her heart tugged at the words. She could marry him, she could be a mother to Nathan—she stopped the thought right there. How fair would that be to Brandon? To Nathan? Brandon’s own words were that he couldn’t remember his wife. What if he remembered later and it came between them? He needed his life back and without complications from her.
Agnes’s features twisted in confusion. “Oh.”
“Lord Harlowe and the baby live at Lord Harlowe’s sister’s home. Although Lady Kimpton is apt to bring him to visit from time to time.”
“What is this?” Brandon said from the door.
“This is the nursemaid’s chamber,” Maeve told him.
He grunted, unimpressed.
Maeve shot him a look. “Carry on, Agnes,” she said pleasantly.
“There are some other bedchambers fit for children through this door,” she said.
Brandon addressed Agnes. “Is there an attic?”
“An attic?” Her surprise was almost comical.
“Quit snapping at her, Harlowe.” Maeve turned to Agnes. She didn’t appear to take offense at his tone, but Maeve had to wonder what the devil his interest was in the attic.
“Oh, yesser. Follow me. ’Tis a bit dark.”
They followed her up another flight, this one narrow and hollow. Maeve felt as if she’d been plunged into a deep vat of water with no way out. She concentrated on her steps, breathing in shallow takes. It was her turn to express her need for an open window.
