He got out a second handkerchief.
Thirty-One
Afuture of sharing a bed with George had been her consolation ever since she realized she was with child and she would have to marry him. She looked forward to coupling with him, and it wasn’t just because of her own desire and the pleasure she knew he would give her.
It was because ofhisdesire. She would have that. She would have his attention. She would be important, in that way.
At least, she had thought she would have that. But they had had no wedding night. Just her crying and his rubbing her back, like a brother would. And just now he had taken his hand off her leg as quickly as he could.
She must make herself not care. She must not show him she did care. She must stop crying right now.
She took a deep breath and willed the tears to go away. She took the clean second handkerchief he handed her and wiped her eyes.
For too long, she had wanted his good opinion, and it had done nothing for her. It had kept her a silly child, concerned only with herself and trivial matters, when she should have become a woman years ago.
Well, she must make herself into a woman now. She had broken off an engagement to a man who would have destroyed her. She had lost her father. She was going to be a mother. Life was serious. It wasn’t a game. At least, she hoped it wasn’t. She had already made so many wrong moves, lost so many pieces, she would never have a chance of winning.
Her throat was dry and burning. “I need something to drink.”
He had a basket next to him and he opened it and found a corked bottle with barley water in it. He worked the cork out carefully.
She drank all the barley water and handed the bottle back to him. “Thank you. Thank you for being prepared.”
He tucked the bottle back in the basket. “I’m not. Mrs. Hay is. If I had been really prepared, I would have thought to have brought a chamber pot with us instead of letting my wife jettison herself halfway out the carriage when she was queasy.”
“But I didn’t fall out.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He had rescued her, held her back, kept her from pitching out onto the road. Saved her. Like with the wild pig. Like with her pregnancy.
“I want to go see Mother first before we go to your house.”
It was just dusk when she got out of the carriage in front of what she now needed to think of as her childhood home. George got out after her. She turned to him.
“You don’t have to come in. You can stay in the carriage and wait for me.”
“I’ll certainly give you some time alone with your mother if you want it, but I need to be with you at the beginning. When we tell her.”
She looked up at him. His dark eyes. A muscle flexed in his jaw as he gritted his teeth. She put a hand up. She had intended to touch his face or his head but instead she brushed a nonexistent piece of detritus from his cravat.
“Let’s go in, Saint George.”
Her mother was alone, seated in the drawing room. Phoebe had asked the butler not to announce them.
“Mother,” she said and went to her and hugged her as she was rising.
“Phoebe. I had no word you were coming. I thought you would be in London another few weeks. You were so insistent—” Her mother’s eyes went to George. “Lord Danforth.”
“Your Grace.” George bowed.
Her mother turned back to her. “Are you married?”
Of course, her mother had come to the correct conclusion with just a glance at the both of them, seeing they were here together. And she also must have guessed the reason for the quick, clandestine marriage.
Phoebe spoke in a rush. “Yes, we are, and you need to know it is entirely my fault we had to get married and I am to blame and you mustn’t be angry with George about it. I’m the stupid one. We were married yesterday by special license.”
“I see.” Her mother sat again.
