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“Give my regards to Miss Lenora,” Daughtry called after him.

Asquith snorted. He’d kept his meetings with Lenora secret, and yet Daughtry seemed to know exactly where his heart stood.

As he headed back toward the Albany, he stopped adjacent to the pillars of D'Acre House and looked up. Lenora was asleep behind one of those windows.

She hadn’t been herself at all this evening. Her glare had been venomous, but her stiff fury had contrasted with her pale, almost sickly, pallor. And she'd repeatedly clutched her stomach. He already knew she could make herself unwell.

The weeks of separation had worn her down, as they had him.

The real Lenora was witty, fair-minded, occasionally growling, man-stripping, sensually demanding, but looked most lost when she questioned her own judgment.

And she was never disloyal.

Which meant his own uncertainty had caused her to distance herself.

He stared up at the façade, clear about what he had to do.

He would deal with the threat Willard posed, and then he would convince Lenora, again, to be his wife. This time, he would ask her properly and then he would marry her as soon as humanly possible.

Chapter Twelve

Morning light filled D’Acre House’s drawing room, as did the scent of flowers. Millie had exclaimed over every single one of the cards that accompanied the bouquets, but Lenora had not.

A chant repeated in the back of her mind—I am pregnant with Asquith’s child.

She still could not believe, but her symptoms did not lie.

He’d sent two matched bouquets of paperwhites, one for Millie, the other for herself. She’d sought out his card, but his message brought her no relief.

He’d written, “Best wishes.”

Characteristically verbose.

But had there been a hidden meaning?

Paperwhites signaled purity, and sometimes devotion—but was Asquith acquainted with floral lore? Likely not. He’d sent Millie the same flowers, after all. But perhaps...

Paperwhite... stationery?

She held her finger against her forehead and groaned. Goodness, she was acting green.

She couldn’t concentrate. She was pregnant, and she had no idea what she was going to do, and yet she had to get through morning calls with no one the wiser.

She stepped back from the circle of stiff-backed chairs set out by the servants for the impending guests. She set one apart from the others.

If she took that chair, angled her knees away from the center and folded her hands in her lap, would that make her appear sufficiently aloof? A citadel of calm, uncaring?

Yes. But was calm uncaring what she wished to communicate?

Gracious. She felt hurt—so hurt—and at Almack’s, she’d wanted to hurt him, too.

But his expressionless mask left her haunted. You should have your Season. That’s the decent, kind, wonderful thing to do.

She thought he’d meant that he was releasing her from her promise to marry him.

Then he’d confused her anew. Free? You’re not free. And, fortitude. In all things. Soon, I hope you will understand.

Tears smarted in her eyes. She closed her eyes and inhaled.