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Levensyde House

July 1818

Holding her three-year-old daughter, Bailey, Rayne stood at the top of the porch observing the tableau before her. A slight breeze ruffled her skirt and her unbound hair. She seldom fashioned the long tresses into a knot. Fletcher preferred she wear her hair down, and there was nothing she loved more than pleasing her husband, except perhaps their children.

Coatless, his midnight hair gleaming in the sun, Fletcher slowly led the rust-colored Shetland pony around the courtyard. Their four-year-old son, Brixton, giggled and clutched the pony’s creamy mane.

“Look at me, Mama,” he cried. “I’m ridin’ a wee horsie.”

“That’s a wee pony,” his older brother Channing corrected. He rode his own pony and, in typical older brother fashion, showed off his skills by trotting Marmaduke across the green.

“Be careful, Channing,” Rayne called with motherly concern.

Fletcher glanced up. Even after eight years of marriage and three children—soon to be four—his hot gaze still sent her pulse cavorting. He grinned and handed the reins off to the young groom. “Take it slowly, Robbie. Brixton needs to become accustomed to the movement.”

To think she’d told Ophelia all those years go in Hyde Park that she wanted more than just marriage. This marriage to Fletcher was more satisfying and fulfilling than anything she could’ve ever have imagined. Not only did he include her in his business discussions, but Rayne had decided being a wife and mother was very rewarding indeed.

“Aye, Yer Grace.” The groom, Robbie Gazley, nodded and, with a wink at Brixton, took over the riding lesson.

Fletcher trotted up the steps. When he reached Rayne, Bailey stretched her arms out. “Papa, hold me.”

If ever there was a daddy’s girl, it was Bailey. She possessed her father’s raven hair and blue-green eyes as well. The boys’ hair was darker than Rayne’s but lighter than Fletcher’s. Both had inherited jade-green eyes from their paternal grandfather.

“I had a letter from Greg today,” Fletcher said before brushing his lips across Bailey’s crown. “He’s in Cairo and says he is making great progress with the spice merchants.”

Greg had eagerly taken Fletcher up on the offer to supervise his overseas operations. The change of location and clime had done him a world of good. He’d married the daughter of a diplomat, and they had no plans to return to Scotland anytime soon.

After two Seasons, Florence had returned to Dumfries and married the local vicar. She was expecting their second child as well. Fletcher had forgiven his mother, but not enough to permit her to live in the dower house.

Instead, he’d bought her a lovely cottage in Brighton, permitted her three servants, and paid her a visit once a year. She wrote on occasion but had never forgiven him for marrying beneath his station.

Fletcher drew Rayne into his strong embrace with his free arm. “How are ye feelin’?”

He eyed her distended belly.

“Like a great brood cow.” Laughing, she smoothed her palms over her swollen stomach. This baby wasn’t due for six weeks, but familiar twinges had begun yesterday.

“I had a letter from Theadosia,” she said. Thea was already eagerly planning the annual Christmastide gathering at Ridgewood Court. Each year she somehow managed to outdo the year before. “We will go, won’t we?”

He grinned and kissed her forehead. “We havena missed a year yet, love.”

Nearly all of the people who’d attended the first Christmas house party also made an effort to attend annually. And all were married now as well. Rayne had long ago begun suspecting Theadosia had missed her calling as a matchmaker.

A spasm low in her back made Rayne wince. Arching her spine, she pressed her hand to the small of her back. A gush of warm water spilled down her legs, pulling a startled gasp from her.

Well, this baby was going to put in an early appearance, it seemed.

“Fletcher?”

“Hmm?” he replied distractedly as he observed their sons’ progress on the ponies.

“Please send Gazley for Dr. Pepperidge.”

Fletcher’s gaze whipped to hers—his eyes intense and questioning—then dipped to her tummy. “But… But the bairn isna due for weeks yet.”

“I don’t think the baby knows how to tell time.” She looked pointedly at the pool surrounding her feet.

“Gazley,” Fletcher roared, his face pale as chalk.