Returning to the bedroom, his gaze fell on the bed. Their bed. The bed in which, ever since that afternoon they'd spent in it, they came together without so much as a veil between them emotionally or physically. What reigned in that bed was the truth — what he didn't know, couldn't tell, was whether on her part it meant love.
For himself, he no longer doubted it, but that only made his uncertainty greater, made his question more crucially important.
If what she felt for him was love, then he and their future stood on rock-solid ground.
If it wasn't love… he was in a hideously vulnerable position.
There was no way he could tell. No matter that he'd watched her like a hawk, he'd yet to see any outward sign that she loved him, any evidence that what she felt for him when she took him into her body was more than purely physical.
He stared at the bed, then turned away. For other men, perhaps that — her physical giving — would be assurance enough. Not for him. That belief was one he'd lost long ago.
From the door, he glanced back at the bed. What it now embodied both frightened and buoyed him. At least he had time — a few months. Until the end of September. No need to panic.
Marriage lasted for a lifetime — nothing in his life was currently more important than convincing Amelia to love him, and show it, at least enough so he would know. So he could feel confident, and emotionally safe, again.
Quitting their room, he headed back to the stairs, then paused, nonplussed. Where
A second later, he left the downward flight and took the stairs up to the top floor.
The door off the gallery stood open. Beyond it, looking out over the valley, lay the nursery. He approached the door; courtesy of the runner, Amelia didn't hear him. Leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, he watched her.
She was half turned away, facing a large cot standing between the windows. Taking notes.
The sight made his heart catch, had him quickly calculating… but no, not yet. The emotion that had surged was familiar; in the face of her occupation, it had scaled new heights. He wanted to see her with his babe in her arms — that want was absolute, intense, now an integral part of him. And, thankfully, one facet of his love for her he didn't need to hide.
She lifted her head; he considered the note tablet in her hand. As yet unaware of him, she read what she'd written, then slipped tablet and pencil into her pocket.
Leaving the cot, she moved to a low dresser under one window. She pulled out two drawers, peered in, then slid them shut. Then she looked at the window, studied it, reached out and tugged at the bars set into the frame.
His lips curved. 'They're solid. I can vouch for it.'
Releasing the bars, she glanced at him. 'Did you try to break out?'
'On more than one occasion.' Straightening, he strolled to join her. 'Me and Edward both. Together.'
She looked at the bars with new respect. 'If they withstood the pair of you, they must be safe.'
He halted beside her; she didn't turn and meet his eye. 'What are you doing?'
She gestured, went to step away, but he caught the hand that waved, slid his fingers around her wrist. She frowned, vaguely, at those fingers, then briefly at him. 'I've been making a list of all that needs doing. Higgs and I missed these rooms when we went around earlier.' She glanced about, waved with her other hand. 'This needs refurbishing, as even you must see. It's been what — twelve years? — since there were babies here.'
He caught her gaze, trapped it, without looking away, raised her wrist to his lips. 'You would tell me, wouldn't you?'
She blinked. 'Of course.' Then she looked at the window. 'But there's nothing to tell.'
'Yet.' He kept hold of her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers.
After a moment, she inclined her head. 'Yet.'
His gaze remained on her face, on her profile. Her jaw was set. 'When there's anything to tell, you will remember to mention it, won't you?'
She glanced at him. 'When there's anything you need know—'
'That's not what I said.'
Chin rising, she looked back at the window; he stifled a sigh. 'Why weren't you planning on telling me?'
It didn't really matter; if he was capable of keeping track of complicated investments, he was capable of working it out on his own, especially now she'd reminded him. But the fact she hadn't intended to tell him immediately… what did that say of how she viewed him?
'As I said, there's nothing to tell yet, and when you
'Amelia.'
She stopped, lips compressing. After a moment, she went on, 'I know what you'll be like — I've seen all the others, even Gabriel, and he's the most sensible of the lot. And as for you — I know you — you'll be worse than any of them.
I've seen you for years with your sisters. You'll hem me in, confine me — you'll stop me from riding, even from playing with my puppy!' She tugged, but he didn't let her go; eyes flashing, she glared at him. 'Can you deny it?'
He met her gaze squarely. 'I won't stop you playing with the puppies.'
She narrowed her eyes but he didn't flinch, didn't shift his gaze. After a moment, he said, 'You do realize that if you were carrying my child, I would want to know, that I would care — not only because of the child, but because of you as well? I can't help you carry it, but I can — and will — keep you safe.'
Amelia felt something inside her still. There was a sincerity in his tone, in his eyes, that reached her, touched her.
Under her scrutiny, he grimaced, but his eyes remained on hers. 'I know I'll be obsessive, or at least that what I'll decree will seem so to you, but you have to remember that when it comes to pregnant wives, men such as I feel… helpless. We can order our world much as we wish, but in that one arena… everything we want, everything we desire, so much of what's at the core of our lives, seems to be placed in the hands of fickle fate, not only beyond our control, but even beyond our influence.'
He'd spoken from the heart. Such a simple admission, one she knew was true, but one men like he so rarely made. Her heart leapt. She turned fully to him—
A commotion outside had them both glancing at the window; they stepped closer and looked down. A large traveling coach rocked to a halt before the front portico; a procession of smaller coaches rolled up in its wake.
Figures streamed from the house; others jumped down from the coaches. The Dowager Lady Calverton, her four daughters, and their entourage had returned from London.
Luc sighed. 'Our privacy is at an end.'
He looked at her. Amelia met his gaze, sensed his desire to kiss her, a desire that quivered in the air. Then his long lashes swept down; he released her and stepped back, waved to the door. 'We'd better go down.'
She turned, but instead of heading for the door she stepped closer, stretched up, and set her lips to his. Felt his immediate response, treasured the sweet moment, then she drew back.
Reluctantly, he let her.
She smiled and linked her arm in his. 'Yes, I will tell you, and yes, we'd better go down.'
'We went to Astley's Amphitheatre and Gunter's, too. And the museum.' Portia twirled before the windows of the drawing room; her hours in the coach had in no way dimmed her boundless enthusiasm for life.
'We went to the museum twice,' Penelope informed them. The light glanced off her spectacles as she looked up from her seat on the chaise.
Luc glanced at the slight, frail-looking figure sitting beside Penelope. Miss Pink appeared exhausted, as well she might — it sounded as if she'd been dragged all over London several times in the few days his younger sisters had spent in the capital.
'We could hardly waste the opportunity to see all we could.'
Luc looked at Penelope; she gazed back at him, brown eyes steady — as usual, she'd read his mind. It was, in his opinion, one of her least attractive habits.
'We all thoroughly enjoyed our time at Somersham,' his mother put in, 'and although the last days in town
