“We are stronger together,” the Duchess of Bainbridge said.
“Hear, hear,” he said. For it was the truth, not just about this gathering of friends but about life and love.
He was stronger with Isabella than he had ever been without her.
Belatedly, he realized the men of the assemblage had withdrawn to the periphery, and he was the last of them still seated amongst the ladies. What was he doing, sitting here, growing all maudlin over the notion of babies and love? He excused himself and ventured to the husbands.
Strathmore grinned at him. “You have spoiled all our fun, Westmorland. We were just making bets as to how long it would take you to realize you were the only male left on the picnic blankets.”
Benedict raised a brow. “As the most recently wed of you all, I ought to be allowed to be utterly besotted with my wife to the point where I do not realize I have been abandoned by my brethren.”
“Believe me, you will only grow more besotted as time goes on,” warned Stanwyck, casting a glance back at Lady Stanwyck that was thoroughly infatuated.
“It is true,” agreed Carlisle. “All any of them would have to do is crook a finger, and we would each of us rush to their sides like a panting dog eager to please his master.”
“An excellent description,” the Duke of Bainbridge said with a long-suffering sigh as he gazed upon his wife.
“God’s truth,” Arden said with a good-natured laugh.
“Winchelsea!” called the duchess. “Come here for a moment, won’t you? I need your assistance.”
“On my way, darling,” Winchelsea returned, hastening to do his wife’s bidding.
“You see?” Carlisle asked. “Witness the evidence before you.”
Benedict gazed back at his beautiful wife, heart swelling with love. “It is a fate I shall happily accept.”
“There is something I have been wanting to tell you,” Isabella said to her looking glass later that night, practicing her speech as she awaited Benedict in her guest chamber.
No, that sounded frightfully silly. She heaved a sigh. How she wished she had consulted her friends earlier about the proper manner in which to inform one’s husband he was going to become a father. But revealing her happy secret to anyone before she told Benedict had seemed inherently wrong.
And anyway, why should she be fretting over it? Benedict would be overjoyed, would he not?
She hoped he would.
She thought he would.
She cleared her throat, frowning at her reflection. “I have a surprise.”
No, how puerile.
“You are going to be a father,” she tried.
Her inner agitation rose. She wanted this moment to be perfect. Perhaps she ought to have told him in London, before they had left for the country. But he had been so unsettled, worrying over Callie and her new husband, that the timing had seemed poor.
They had only just arrived in Oxfordshire the day before, and telling him immediately upon their arrival, when they were both weary from traveling and surrounded by all their friends, had not seemed right either.
But if she did not tell him soon, she would burst.
“I have some news I hope you will find happy,” she tried again.
“Am I interrupting an important conversation with your looking glass?”
Benedict’s voice, echoing through the quiet of the chamber so unexpectedly, gave her such a start that she could not contain her squeal. She spun about to find him watching her from the threshold, clad only in his silk robe, a smile on his lips.
“Do cease wailing your head off, my love, or our friends shall think I am abusing you.” He sounded amused as he sauntered toward her.
She took a deep breath. “What if you were to have your own child who mistook your sleeve for a napkin?”
He paused, his eyes searching hers. “Isabella?”
Her hands crept to the slight swell in her belly, scarcely visible, beneath her own dressing gown. “We are having a baby.”
“We are?” The awe in his voice touched a part of her heart she had not realized existed.
All her worries fell away at the raw expression of love on his handsome face. He held his arms out to her, and she went into them.
She tipped back her head. “We are.”
“I am going to be a father.” His lips claimed hers before she could respond.
She held him to her and kissed him back with all the excited joy for their future that had been pent-up within her. He tasted of the sweetness of port and the deliciousness that was solely Benedict. She inhaled deeply of his scent, warmth pooling between her thighs as his tongue traced the seam of her lips and he deepened the kiss.
But then a tiny sliver of doubt intruded upon her bliss.
She broke the kiss, gazing up at him, breathless. “You are happy, my love?”
“I am the happiest I have ever been,” he reassured her, kissing her swiftly once more. “You, my darling, are going to be a wonderful mother. And if our babe should grow up to have the effrontery of confusing my sleeve with a napkin, I shan’t complain. I love you, sweetheart.”
Pleased laughter welled up within her. “And I love you, Benedict Manning.”
She attempted to stifle the tears that seemed to flow with alarming ease these days as he kissed her again, hungrily. She was every bit as ravenous for him. He withdrew to run kisses down her throat while he worked on the fastening of her dressing gown. She tore at his belt with equal abandon. They laughed and kissed as they shed their garments and found their way to the bed.
She was on her back, his big body settled between her thighs where she wanted him. He rained reverent kisses on her brow, her shoulder, her sensitive nipples. “Thank you for the most precious gifts you could have ever given me, Isabella: yourself, your love, and our
