“Why is it,” Beatitude asked around a yawn fifteen exuberant minutes later, “I need a nap to recover from our naps?”
“Because I am a lover without compare, of course.”
“And so modest.” She smacked his chest gently, shifted off of him, and collapsed against his side with a sigh of happy repletion. “I suspect I am breeding again. More evidence of your masculine prowess.”
Grey had wondered when she’d say something. He’d suspected another child was on the way based on the sensitivity of Beatitude’s breasts and a certain knowing quality in her eyes. When she was carrying, she was also more likely to choose gunpowder tea over China black or hot chocolate, and the scent of tallow made her bilious.
Grey gathered her close. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve missed my menses three times.”
He’d noticed that too, of course. “Do you know why I am such a great lover?”
Beatitude tucked her leg across his thighs. “You are a Dorning male, the best of the lot. Some things are a matter of God-given endowments.” She patted his endowment fondly.
“All the endowments in the world don’t make a man a decent lover, your ladyship. While I will admit to a certain fascination with conjugal intimacies since marrying you, if I acquit myself adequately in bed, that is solely because of the inspiration joining me under the covers.”
She kissed his cheek. “I love you too, Grey.”
“Are you worried about the baby?” He was worried. He would spend the next five months vacillating between desperate anxiety and desperate prayer. All the while, he’d beam husbandly good cheer at his wife and manfully endure the heightened sexual appetite that pregnancy brought out in her.
“I am not worried about the baby in the sense you mean,” she said. “I found childbirth uncomfortable, but not the horror I was dreading. I am worried that you are worried about the baby. Another child is another mouth to feed, a son to educate, or another daughter to dower. It’s not as if you haven’t a few spare brothers to carry on the title should we prove unequal to the task.”
She was angling around to some topic or other, being subtle, which Grey’s limited, and at present foggy, powers of divination grasped only vaguely.
“I love our daughters,” he said, shifting to crouch above her. “I love you. If we have ten daughters, I will be ten times more delighted than I am now, which is a physical impossibility. If you decide we’re through having children, I will content myself with three and spoil them all terribly when I’m done spoiling their mother to the best of my feeble ability. As long as you love me, Beatitude, we will manage splendidly.”
She clung to him for a moment, suggesting he’d bumbled into the reassurances she’d needed. “I do love you, Grey. I just want a healthy baby.”
He kissed her nose. “I want a healthy baby and a healthy mama. Let me know when I can share our good news with the rest of the family.”
“Give it another month. We’re still in the early days.”
He shifted to spoon himself around her. “Close your eyes, Beatitude. You’ve earned your rest.”
Grey closed his eyes and spared a moment for a prayer of gratitude—that he was married to this woman, that she was in good health, and that she was his best friend, lover, confidante, partner in mischief, and the mother of his children.
“I had a letter from Ash today,” Beatitude said, voice drowsy. “He’s put off his return to Dorning Hall for a week or two.”
Ash had tried spending the winter in Town. It hadn’t gone well, but then, his winters never did.
“Are matters in hand at the club?” Or had Sycamore created some scandal that necessitated Ash remain in London to manage an irate father, offended competitor, or wronged patron?
“Matters at the club go swimmingly, though Lady Della Haddonfield has run into a spot of bother—Ash was delicate on the details—and Ash will remain in London to afford her an escort from time to time. He expects to be down here in another month at the latest.”
Lady Della Haddonfield.
Among both Dornings and Haddonfields, hope had at one time flourished that Ash and Lady Della would make a match. Ash had decided that wasn’t meant to be. Grey wasn’t sure what Lady Della had decided, but if she was accepting Ash’s escort, she was either desperate or very forgiving.
“If he breaks her heart,” Grey said, “I will thrash him, mulligrubs notwithstanding.”
“And if she breaks his heart?”
Beatitude had the courage to name what other Dornings feared to mention. “Ash always recovers from his doldrums. He’d accept Lady Della’s rejection gracefully.”
But then what would he do? The family trod a careful line with Ash, neither hovering over him nor abandoning him, but the line moved from year to year, and only Ash knew where it truly needed to be.
Beatitude took Grey’s hand and settled it over her breast. “We could go up to Town, Grey. The weather is still fair.”
Grey wanted to go up to Town for Ash’s sake, of course. He could make suitable noises about voting his seat, though the truly important legislation was usually taken up after Christmas. He could pretend Beatitude wanted to do some shopping, and he could intimate that a summer in Dorset had left him longing for the blandishments of Town.
He hated Town, and Ash knew that.
Ash hated being coddled, as Grey and every other Dorning family member knew.
“We will rely on the dubious strength of Sycamore’s fraternal loyalty,” Grey said. “He has a way of not pulling his punches with Ash that seems to work. Ash is an adult, and an occasional bout of the blue devils doesn’t make him any less so.”
In fact, that burden gave Ash a more compassionate outlook on human nature than Grey himself had, too compassionate perhaps.
“You could go to Town without me,” Beatitude said, wiggling her hips in a manner that communicated itself directly to Grey’s breeding organs.
“Ash would be offended if I galloped into Town simply because he’s varying his routine by a few weeks. Who was it that told me to have faith in my brothers?”
Beatitude set up a slow, sweet rhythm. “You could send Willow around to assess matters.”
“No, I could not. Willow has puppies on the way. Beatitude, if you insist…”
“You love it when I insist.”
He did. He absolutely did. “Oh, very well. I admit it: I adore you. I am yours to command, and I always will be. Have your way with me, you merciless fiend.”
So she did. She absolutely did.
“Della claims last week’s outing in the park went well,” Nicholas Haddonfield, Earl of Bellefonte, said. “I’d like your version of events.”
Ash and Della were to leave for the Dickson’s Venetian breakfast in ten minutes. He’d arrived early, hoping to spend that much more time with the lady—not with her enormous, blond, glowering brother, who was stalking the Haddonfield guest parlor like a caged hyena.
“Do you imply that your sister is mendacious?” Ash asked pleasantly. “If so, I’d have to invite you to meet me at Jackson’s for a few friendly rounds.”
Bellefonte had several inches of reach on Ash and would doubtless land plenty of blows, but he wasn’t as fast, and he wouldn’t punch as hard as Ash. Ash had yet to step into the ring with a man who could match him for speed or power.