the place where they could be one.
“Don’t love me.”
The words came unbidden from his throat. Not a thought, but a plea.
“Too late,” she whispered in his ear.
“Don’t tell me so. Don’t say the words.”
“I love you.” She cupped his face in her hands and brushed a kiss to his lips. “I love you so much.”
There was nothing left for him to resist. He held her to him, and as they tumbled over the edge together, no joy could have been more complete.
He was complete.
He held her tightly in his arms, pressing kisses to her hair. “I love you. You will never know how much I love you. There aren’t words.”
She levered herself to a sitting position. Her drowsy eyes came into focus. She stared down at her hands where they lay against his red, twisted scars. All color drained from her face. The expression that overtook her face was no longer one of love or pleasure, but one of faint disgust.
“Emma?”
God, please. Not again. Not you.
Don’t leave me. Not now, not ever.
“I’m sorry,” said, slipping off his lap. “I’m so sorry, I . . . I have to—”
She fled the library in a rush, darting into the connecting room.
As he drew to his feet and pulled up his trousers, he heard it.
The wrenching, unmistakable sounds of his wife being sick.
Emma straightened, pushing the hair from her face. The perspiration on her brow and chest had turned ice-cold. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her face and neck. Then she poured herself a thimble of sherry from a decanter on the sideboard and rinsed her mouth before spitting it into the unlucky potted plant she’d befouled.
“I tried to warn you,” he said from behind her. “You should have listened. I told you it was for your own good. But you insisted anyway.”
She turned to face him. “I don’t understand. What are you going on about?”
“It was the same with—” He broke off.
With Annabelle, she finished in her mind.
He pulled together the torn sides of his shirt. “I knew this would happen. Not that I blame you. It’s repulsive, and that’s a simple fact. I’m not angry.”
“Is that what you think?” She put a hand to her brow, then dropped it. “Oh, Ash. You darling idiot. I am not sick with revulsion. I am pregnant.”
He blinked and stumbled sideways. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand?” She smiled. “I’ll explain it. On nearly every night since we married, and a goodly number of the days as well, you penetrated me with your manly organ and spilled your seed in the vicinity of my womb. That particular act—especially at the frequency we’ve practiced it—commonly results in conception.”
“But you had your courses.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You said you were feeling poorly. You kept to your bed for four days.”
“I was feeling poorly. I’d caught a cold.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I did tell you. In the note. I worried the ailment might be catching, and I didn’t want to pass it to you or the servants. Do fine ladies really take to their beds for days every month? I can assure you, seamstresses don’t have that luxury.”
“Let’s move on from the menstruation habits of the upper classes, please. What I’m saying is, you should have mentioned this to me before now.”
She turned aside. “It was too early to be certain.”
“You missed your courses. You’re vomiting. You swooned after the theater. And, now that I think about it, your recent appetites have been variable in more ways than one. Be honest, Emma. You must have suspected this for weeks.”
“Perhaps.”
He caught her elbow and turned her to face him. “Then why would you hide it from me?”
“Because of our bargain! You said from the start, once I’m with child, it would be over, and . . .” Her voice faltered. “And I didn’t want it to be over.”
“Oh, Emma. Who is the darling idiot now?” He placed his hands on either side of her face. “It isn’t over. It could never be over. I’d sooner die than let you go.”
“Then I want to be with you. Live with you. Wake in the same bed every morning, dine together every evening. Bicker and make love and . . . play badminton if you truly insist. Raise our children together.”
He tensed, just as she’d feared he would. “I’m not good with children.”
“That’s not true. What about Trevor?”
“Trevor is abnormal. Highly abnormal.” He jabbed a finger in his own chest. “You know I’m impatient. Irritable. Demanding.”
She jabbed her finger into his chest. “Also caring. Loyal. Protective.” When he didn’t reply, she tried again. “So you’re imperfect. Who isn’t? Being imperfect is better than being distant.”
He folded her in an embrace, tucking her head protectively under his chin, but Emma didn’t feel entirely comforted.
“I would never abandon you. You know that. I will provide for every—”
“Providing is not enough. Children shouldn’t be strangers from their fathers. No matter what they are told, or what reasons they are given—they will always fear, deep down, that it’s their fault. I know you wouldn’t want to hurt your child that way.”
“Emma . . .”
“You had a wonderful, loving father. You lost him to illness far too soon, but you never doubted that he loved you. I spent the entirety of my childhood wondering what I’d done wrong. Asking myself, how had I failed? Why couldn’t I earn his love?”
He clutched her tight and murmured soothing words.
“And when I couldn’t win my father’s affection, I tried chasing after it elsewhere. From the most inadvisable sources. Like a squire’s son who was already promised to another.”
“Like a hulking, misanthropic monster of a duke.”
“That’s
