Prologue
“Your Grace… thank God you have come.”
Andrew Hill, the Duke of Sinclair, had scarcely crossed the threshold of the cottage before Mrs. Turner was upon him, her face pale beneath her cap. Behind her, Mr. Turner appeared from the passage with a basin of steaming water, moving far faster than a man of his years ought.
The little house, usually so warm and orderly, felt altered at once. It was too quiet. The silence was not natural silence, but the sort stretched tight over pain.
“What has happened?” Andrew demanded.
“Mary, Your Grace,” Mrs. Turner replied. “Her pains began hours ago.”
Mr. Turner set the basin upon a side table and straightened. “She would not let us send for anyone else until we sent for you.”
Andrew frowned. “For me?”
“She asked for you by name,” Mrs. Turner nodded. “Again and again. Said she must speak with you before–” She broke off and swallowed. “Before the child comes.”
The words struck him with a force out of all proportion to their calm utterance. He looked toward the stairs. The upper floor lay in dim shadow, and from above came no sound at all. Somehow that silence was worse than cries would have been.
“Has the physician been sent for?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mr. Turner affirmed. “But he has not yet arrived.”
He stripped off his gloves. Mary Collins was not a woman who sought notice. Since coming to the cottage, she had been quiet and careful never to ask for more than she had to. Even when her condition had become impossible to conceal, she had asked only to remain until the birth. He had allowed it.
Andrew climbed the stairs, reaching the room at the end of the passage. Mary lay propped against the pillows, and for a moment, Andrew scarcely recognized her. Her skin was white, her lips were bloodless, and her damp curls were clinging to her temples. One hand gripped the coverlet so tightly the knuckles showed through.
When she saw him, her eyes sharpened. “Your Grace.”
He crossed to the bed. “You should not be speaking.”
“There is no time,” she whispered.
Mary’s breathing had already turned uneven. Andrew looked down at her. “What is it you wished to say?”
“You have been kind to me, Your Grace,” she managed to muster. “Far more than a girl in my situation ought to expect.”
“This is not the moment for thanks.”
“No.” Her fingers tightened in the blanket. “It is the moment for truth.”
He waited until she gathered a shallow breath. “If I do not live through this, you must protect the child.”
He stiffened. “The child will be provided for.”
“That is not what I asked.” Though faint, her voice turned urgent. “You must protect the child.”
A chill moved through him. “From whom?”
Mary looked toward the dark window. “From anyone who would come for it, from anyone who would ask questions.”
Andrew’s brow furrowed. “I do not understand.”
“You must never say the baby is mine.” Her eyes widened as she spoke.
For a moment he thought pain had unsettled her mind. “Mary–”
“Please,” she cut him off. “Promise me.”
