“Tell me,” he said.
Frances drew a breath. “I had not meant to tell you today.”
He reached for her hand at once. “Tell me what?”
“I thought I should wait until tomorrow. Or perhaps next week. Or until I could be certain I would say it properly.” She looked up at him then, and the fear and joy in her eyes struck him with equal force. “But after today, after hearing you say her name, after seeing you with her…”
His hand tightened around hers. “Frances.”
“I am expecting,” she said.
The words entered him slowly. The conservatory seemed to fall away into sunlight and silence. He heard, distantly, the murmur of family somewhere beyond the doors.
Expecting.
Hischild.
Theirchild.
He thought the old fear would rise, with all its ancient authority, but he was no longer afraid.
“You… are certain?” he asked, taking her hand into his.
“As certain as a lady may be at this stage.”
“Have you seen the physician?”
“Not yet.”
“Then we shall send–”
“Andrew.”
He stopped.
Her eyes brightened with laughter now. “There he is.”
“Who?”
“The moderately overbearing husband.”
“I said I would attempt moderation. I did not claim success.”
“No, and I did not expect it.”
He lifted her hand and pressed it to his mouth. “You should have told me sooner.”
“I discovered it only recently.”
“How recently?”
“Recently enough that you may spare yourself the dramatic injury.”
“I am not dramatic.”
“Today you threatened a footman because he carried Mary Grace too near an open window.”
“It was a cold draft.”
