Page 69 of Along Came a Rogue

“Yes,” her mother agreed with a soft sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing slightly to hear that. “After all, there is no reason we cannot be amicable, whatever should follow.”

Whatever should follow…Her mother meant contesting the inheritance should she deliver a boy. Even now her mother worried over securing her daughter’s future. Emily looked away, embarrassed—

And caught Harold staring at her coldly. Then he turned back toward the window, once again bored with the conversation.

“I agree, Your Grace.” Reynard set his cup aside. “I want to assure you, Lady Emily, that I will not petition the Privileges for the title should you have a son. No good would come of it.”

“That is very kind of you.” Her mother relaxed, visibly glad not to have a fight on her hands. “Isn’t it, Emily?”

“Yes,” she agreed, although she was more relieved at having even this small bit of certainty regarding her baby’s birth than at any concern over titles or fortunes. “Very kind.”

A prickle tingled at the back of her neck. She looked up, and this time when she caught Harold’s gaze on her, his eyes narrowed icily. And this time, he didn’t turn away.

“Further, Lady Emily,” Reynard continued, once more drawing her attention back, “if the child is a girl and the inheritance does come to me, I shall provide her an ample allowance for a comfortable living, tuition for a good education, and eventually a dowry.”

Emily blinked in surprise at the man’s unexpected kindness. “That is very generous of you, Mr. Crenshaw.”

“Indeed,” her mother interjected, nearly as surprised as Emily.

“But—” Emily frowned, noticing this time how Harold’s cold gaze pinned on his father. “Why would you do such a thing? You’re under no obligation.”

“You and your child are family.” He smiled gently at her. “Now, with Andrew’s passing, your family should be even more dedicated to helping you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, her throat tightening with emotion.

He rose to his feet. “It’s time for Harold and me to take our leave. Thank you for a most enjoyable tea, Your Grace.” Reynard bowed to her mother, then to Emily. At his father’s signal, Harold stood and sketched a single, shallow bow in her direction that seemed to Emily more mocking than polite. “And my gratitude to you as well, Lady Emily, for a most pleasant afternoon. I hope we shall see each other again soon.”

Easing herself belly-first onto her feet as gracefully as possible, Emily smiled genuinely. “I very much look forward to it.”

“Shall I walk you out, Mr. Crenshaw?” her mother asked.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” He offered his arm to her.

When the two men and her mother exited the drawing room, Emily exhaled a heavy sigh of relief that all had gone well, and she reached for the bell pull to summon Jensen to clear away the tea things. Then she began to pace restlessly as she often did of late, her hand going to her round belly.

And it had gotten quite round, in fact, during the past three months since she’d arrived in London. The small bump that had been barely visible at five months even when she was naked had blossomed. No—blossom implied something delicate, like a flower. This was…

Good Lord, she felt as big as a house!

Oh, she wasn’t, of course, and Yardley, who had arrived in London two days after her and Grey, commented frequently that she should have been much larger, in fact. That she was carrying small. But to Emily, all the changes to her body, the restlessness, and mood swings only magnified one hundredfold as she grew closer to her confinement, and she simply couldn’t imagine being even bigger.

Pausing in her pacing, she forced herself to breathe, trying to ease her racing heart. Smothered—that’s how she felt. Which was most likely why she felt the restless need to move, because if she moved, then she didn’t feel so oppressed by the news of her pregnancy, which had sped through London society like a storm, and by the inundation of callers who wanted to see for themselves if the rumors were true. Society matrons, curious old fops, giggling cakes of young ladies—they’d descended upon her like locusts since her return. Worst of all were those old acquaintances she hadn’t seen in years who suddenly wanted to strike up new and dear friendships, not one of whom she trusted. After all, Andrew knew the person who had murdered him. The murderer might very well be in London with her now, someone who had even been invited inside her home.

Nor did she like leaving the house these days, which only compounded the smothering oppression weighing upon her shoulders. The bigger her belly grew, the more aware she became of the attention people paid her. And the more vulnerable she felt. Even during something as simple as a walk through Hyde Park, she didn’t feel safe unless she had Thomas at her side, because even now she still worried that someone would try to hurt her baby.

Then came the men from the Committee for Privileges. Wanting to assess her situation themselves, they set her down in the library and subjected her to all sorts of indelicate and prying questions about her baby, her marriage, her marital relations…until she’d been beside herself with mortification. Until Thomas nearly threw them out of the house himself.

Thank God for Thomas. What would she have done without him? Although she often wondered who was helping whom recover from the ordeals of the past few months.

“My lady.” Jensen bowed his head to her as he entered the room.

Taking a deep breath, she composed herself quickly and forced a smile, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Jensen.”

“The afternoon post, ma’am.” He held a silver salver toward her with yet another letter in Grey’s familiar handwriting.

Her chest tightened with anguished frustration. Oh, why wouldn’t the blasted man simply leave her alone?

He hadn’t gone to Spain as she’d asked. Oh no—he’d remained right in London, devil take him. And he’d refused to leave her alone. Nearly every day during the past three months, he’d sent flowers and gifts she was forced to return and written notes she refused to answer. Worse, several times each week, he arrived at Chatham House not to visit with Thomas but to ask for her, only to force her to refuse to see him. It was a bittersweet torture, as if he could make her change her mind by simply wearing her down. The only concession she allowed herself was to keep one rose from every bouquet before she returned it, knowing he would never notice that small keepsake missing among the dozens he sent her.