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“Are you unwell, Bea?”
“Oh, no, I…”
I was just wishing you were someone else.
Not that James Robertson, no. She only wantedWilliam, the one she sensed deep within the Marquess. After their rupture over a year ago, she had done her best to let go of her hopes; she had tried to convince herself that if that passionate man ever had truly existed, he was dead and best forgotten.
Yet here she was, wishing William’s affection for her was sufficient to overcome his attachment to her other duties as wife and hostess. She longed for him to see her not only as a mother, as a lady in society, but as awoman—the way that Robertson had looked at Clara.
She swallowed. “It’s the heat. Probably the same that felled Clara.”
“As soon as we’re home, I’ll send for a cool cloth.”
“Yes, thank you.” She smiled, remembering that when she had swayed on the terrace, William had moved to her side. Perhaps he hadn’t spirited her away like a pirate, but he’d been there, solidly, preventing her from falling. He had stayed by her side no matter what.
And he’s forgiving you for tonight, she reminded herself. He wanted her well. He wanted her happy.
He just didn’t want her to be passionate.
When they arrived home, William insisted that she recline on the settee in the drawing room while her maid fetched some wetted linen. To her surprise, he remained with her—and took the soft cloth from the maid.
“Feeling any better? Is this helping?” he asked, stroking her temples with the cool fabric.
She opened her eyes, in more ways than one.Thiswas her husband. He caredabouther, was caringforher. Wildly romantic, he was not, but he loved her. If a crowd of spectators was gathered around, he wouldn’t be ministering to her like this, but in the privacy of their home, he was hers. It was more than any married lady she knew had.
“I’m feeling better because you’re here,” she said softly.
He held her gaze, and she saw the impact of her affectionate words. While he would not accept her passion, he craved her approval and her love. She longed to give them to him. She wanted desperately to be content with what she had, not to covet what she didn’t.
“William, will you visit my chamber tonight? It can be like before—I’ll be careful.”
His eyes closed, and he exhaled raggedly. She waited, hopeful, and had his answer soon.
“As you see fit, my lady.” He slowly removed the cloth from her forehead and bent to kiss her there.
Nine months later, Bea gave birth to another daughter, whom they named Isabella. Once again, William indulged Bea’s wishes, agreeing to her selection of Clara—who had become Mrs. Clara Robertson—as godmother to their third child.
