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“I’m very sorry, William, for not telling you myself. I should have.”
He cleared his throat, still standing awkwardly near the door. “Are you well? How is your health?”
Her hands crossed over her lemon-yellow skirts. “I am well enough. Healthy.”
“How long…?”
She had bled two weeks after their wedding and not since. “A few months.”
His eyes flared. “I’m the last damned one in this house to know! You’ve made a fool of me in our marriage! In front of our entire household!”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Are you sorry about the child?”
Searching his gaze, she was horrified to see his genuine worry. “What? Oh, William, no! I am sohappy, as I hope you will be when you can forgive me. I have wanted to share this with you. Dreamed of it.”
Hands fisted by his side, wariness replaced some of the anger in his expression. “Dreamed of it?”
She nodded. “Truly.”
“Haven’t we…haven’t we been compatible these months? Our evenings together—I thought you enjoyed them, too. Why not tell me about the child, then?”
If there was an area in which she floundered, it was outright lying. At the moment, not only did she know she would never be able to pull the wool over his eyes, as terrible as the truth was, she could not think of any decent lie to attempt.
“I won’t beg again. This is the last time I shall ask.Whydidn’t you tell me, Beatrice?”
Covering her cheeks with her hands, she whispered brokenly, “Because then we wouldn’t have Tuesdays.”
She nearly shook as she awaited his reaction, her eyes dropping, but after he stood frozen for a time, she gathered her courage and slowly lifted her gaze.
What she saw stole her breath. He wasn’t angry. Or horrified. Or disgusted. He looked upon her with what appeared to be…hope.
“Tuesdays,” he breathed.
“Every Wednesday since I suspected I was increasing, I meant to tell you. Truly.” She shook her head helplessly. “But like an indebted wastrel who tells himself he will stop after one more hand of cards at the gaming table, I continued telling myself ‘one more Tuesday’.”
He rushed toward her a few steps, but stopped a short distance away, his hands opening and closing. “God’s teeth, Beatrice!”
“I know that after we fulfilled our conjugal duties, we were supposed to stop. But I—we…” She lifted one shoulder helplessly, her eyes filling with tears, knowing she was only laying bare her sinful thoughts.
“Lady Candleton,” he said, pronouncing her title as if it were an endearment. Then he closed not only his mouth, but the distance between them.
William held her face in his hands for the first time, his gaze so full of longing she forgot herself and held onto his arms in return. The air drained from her lungs when he leaned down to kiss her forehead, his lips warm and adoring.
He pulled back, but not entirely. “What if…” he murmured, gazing down at her lips.
“Yes?”
“What if ours could be an unusual marriage? One where our Tuesdays continue as long as we wish? Where we share not only conjugal duty but conjugal…affection?”
Her mouth parted. “You would wish that?”
His expression transformed—hetransformed. This was not William Dalfour, The Most Honorable Marquess of Candleton. Before her stood the man she recognized from the depths of Tuesday night. The one who visited for a short while every week, who appeared well into that visit, only when their basest—nay, truest—selves emerged.
This was the man who, two weeks ago, had slipped a hand under her knee to lift it as he pumped into her. Who, last week, groaned when she had dared to voluntarily part her own thighs for him.
“I do wish that,” he said in a deep voice. “Perhaps I wish for even more.”
Her hand flew to her throat. “More?”
“There are other days of the week. What if we had more than Tuesdays?”
Trying and failing to keep her smile demure, Bea dipped her head in a ladylike fashion. “As you see fit, my lord.”
