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“Afternoon, Mrs. Brown. The Marchioness?”
The woman pursed her lips, causing the skin around her mouth to pucker. “Indisposed.”
A jolt of concern lanced through him. “Is she unwell?”
“Not unwell, precisely, no. Easily fatigued, my lord.” Disapproval radiated from her. “Fallen asleep in the drawing room, she has.”
William set off for the room in such haste he forgot the current weakness of his ankle, and for the second time that day, he found himself intimately acquainted with the floor.
“My lord!” huffed the butler.
Mrs. Brown gasped. “I’ll wake her ladyship!”
“Good God! No, you shall not.” William sighed, then pulled himself up, brushing off his elderly butler’s assistance. “Return to your duties, both of you, with the reassurance that all is well. A minor fencing injury.”
With halting steps, he made his way to the drawing room, finding his wife curled up on the silk settee the color of green crabapples. Enthralled by the tender moment, he approached her quietly, not wanting to disturb her rest. He swallowed at the childlike innocence of her hands, palm to palm, under one cheek.
He sank into a nearby chair, at once fascinated by her and feeling immersed in oily guilt. She had been taking her household management duties seriously this week, he knew, overseeing the packing for their removal to the country. His eyes moved down to the expanse of fabric over the swell of her abdomen. In her condition, she ought to be resting more.
Tugging at his cravat, he swallowed, beset by memories of going to her chamber last night. Were his conjugal demands overtaxing her?
By the time she woke a short time later, his thoughts had shifted wildly from one extreme to the next. Determined to spare her further inconvenience, he resolved to cease his evening visits. After all, she was well and gone with child. Minutes later, entranced by the curves and lines of her body, he wished to take her upstairs before supper, scandalizing her and everyone else in the household.
“Oh!” She blinked. “William!” As if struggling to wake fully, she sat up slowly.
“Good evening, Beatrice.” A besotted smile tugged at his lips, and he gave into it.
“When did you arrive home?”
“Not long ago.”
She pressed a hand to her cheek, flushed with sleep. Unable to resist, he found himself on his feet, ready to go to her.
Yet again, finding himself plastered on the floor.
“William!”
Groaning, he pulled himself into a sitting position. Once more, aside from the ankle, only his pride was injured.
She sank to the floor, seemingly fully awake now, her eyes filled with concern.
“A minor fencing injury is all. Nothing to worry about.”
“Fencing?” Her sweet eyes ran over his form more unabashedly than she had ever dared. “Were you…stabbed?”
He laughed. “No. Strained my ankle through twisting. A common enough complaint in fencing, what with the lunging.”
She stared at his thighs which, thanks to said lunging, were thickly muscled. Sitting on the floor as she was, even loosely corseted in light of her condition, her breasts plumped under her lavender silk bodice.
Clearing her throat, she looked up suddenly. Feeling her gaze, his eyes shot up from her décolletage.
“Are you able to manage?” She looked over at the settee. “Might I assist you? I must insist on checking your ankle. You should rest it, my lord.”
Before today, he would have contended that such treatment was unwelcome, that he wouldn’t tolerate his wife mothering him. Within moments, however, he found himself wincing and grimacing without reserve as he moved himself to the settee, more slowly than required.
“Oh, my poor William! Let me see it. We might need to call a physician.”
“The only care I need is from my wife.” He lifted his ankle to the cushion, careful to keep his shoes off the furniture, groaning appreciatively with relief. Having it up and supported was, indeed, an improvement.
