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“I don’t give a damn about your money.” He’d take her wearing only the gown on her back.
He’d take her out of the gown, too.
She shook her head. “Royal, you are exceedingly generous, but you know we’d kill each other within a week.”
“Oh, I can think of worse ways to go.”
Ainsley gaped at him. “Are you blind? I look like I swallowed a cannonball. Two cannonballs.”
“True, but your bosom has gone from splendid to spectacular. I’m thinking of building a monument to honor your décolletage.”
For a few moments, she looked like she didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled.
She chose to be appalled. “That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard. I refuse to sit here and be insulted.”
“That was definitely not an insult, Ainsley.”
She made a show of getting up, flopping about for a bit before subsiding with a ferocious scowl. “A gentleman would have helped me up.”
“When did you get the idea that I was a gentleman? Certainly not from anything I ever did.”
She let out a grudging laugh. “True enough.”
He took her hand again. “Ainsley, I meant it when I said I would do anything to help you, including marriage.”
She peered at their joined hands, as if they presented her with some sort of problem. “Thank you, Royal. I’m afraid it wouldn’t help, though. For one thing, it would simply generate too much gossip.”
He ignored the hollow drop of his stomach. He’d known she would refuse him, but he had to try. “Then what can I do to help?”
“I—” She broke off, and then slid him a sideways look so calculating it raised the hairs on his neck.
“What?” he warily asked.
She suddenly sat bolt upright. “Something,” she said in a tight voice.
“Could you be more specific?”
She pulled her hand free and clutched her belly. “Something that shouldn’t be happening for another three weeks.”
Royal stared at her with slowly dawning dismay. “You mean . . .”
“Yes, you’d better fetch my aunt,” she gasped. “In fact, you’d better fetch everyone.”
Chapter Four
Ainsley leaned on Royal’s arm as they inched along the upstairs hall outside her bedroom. Three hours had passed since her water broke and her labor had only slowly advanced. She thought of her bed with longing, but the midwife had suggested she keep moving to speed the baby’s entrance into the world.
Of course, the redoubtable Mrs. Peters was currently down in the kitchen, having a nice cup of tea with Cook, not stumbling about the halls. So far, midwifing had certainly not taken much work on her part.
Aunt Margaret had popped out for a bit in a flannel wrapper and an enormous frilly nightcap. After hearing from Mrs. Peters that Ainsley still had hours to go, she had departed for bed, after instructing Royal to keep an eye on things. Amazingly enough, he’d been more than willing to do so, and had even instructed Betty to get some sleep, knowing her assistance would be required later.
In the meantime, there wasn’t much for Ainsley to do except walk, curse during the occasional bout of contractions, and beat her brains against her skull. She’d been hoping for a few more weeks to sort out her baby’s future, but time had caught up with her.
Royal had been supporting her with quiet concern as she wandered about the halls or tried to find a comfortable seat to take a bit of a rest. His limp was particularly bad tonight. In fact, he was probably in almost as much pain as she was, although he’d never admit it or ever complain. When Ainsley thought about all he’d been through, about the physical and emotional pain he’d endured, her troubles seemed easier to bear.
“Stoic, that’s what you are,” she muttered.
He bent his head. “What’s that?”
