It never failed to amaze Lucy how each time they joined, it was utterly different. Even when it was simply him covering her with his body, her legs wrapped around his, there were different shades, different qualities to the lovemaking.
Lovemaking. For her that was what it had become, a far cry from the first days back in Harridan House. Sometimes when they were joined, she even forgot which limbs were his and which were hers.
But right then, sitting on the edge of the bed with his cock sliding into her, she knew exactly what belonged to him.
And she welcomed it. She welcomed him home.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
By the end of February, Lucy knew it was time to order new clothes. Even with the current style conveniently falling straight below the bosom, she could no longer hide the swollen curve of her belly.
But it was Robert one night, as they lay in bed, who made it very clear that if she didn’t go to the dressmaker and get clothes that actually fit her, he’d send her off to that cottage he’d purchased for her and keep her in confinement till the baby was born.
“I can’t help it, Robert, my breasts are fuller now.”
“I know and I like it, but they’re mine, not for the whole world to see.”
Lucy laughed at that.
“Robert, first of all, it isn’t as if a woman expecting is of any attraction to a man.” The look on his face let her know that argument was completely useless and reminded her of the time that Lord Dobson at Harridan House had specifically requested…She pushed her thoughts back to the matter at hand. “Second of all, I love you. I have no need for anyone else, in my heart or in my bed. Our bed.”
“It’s other people’s thoughts that bother me,” he muttered, but let the subject drop, let her fall asleep.
Our bed. Simple words but they conjured up such an exceeding domesticity. It made him realize just how much this rented maisonette had become his home more than the house in Mayfair. All because she lived here and thus this was where he wanted to be.
Her declaration of love didn’t surprise him. He’d known, somehow he’d known, understood it in the way she looked at him, in the way her face seemed to glow whenever he returned, even when she’d been having that morning sickness.
Furthermore, it was not uncommon for a woman to “love” the man who protected her. Indeed, it was practically part of the bargain. But still…
She was five months along, not quite ready for her confinement. He hadn’t been there for the birth of his other children. He had known the women were expecting and then had come to visit after.
He stroked his hand over the curve of her hip. Pregnancy had changed her body. She was rounded now all over. He enjoyed watching her body change, knowing that it was his seed that caused it.
He hadn’t seen the other pregnancies of his children’s mothers.
He moved his hand to her stomach, caressing the distended skin, smooth and fragrant from the vanilla-scented creme Lucy massaged in every day to keep supple.
He hadn’t slept with Lucy in over a fortnight. She’d seemed too ill and fragile for such a thing. He had not slept with anyone in that time actually, nor anyone but Lucy since the day at Harridan House when she’d drawn him through those doors.
If that constancy wasn’t some sort of love, what was it?
Here he was, about to be a father again. He could give this child his name. And he liked Lucy. How difficult would it be to live with her as his wife? He slept in her bed most nights as it was.
Wife?
Robert couldn’t breathe. The tightness in his chest alarmed him. Then he let out his pent-up breath and turned onto his back.
What was he thinking?
He peeked over at her. She lay exactly as she had been and he studied the beauty marks that dotted the pale skin of her back. How many times had he kissed those marks in these past months, one at the base of her neck, one under her right shoulder blade, working his way down her body, to the one on the upper curve of her left buttock?
He didn’t need a rich wife, or a titled one. Perhaps he needed a respectable wife, but then why should he ask more of the woman than he asked of himself? Could he imagine his life, every morning and every day, with this woman?
With Lucy?
Of course, he could do as he had planned earlier, keep her as his mistress for as long as he wished and marry another woman. But the idea of two households, two women in his life, a woman other than Lucy that he had to please, did not appeal. Not in the slightest.
He sighed. So this was how far he’d come, from wanting every woman to just wanting one.
As if she knew he thought of her, Lucy stirred, turning over and reaching for him. Even with her eyes closed, she found him unerringly, nestling her body against his. It was awkward, and her belly rested on his hip, but she burrowed her face against his chest and he could feel the even intake and exhalation of her breath across his skin.
He shifted her slightly so that he could wrap his arm around her, rest his hand on that part of her hip that seemed made for him.
“Lucy?” He felt her eyelids flutter against his chest and she moved infinitesimally, but then stilled again. “Lucy?” he prodded, slightly louder.
“Mmmm?” Lucy managed to vocalize as she held on to the last warm blanket of sleep.
“I was thinking, love…”
“I like when you think,” Lucy murmured, running her hand sleepily down his chest. They hadn’t had sex in far too long and suddenly it seemed like the very thing she craved. Her fingers closed over his cock, which was surprisingly soft at first and then started to fill her hand.
“Lucy.” His rested his hand on hers, stopping her movement.
She finally opened her eyes, hearing the strain in his voice, the hesitancy. He sounded so very unlike himself.
“I’m feeling better, I promise,” she assured him, rubbing her breasts against his arm—those ridiculously large breasts that had absorbed all his attention earlier that night.
He pushed her hand away, off of him, and Lucy’s smile disappeared.
This was it. The moment her sister had warned about. Hell, the moment Penny Partridge had warned her of. It was over. He’d even hinted at it before she’d fallen asleep with talk of the cottage he’d bought her.
She rolled away from him, onto her back, and flung her arm over her face, hiding her eyes.
She would not cry. She’d told herself again and again that she would not, that when this time came she would plan for the future, think of the tavern, think of her baby and the cottage and all the wonderful memories she had saved up.
Memories. Despite herself, her arm grew wet against her eyes.
The bed shook and then he loomed over her, torturing her with his heat, his scent.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better, I really am; it’s just, first I wanted to discuss something with you.”
He sounded slightly more like himself, and Lucy dragged her arm away from her face, trying to discreetly wipe away the tears as she did. Whatever he had to say, she would have to face it at some point.
“You’re crying?” He stared down at her in wonder. “By God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry. Not even when you were puking your dinner, your lunch and your breakfast into the chamber pot.”
“What did you want to discuss?” Lucy managed, trying to keep calm, but it was so difficult with his body half over her, his hand resting so possessively on her belly.
Robert laughed. “You’d think as I’ve waited forty-two years for this moment, I’d manage to do it somewhat romantically, but here we are, having a discussion and you’re crying.”
“Romantically?” Lucy stared at him, wondering how someone she knew and loved so well could look so much like a stranger.
“Right.” He let himself down till he rested on his side, his head propped up on his hand. “I’m asking you to marry me.”
Lucy did cry then, more from shock than from anything else. Those words were the last thing in the world she had ever expected f
rom him. This was not real. This was some fairy tale into which she’d awoken. It was hard to believe but he was looking at her, expecting her to say something, expecting an answer.
Yes, yes, of course yes!
But she was too full of all the confusing emotions to speak, so she didn’t. She turned onto her side, ungainly from the pregnancy, and kissed him. From the way his hands roamed her body, she was absolutely certain that he understood.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lucy went the next day to tell Mary. But even as she made the long journey across town, this time giving in to the exhaustion of pregnancy by hiring a hack, she knew it wasn’t a good idea. She wasn’t entirely certain of the reason she kept torturing herself with these visits.
Mary huddled under her blankets and Lucy could understand why, for a cold draft snuck through the poorly sealed window. The hard, thin line of her sister’s mouth was another matter entirely.
“Come Mary, for once can you not simply be happy for me?”
“Happy for you? The little princess? It doesn’t matter what poor choices you make in life, there’s always someone to save you, help you out, whether it’s me, that Madame Rouge, or now your baronet.”
Lucy’s hands fell to her belly, as if she had to protect the unborn child when it was really her own heart that ached.
“You’re my only family, Mary,” Lucy said, as evenly as she could. “It’s you and me in this world. That’s what you said to me when Mrs. Marrack fired me and I came to you.”
“Wrong, sister, it’s you and your baronet. I only have myself to look after. Only me.”
They stayed there in silence, their gazes locked.
Then Mary broke away. “I’m not too proud to take the money though,” she admitted. “I want that pub. I’ll need an income after I can’t give a good tup anymore.”
Chapter Thirty
It was ridiculous how unburdened he felt. No more searching for a wife, no more worrying about an heir, at least if the child was a male. Even if not, there would likely be more. He could have everything he wanted in one package: mistress, wife, mother of his children. Lucy.
And having made the decision, everything changed.
The afternoon that he went to tell Molineaux, even Clarissa remarked on it.
“Many men marry their mistresses, Robert,” she informed him, explaining her pleasure at the match. “And we’d be very honored if you’d let us host your wedding breakfast.”
Robert cocked an eyebrow toward Molineaux, but his friend merely shrugged with a small smile.
“You wanted me to marry Miss Clarke,” Robert reminded her.
“That was months ago, and I thought you would never fall in love. But you have, utterly. It’s quite remarkable.” Clarissa clapped her hands together in satisfaction.
Robert coughed, embarrassed despite himself. Of course he loved Lucy, but it wasn’t at all the sort of relationship Molineaux had with his wife. Robert knew clearly he didn’t need Lucy the way she needed him. He could walk away, find another woman, many other women, satisfy himself in all the old ways he used to satisfy himself. He might not wish to, but he could.
“I appreciate and accept your generous offer,” Robert said, finally.
“Excellent!” Clarissa said. “Of course, we really should ask Lucy, and of course, I’ll need a list…”
Robert listened to her ramble on about all the things that would need to be done, even as she left the room. He was lucky in his friends; his mother hadn’t been remotely as accepting.
“She’s a good woman, your wife,” he said, raising his glass to his friend.
Molineaux smiled, raising his glass as well. “I know.”
Chapter Thirty-One
She had nothing to wear. She was getting married in three weeks. To Robert. To Sir Robert George, baronet, and here she was, fat with child, making her best dress look like the casing for a sausage.
“It’s not that bad, miss,” Charlotte said, holding Lucy’s hair back so that they could better see the neckline. “I’ll let it out a bit.”
But there wasn’t enough extra fabric in the seams to cover her belly, and then, when she let out her breath, they both heard the tearing sound of stitches bursting.
“Get it off, now,” Lucy ordered, her eyes damp despite knowing how silly it was to cry over this. She was happy, ridiculously so, but she wanted to make sure Robert was happy too. He might be marrying a common woman but she didn’t have to look like one.
The sound of the heavy knocker falling on the front door briefly stilled Charlotte’s hands. They both heard the familiar sound of the footman and then the less-familiar muffled sound of a woman’s voice.
Mary.
“Shall I go see who it is, miss?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s all right, I will go down and see.” Lucy reached for a shawl, a large paisley wrap that didn’t go with her dress but covered her up well enough.
As she walked carefully down the stairs, Lucy’s heart seemed to pound in her chest. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted or needed this. How much she wanted somebody standing by her, somebody with whom she could share her joy and fear.
She met the footman at the base of the stairs.
“Where is she?” Lucy asked, already walking past him.
“I put her in the front parlor,” he answered. “I have her card, miss.”
It was only when she had already stepped across the threshold of the parlor and spotted the petite, fashionably plump woman with ink-black curls that the footman’s words registered with her. Mary didn’t have calling cards.
And naturally, this well-dressed woman was not Mary.
It was Madame Molineaux.
Lucy was uncomfortably aware of how she looked, her hair hanging down her back like she was a schoolchild, nearly bursting the seams of her dress. Before Lucy could apologize, the woman was striding across the room to her, hands reached out to take hers.
“Pardon the intrusion, Miss Leigh, but Sir Robert visited us today and told us the happy news.”
Lucy let the woman take her hands, even though her shawl slipped to her elbows and revealed far more of her dress than she wished.
“I don’t know if you realize, but Robert and my husband, well, they were friends for years before I married, and to hear Raoul say it, everything we have today is because of Robert’s generosity.”
Although it was Lucy’s parlor and Madame Molineaux was only a few years older, the other woman had a motherly way about her and Lucy found herself being settled onto the sofa as if she’d been invited over for a little coze.
“Robert, I believe, sees it the other way,” Lucy said hesitantly, not wanting to insult the other woman by challenging her words.
“Of course he would.” Madame Molineaux smiled happily. “They’re such good men, your fiancé and my husband.”
It was ridiculous how easily they fell into friendship. Within minutes they had dropped any formality and Lucy found herself telling Clarissa about her dress.
“This dress?” Clarissa studied it carefully. “You’re absolutely right, this won’t do. Let’s get you a new one.”
As easy as that, Lucy thought, feeling something inside her snap—the last threads that tied her to her past. There was no turning back now. She was giving up the loneliness of her life in service and stepping fully into Robert’s life.
She would not—could not—look back.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The three weeks that passed played tricks with Lucy’s sense of time, at once feeling both far too short and far too long. Shopping with Clarissa had been wonderful. For the first time she had fully enjoyed the activity. Everything was different when done with a friend, and as the days passed, Lucy realized it was a relationship she hadn’t had since she was a child.
Clarissa had been the one to suggest the pale blue silk that now draped her body in flattering folds, and had handed Charlotte the page from La Belle Assemblee that showed the hairstyle she thought Lucy should w
ear. And now she was the one who stood by Lucy’s side in Clarissa’s parlor while they waited for the reverend to arrive. It was a far cry from the day, so many months before, when Raoul hadn’t even wanted to point out his wife to Lucy.
Lucy had suspected it would be a small wedding. She had no one to invite on such short notice, and even on longer notice she wasn’t entirely certain she would have invited her parents. Most of Robert’s family had refused to attend, all except his widowed cousin, who surprised them all when she arrived the night before.
But Lucy was completely happy. For somewhere, out in Clarissa’s drawing room, was Robert. Robert, who had spent every last night in her bed, who had left that morning with the greatest reluctance, wondering why they couldn’t simply arrive together. Robert, with whom she seemed to fall in love more every day.
Robert…
Molineaux’s drawing room was stuffy and hot, although no one else seemed to be complaining. Maybe it was simply the ridiculously complicated arrangement of his cravat that Peters had insisted upon.
Robert found it difficult to breathe, difficult to think. Then Lucy walked in and for a moment, his breath left him entirely.
There were times that Robert looked into Lucy’s face and saw that she loved him. Really, truly, beyond a shadow of a doubt loved him. But it was so easy to forget, until one of those moments happened, and he would meet her gaze, actually see the human she was, and know that she loved him.
Standing there, in Molineaux’s drawing room, with the reverend asking them to gather before him to bind themselves to each other for life, was one of those moments.
Forty-two years of age seemed rather late for a man to have an epiphany.
He loved her. It wasn’t simply that he would never choose to walk away: there was no way in the world that he could.
Robert took Lucy’s hands in his own, the smoothness of her white silk gloves startling him. Then he laughed, suddenly calmer and more sure than he had been of anything in his life. Lucy met his gaze with her own, her expression shifting from curiosity to understanding to a promise of the hours to come.
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