Since they had guests, apparently Portia had instructed Mrs. Dorset to prepare a variety of breakfast offerings to be set on the sideboard so everyone could take whatever they fancied. Locke couldn’t fault the variety, finding it rather nice not to be saddled with the cook’s plated offering based on her mood.

Everyone was here, including his father; everyone except Portia. Her absence surprised him, because he’d expected her to be the first at the table to ensure everything met her expectations and to greet their guests. On the other hand, he hadn’t been able to resist having her again this morning before preparing for the day. After assisting him with dressing, she’d returned to the bed as she always did “for just a few more minutes.” He’d no doubt worn her out. As a husband, he was a cad. Not that she seemed to mind.

“How long are you all staying?” he asked now, trying not to think of the mines and how he was anxious to get back to them.

“Only until tomorrow,” Ashe said. “We wanted to welcome your wife into the family, but can’t tarry. Will you be coming to London for the Season?”

“I’m considering it.” He might actually anticipate attending balls, having the opportunity to dance with Portia, to walk in with her on his arm. Only he wanted people to see that she was more than grace and beauty. He wanted them to see all that she was capable of accomplishing. He wanted them to see her as a hostess, the lady of the manor. Was he actually considering asking her to arrange a ball in his London residence?

Because his father had never returned to London after his wife died, the residence in town had never been abandoned—although neither was it truly alive. Portia would change that. She would whisk down the hallways and through the rooms, brightening them with her presence alone. She would—

Cullie entered the room at a rather fast clip, but then the girl tended to move quickly no matter what she was doing, a trait she’d no doubt adopted from her mistress. Once reaching him, she bent down.

“Her Ladyship’s not feeling quite up to snuff this morning,” she said quietly, yet her voice still seemed to carry as everyone perked up. “She won’t be joining you for breakfast. She wanted you to know so you could carry on with your day and not be waiting about for her.”

He was on his feet before he’d even realized he’d tossed down his napkin. Portia never became ill—or so she’d claimed, too smugly for it not to be true. So what the devil was wrong with her and why was his heart hammering and his stomach roiling as though he were the one who was ill? She’d been fine this morning. She’d buttoned him up and knotted his neck cloth as she did each day. That she’d wanted to return to bed for a few minutes had been no cause for alarm.

“We’ll see to her,” Minerva offered as both she and Julia pushed back their chairs and stood. Ashe, Edward, and his father were quick to follow.

“She won’t want to interrupt your breakfast,” he insisted.

“If it’s what I think it is—a lady’s condition—I doubt she’ll want you charging in there either.”

A lady’s condition? The meaning of those words slammed into him. Of course. Her menses. He’d given no thought to the fact that they’d been together for nearly a month now and he’d been able to enjoy her every night. Minerva was correct. Avoiding this aspect of marriage was appealing, as he’d not considered that marriage meant being with a woman during her time. “All right. Yes. I’d appreciate you seeing to her.”

“Very good.” Minerva gave her attention to Cullie. “Bring some tea with honey and some crackers to her Ladyship’s bedchamber.”

The ladies disappeared through the doorway. The gentlemen retook their chairs.

“You looked a bit ill yourself there for a moment,” Edward said.

“She doesn’t get ill, so I was a concerned.”

“You’re beginning to care for her,” his father said, his smile nearly a gloat.

“Don’t be ridiculous. She serves a purpose, nothing more.” He reached for his coffee, noticed his fingers trembling, and returned his hand to his lap. His reaction had nothing to do with any warm feelings he might have toward her, but merely the inconvenient timing of the situation. Still as the others began talking, he couldn’t stop looking at the archway and wishing that he’d been the one to go to her.

“Why didn’t you tell him what you truly suspect?” Julia asked as they headed up the stairs.

“Because it’s not my place to tell him, but based on your question, I’m assuming you think the same thing.” Minerva had suspected it from the moment she’d been introduced to Portia. One of the reasons that she was so very skilled at cheating was that she was so very good at reading people and situations. Portia had a glow to her that had nothing to do with marital bliss.

When they reached the last door, she rapped briskly on the wood, waited until Portia bade them to come in, then turned the knob. They entered to find their hostess curled in a fetal position, her face pale, her eyes dull.

“Oh, I thought you were Cullie,” she said, pushing herself up.

“Don’t get up,” Minerva said, rushing over and pressing her back down. “We only wanted to check on you, not disturb you. Your maid said you’re not feeling well.”

“When I’m moving about I get a bit nauseous. I thought resting for a while might help.”

Minerva beamed at Julia, who nodded.

“My incapacitation is hardly worth grinning over,” Portia said somewhat grumpily.

“We’re smiling because you’re exhibiting signs of being with child,” Minerva told her.

Portia shook her head. “It’s too soon.”

Julia moved around the bed, lowered herself to the mattress, and took Portia’s hand. “When was your last menses?”

Minerva had never known anyone who looked so reluctant to answer a question, but then some ladies were embarrassed by their bodies’ needs and functions. She, herself, had never been particularly shy, but she understood their prying might not be particularly welcomed, in spite of its good intentions.

“I can’t remember.” Portia blinked several times, pressed her lips together, as though she was striving to solve a difficult answer on a quiz. “Sometime before I arrived here.”

“And you’ve been married for a month,” Julia said softly. “I would say there is a good chance you are with child, wouldn’t you, Minerva?”

“I would, yes.” She, too, sat on the edge of the bed and clasped Portia’s hand. The new viscountess looked positively frightened, as though she’d been caught doing something she ought not.

“But the nausea . . . isn’t it too soon?”

“I was nearly two months along when I began to feel ill but I think all women are different,” Julia said. “What about you, Minerva?”

“I agree, we’re all different.”

Julia laughed. “No, I mean when did you experience nausea?”

“Nearly right from the start. Have you had any other signs, Portia?”

“I have been tired of late, but I just thought it was because I was working so hard to get things ready.”

“There you are then,” Minerva said. “I’d say Marsden is going to get the grandchild he craves.”

He’d waited as long as he could. When the ladies didn’t return straightaway to inform him that all was well, he headed upstairs and barged into his bedchamber without bothering to knock. That Minerva and Julia were sitting on either side of Portia, holding her hands, caused cold dread to wash over him. While he’d never witnessed a deathbed scene, what he saw was exactly how he imagined it would be. Portia’s cheeks held no rosy hue. Her eyes didn’t light up with challenge at his arrival. His father liked Portia immensely. He didn’t know if his sire would survive losing her if she were to succumb to an illness and become another woman who had died too young within this residence.

“I’ll send for a physician,” he barked, despising that he seemed unable to react with any sort of rational thought.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Minerva said, rising to her feet, smiling softly.

The smile unmanned him. “What’s wrong with her then?”

“We’ll let her tell you.”

As Minerva and Julia walked out, he tried to take solace in the fact that neither of them seemed particularly worried. Yet he seemed unable to get his heart to stop its thundering within his chest. As he began striding toward the bed, his wife pushed herself up. He quickened his pace, getting to her in time to help fluff up the pillows behind her back. Straightening, he stood stiffly before her. “So what illness has befallen you?”

Her lips turned up ever so slightly. “I’m not certain I’m ill. Rather there may be a chance that I’m with child.”

If he hadn’t braced his legs, locked his knees, he might have stumbled back. Instead, he merely stared at her, wondering why there was suddenly no air to draw into his lungs. He didn’t want a child cutting his time with her short, didn’t want to consider that like his mother she might die in childbirth. It had taken his father three years to get his marchioness with child. Locke suddenly realized he wanted at least that long with Portia. More. “So soon?”

She flinched, lowered her gaze to her lap, and plucked at a thread on the duvet. “I thought the same thing but it has been pointed out to me—by you yourself come to think of it—that it could have happened as early as the first time we came together.” She lifted her eyes to his. “I did admit to being fertile, after all.”

The tartness in her tone set his world back to rights. She wasn’t his mother. And she’d already survived bringing one child into the world. He leaned against the post at the foot of the bed, crossed his arms over his chest, wishing the damn tremors cascading through him would cease. “So you did.”

But still he hadn’t thought she’d be this fertile.

She tilted up her chin. “I do hope your father is happier about it than you seem to be.”

“He will be.” He grimaced. “It’s not that I’m not happy; it’s just sooner than I expected.”

“Which is quite stupid on your part considering how many times you’ve spilled your seed into me.”

He couldn’t help grinning. He hadn’t liked seeing her so vulnerable, but she was returning to herself, and as she did, so the tightness in his chest eased. He was no doubt worrying for nothing. “I don’t recall your objecting.”

“Arrogant—” Suddenly she blanched, tossed back the covers, scrambled out of the bed, and made a mad dash across the room.

Alarmed he shoved himself away from the bedstead. “Portia?”

She came to a stop at the washstand and bent her head over the bowl. Cautiously he approached, well aware of her not moving, but breathing in short gasps. “Portia?”

Shaking her head, she held up a hand. He placed his on her back and began moving it in slow circles. “Relax. It’ll be all right.”

“My stomach . . . keeps lurching, but nothing comes.”

“This is how you know you’re with child?”

“That and I haven’t had my menses.”

He was well aware of that fact as he’d been able to have his way with her every night. Damn. His seed probably had taken root the first time.

She closed her fingers into a fist; her breathing became easier.

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” he murmured.

“This is nothing compared with what’s to come.”

He didn’t want to contemplate what she would endure to bring his child into the world, the risk she was taking to give him a bloody heir. He rather wished he’d kept his trousers buttoned. “Was it very painful bringing your first child into the world?”

Beneath his fingers, she stiffened. “Whatever a woman suffers is worth it.”

He doubted that his mother would agree.

A knock sounded on the door.

“What?” he barked, not welcoming the intrusion.

The door opened and Cullie peered in. “I brought the tea and crackers for her Ladyship. The duchess thinks it’ll help settle her stomach.”

“Right. Put the tray on the table beside the bed.”

With a rapid patter of heels over wood, Cullie rushed across the room, set down the tray, and made a hasty exit.

“Does she always move about so quickly?” Locke asked.

“I think your brusque tone unnerves her.”

“I was merely trying to discourage anyone from disturbing you.”

With a deep sigh, she straightened. “I think you accomplished that. I’m going to give the tea a try.”

She wandered back to the bed, climbed into it, and took the china teacup from the tray. He returned to his position leaning against the bedpost and watched as she blew lightly over the tea. His body reacted as though she were blowing lightly over him. At a time such as this, he was an absolute cad.

“How long will you be feeling under the weather?” he asked.

“Difficult to say. The nausea shouldn’t last much longer, I shouldn’t think. I’m already feeling better. It may return tomorrow and any number of days after that. I suppose it’s my body adjusting to carrying life.”

Christ. Life. A life they’d created together. Even knowing the entire purpose behind this ludicrous arrangement had been to provide the next heir, Locke had never truly contemplated the responsibility of it.

“You don’t seem very happy by the prospect of a child,” she said quietly before sipping her tea, her eyes never leaving him.

“It seems ridiculous to say it, but I hadn’t given you getting with child a great deal of thought. I’m not unhappy about it.”

She blinked coquettishly. “Well, that makes me feel loads better.”

“Portia.” What could he say? He hadn’t expected his seed to be so competent; although to be honest he’d never before tested his own fertility. Before her, he’d always sheathed himself when with a woman. “I’m . . . delighted with the prospect of an heir—”

“Could be a girl.”

He was taken aback by how much the possibility of a daughter pleased him. One with Portia’s vibrant red hair and whiskey eyes. One who would live out her life as a spinster because he wouldn’t let a man get within three feet of her. “I would like that.”

Her eyes searching his face, she lowered her cup. “Would you?”

“I would.” He cleared his throat, searching for a way to reassure her that he was not dissatisfied by the developments. “I’d be equally pleased with a boy. As long as the child is healthy and you—” Survive flashed through his mind. He realized that worry over her was tamping any sort of joy he should feel at this moment. “And you don’t find the experience too much of an ordeal.”

“You’re thinking of your mother,” she said tenderly.

Why was it that she seemed to know him far better than he knew her?

“I’m strong and healthy.” But her words offered no assurance because as far as he knew his mother had been strong and healthy as well. “I won’t die.”

Pushing himself away from the post, he moved up, leaned over her, and bussed his lips over hers. “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

Then he strode out before he said something sentimental that he’d come to regret. He was not opening his heart to the woman. He just wished he wasn’t filled with a sense of foreboding that threatened to remove any ray of sunshine from his life.

The marquess’s reaction was exactly the sort that any woman would want. He was ecstatic. Portia was certain that if he had his clothes as well tailored to fitting his body as his son did, then his buttons would have popped off his waistcoat when Locksley announced in the music room that evening following dinner that she was with child.

She was surprised everyone had held the news to themselves, but she supposed they wanted a wonderful moment for Marsden.

“Bravo!” he exclaimed, lifting his glass of scotch. “I knew it wouldn’t take you long, my dear.”

She’d been noticing changes for some time now, lacking energy in the afternoons, her stomach feeling a bit queasy in the mornings, but she’d kept it all to herself because it felt far too early to announce a baby was on the way. Even now, she wasn’t quite comfortable with it, but Minerva and Julia had forced her hand.

She was most surprised by Locksley’s reaction. His mother’s death had obviously affected him more than she’d realized, no doubt more than anyone thought. She had sensed his worry that morning when he learned of her condition and it had tempered any excitement he might have felt at the possibility of acquiring his heir. Although she truly wanted this child to be a girl. A sweet little girl whom she could shower with the love and affection that had been denied her.

“We’ll have our heir here before the year is out,” Marsden said, grinning broadly.

“It might be a girl,” she told him.

“Maybe.” He tapped two fingers to his chest. “But in here, I know it to be a boy.”

“Regardless, Father, you’ll welcome the child,” Locksley said.

“Naturally.” He gave her a secretive wink as though he had no doubts at all that she was carrying a boy.

“Shall I play something on the pianoforte?” she asked, hoping to move the discussion away from her pregnancy.

“You should rest this evening,” Locksley said.

“It’s not as though I’m incapacitated. I feel perfectly fine now. And I’m not planning to just sit around for . . . well, however many months are left.”

His brow furrowed. “Eight I should think.”

“Sometimes babies come early. I did. Several weeks early, as a matter of fact. All of my siblings came early.”

“So did Locke,” Marsden said.

Her husband snapped his attention to his father. “I did?”

Marsden nodded, studying the scotch remaining in his glass as though he wished he hadn’t spoken. “Two weeks I think. Or perhaps the physician miscalculated. It’s not as though it’s an exact science. One can only guess as to when conception truly took place.”

“Speaking of physicians, we’ll want to bring a new one to the village,” Locksley said.

“But Findley’s been here forever.”

“He was here when I was born, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then we want a different one.”

A wealth of sadness in his eyes, Marsden studied his son. “He couldn’t have saved your mother.”

He shot up out of his chair and strode to the table of decanters. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was agitated, concerned for her health. “He’s going to say that, isn’t he? Or perhaps we’ll go to London as Portia’s time nears.”

She didn’t want to be anywhere near London. “The babe should be born here, at the estate.”

“She’s right,” Marsden said. “We’ll find a new physician.”

Locksley filled his glass and returned to his chair, hardly appearing appeased. “Good. I’ll place an advert in the Times.”

“Announce your marriage while you’re at it.”

Portia’s stomach knotted up at that command, but she could hardly object without raising suspicions. Besides, realistically, her marriage to Locksley couldn’t remain a secret forever. Best to just get it done and hope for the best.

“I know there is precedent for your concern,” Edward said quietly, “but both Julia and Minerva have delivered babes and survived.”

“And doctors know so much more now, don’t they?” Julia added. “I daresay, medicine as a whole is vastly improving.”

“Not to mention that Portia gave birth before with no ill effects,” the marquess said.

The eyes of their guests landed on her with an almost audible thud.

“You had a child?” Minerva asked, sadness and sorrow clearly reflected in her voice.

“He died.” She shook her head. “My present condition is supposed to be a cause for celebration and joy, not melancholy. I believe I shall play.”

Before anyone could object, she rose to her feet, walked quickly to the pianoforte, sat, and struck a hard, deep chord. Moving into a lighter, face-paced tune, she allowed the music to wash over her, through her, calming her nerves. She wouldn’t contemplate that she might not live to see this child grow up. The earl was correct. Women survived all the time. She wasn’t going to spend the next few months worrying. All would be well. It had to be. After everything she’d done, it had to be.

With the first whisper of dawn easing in through the windows, Locke watched as his wife slept. Normally, he would have slowly awoken her with kisses on her bared shoulder and gentle nudges, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to disturb her slumber this morning. Not when it might hasten the roiling of her stomach.

Last night he’d taken her three times before she’d contentedly drifted off to sleep. While he’d spent much of the time staring into the darkness, listening to her rhythmic breathing, inhaling her jasmine fragrance. He was hoarding the most insignificant of memories as though she would be snatched away from him. It was ludicrous that he should worry so much when other matters were pressing in on him: ensuring his heir inherited an estate that was worthy of him with an income that would sustain him.

In a single day, everything had changed; everything seemed more urgent. He needed to spend more time at the mines, needed the men to work with more perseverance. It was more imperative than ever that they find an ore-rich vein soon. He would double his efforts, lengthen the hours they toiled. But even as he contemplated longer hours, time spent away from Portia, something within him rebelled. He wanted more hours, more days, more months with her.

Why did his seed have to be so damned potent?

Her eyes fluttered open. Her lips curled up into a soft smile. “Lost interest in me now that I’m with child?”

He loved her voice first thing in the morning, when it was raspy from sleep, hoarse from disuse. It added a sultry element to her cries of pleasure that always caused his body to tighten all the more. “Last night should have convinced you otherwise.”

“Why haven’t you woken me then?”

His gaze drifted down to her stomach, and he wondered when it would begin to round, when he would look at her and see the evidence of his child growing within her. “After yesterday I wasn’t certain you’d be up for it.”

She scraped her fingers through his hair, drawing his attention back to her eyes. “The nausea didn’t hit me until later.”

“Still, we haven’t much time with our guests leaving soon. I should probably—”

She sat up, the sheet slipping down to her waist, leaving those lovely breasts of hers exposed. Pushing on his shoulder, she forced him back down to the mattress before swinging a leg over him and straddling his hips. Leaning down, she nibbled on his lips. “I’m not fragile.”

The woman’s appetite was as insatiable as his. He’d never known anyone like her. Nor could he resist her.

Three hours later, after a lazy coupling and a leisurely breakfast, he was standing on the drive between Portia and his father, watching as the coaches carrying his childhood friends and their families disappeared down the lane.

“It’s good to see them doing so well,” his father said. “They’re happy. That’s what matters most. And they have their heirs.” He patted Locke’s shoulder. “You will, too, soon.”

He began to wander off, not in the direction of the manor, but toward the area where the marchioness had been laid to rest. Locke had little doubt that he was going to spend some time talking to his mother’s headstone.

“He’ll be disappointed if it’s a girl,” Portia said quietly.

“I doubt it,” he assured her. “Did you not see the attention he gave Allie?”

She looked up at him. “Will you be disappointed?”

As long as she didn’t die, he’d be pleased. “Why would I be disappointed when it means we’d just have to try all the harder?”

She smiled as a blush crept up her cheeks. “Will you be going to the mines?”

“How are you feeling?”

She seemed surprised by his question. He’d noticed during breakfast that she merely nibbled on a piece of toast and sipped her tea.

“The queasiness comes and goes, although I think I shall lie down for a while.”

“I can stay—”

“No. No sense in that when there’s nothing you can do. I’m not ill, Locksley. This will all pass.”

He was torn between wishing her pregnancy would pass quickly and that it would take forever. The distraction of the mines would be welcomed, would occupy his thoughts so he could ward off all the worst-case scenarios that fought to intrude on his peace of mind.