They stayed in London until the end of the Season. No rumors about her past circulated. Occasionally she caught a glimpse of Beaumont, but he kept his distance. It seemed to her that he always looked rather sad. She did hope that happiness was in his future.

It was certainly in her present. She was glad to be back at Havisham. Sitting on the terrace with the marquess, sipping her afternoon tea while he drank scotch, she didn’t know why she’d ever thought the place desolate. “I love it here,” she said on a sigh.

“It’s not for everyone,” he told her.

She looked over at him. “It’s for me, though.” And it would be for her children. Here they would know only happiness. They might climb trees but it wouldn’t be because they were afraid of receiving an unjust punishment.

She knew her husband would be returning soon. He was spending less time at the mines these days. He still went down into them—he couldn’t seem to refrain from accepting the challenge of it. But he didn’t go as often—or so he told her. She had no cause to doubt him. They were coming to know each other so very well. She’d confessed that she wasn’t afraid of horses, but had been afraid that riding one would cause her to lose the babe, so she’d created an excuse to avoid them. Locksley had promised her hours of riding after the child was born. She’d also revealed that she enjoyed wine and brandy, but again, she hadn’t believed it would be good for the child she carried.

“I look forward to a lifetime of discovering everything about you,” he’d said.

She was looking forward to the same, still occasionally pinched herself to make certain she wasn’t dreaming, that life could be so marvelous and good.

“I believe I shall take a walk to visit with Linnie,” Marsden said. “Care to join me?”

“My legs could use a bit of a stretch.” As she stood up, the pain seized her. She couldn’t hold back her moan as she pressed a hand to the table as though that would lessen the impact.

“What is it, my dear?” Marsden asked, concern clearly written on his face.

Straightening, she took a deep breath as the discomfort subsided. “Oh.” Another deep breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth. “I’ve just been having occasional twinges since last night.”

“That was more than a twinge.”

She nodded. “It was a rather harsh one.”

Calmly he pushed back his chair and stood. “We’re not going for a walk. We’re getting you upstairs. Then we’re sending for the physician and Locke.”

“It’s too soon for the babe to come.” She hated lying to him, especially as it wasn’t too soon. If anything it was a bit later than she’d expected, but she didn’t want him questioning the paternity of this child. Oh, God, now that the moment was upon her, the guilt she’d so effectively buried surfaced. Please, please, please be a girl.

“Perhaps I’m mistaken,” he said, “but let’s take precautions just in case I know what I’m talking about.”

Offering his arm, he escorted her indoors, where he shouted at one footman to fetch Locksley and another to fetch the village physician. He called out for Cullie and Mrs. Barnaby. Suddenly she was very much aware of the sound of rushing feet as people hurried to do his bidding.

Halfway up the stairs, she had to stop as pain again ratcheted through her. She clung to the railing and his arm, hoping she wasn’t bruising him. The pain went longer and was sharper than the one that came before. When it finally dissipated, she offered him a fragile smile. “I believe you might be right.”

“I’m right about most things.”

An odd moment to realize where Locksley had gotten his arrogance. She might have laughed if she didn’t want to get to her bedchamber as quickly as possible.

He continued to lend her support as she made her way to the landing and carried on down the hallway. In her bedchamber, he led her over to a chair, helped her sit.

“Your maid should be here at any moment.” He turned to go, stopped, walked over to her dressing table, and skimmed his fingers along one of its intricately carved edges. “You have Linnie’s vanity.”

“It was at the furniture maker’s. Locksley didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I used to love to watch her get ready.” He faced her. “I’m glad it’s being used.”

“It’s the most beautiful piece of furniture I’ve ever seen.”

“When the time comes, pass it on to your eldest daughter from her grandfather. I want her to know how precious she is to me.”

She might be bringing her eldest daughter into this world at any moment, a girl who would not be carrying his blood. She’d thought a daughter would ease her guilt, but it seemed there would always be an aspect to what she’d done that would trouble her.

Cullie rushed in. “Oh, m’lady. This isn’t good. It’s too soon.”

“Don’t be worrying your mistress with dire words such as that,” Marsden said. “Babies come when they’re meant to come.”

Bending over he kissed Portia’s forehead. “I shall be downstairs, awaiting the news.”

He shuffled out. Cullie closed the door and returned to her side. “We need to get you out of your clothes.”

Portia could only nod and pray that Marsden would never learn the truth regarding her child. She couldn’t bear the thought of facing his disappointment.

Locke paced in front of the large windows in the music room. He’d chosen this room because it was Portia’s favorite and he felt closest to her here. By the time he’d gotten back from the mines, she was well into her labor, and the physician wouldn’t allow him into the room to see her, claiming his presence would upset her and delay the child’s arrival. But it was now long past midnight and another one of his wife’s screams rent through the stillness and the quiet.

“Damn it! How long does this take?”

“She’s going to die,” his father murmured quietly.

The words couldn’t have hit Locke harder if they’d been delivered with a sledgehammer. He spun around to glare at his father, who sat in his favorite chair, looking older and frailer than he had in months. “Why do you say that?”

His father lifted tired eyes to Locke. “Your mother screamed like that. The physician assured me nothing was out of the ordinary, but still your mother perished. I never felt so powerless in my entire life.”

“Portia is young and strong—”

“So was your mother.”

“Portia will not dare leave this child—”

“Your mother had no desire to leave you, but when death is hovering in the shadows, it will not be denied.”

“To hell with that nonsense.” Death would not have its way this time. Locke was striding from the room before he even realized he had a destination, barely remembered charging up the stairs, or bursting into his bedchamber. Every memory of every moment spent in here with Portia rushed through his mind like a kaleidoscope continually being turned so light could illuminate the pieces in a variety of ways, and he saw her in all those different facets. Haughty, bold, gentle, kind. He heard her laughter, her music, her voice whispering in his ear.

He saw her now, exhausted, damp with sweat, her eyes glazed over but the spark not diminished, never diminished. She would fight until the end to protect this child. She would do whatever necessary to protect anyone she loved, this child, him, his father. But who protected her?

“My lord, you should leave,” the doctor said, standing at the foot of the bed as though he had little more to do than survey the contents of the room.

Only he couldn’t, not now that he’d seen her. Quickly, he rushed over to her, took her hand, felt her fingers closing around his. “I tried to see you earlier but they wouldn’t let me.”

“I know.” Reaching up with a limp hand, she brushed at his hair. “Don’t look so worried. I’m just tired.”

“It’s taking so long.” Too long, too damned long. He could see how much the ordeal had weakened her. His father might be right. He might lose her. Never in his life had he known such terror—and he’d faced wild animals, harsh storms, treacherous terrains. He knew what it was to have his heart pumping with fear, but all he felt now was cold, frigid fright skittering through him. He lowered his head until his cheek touched hers and his lips rested near her ear. “Portia, I know you’re weak and weary, but you must find the strength to carry on. If you die, I shall run mad.”

“I shan’t die. I’m sorry I keep scream—”

“Scream all you want.”

“Don’t interrupt.”

He lifted up, gazed down on her, smiled. “There’s my tough girl with her tart tongue.”

She rolled her head from side to side. “You should want to be rid of me.”

Damn her parents, damn Beaumont for making her ever doubt her worth. “I love you so much. You’ve fought so long for this child, Portia. Don’t stop fighting now. Fight for it. Fight for me.”

“I want to, but I can’t seem to find any strength.”

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll stay and lend you mine, shall I? We can do this together, you and I. We can do anything as long as we’re together.”

Nodding, she began gasping.

“I need her to push, m’lord.”

“Push, Portia,” he urged. “Push.”

She not only pushed, but she screamed for another hour. In between her cries, he murmured over and over how much he loved her, how special she was.

When her child—their child—finally came into the world, he’d never known such relief or such joy.

“It’s a girl,” the physician announced.

“I want to see her,” Portia said.

Locke took the squalling infant and placed her in Portia’s arms. Then he ran his fingers over the soft fuzz covering her tiny scalp. “She has red hair.”

“She’s so small.” Portia looked up at him. “Thank you.”

“You did all the work.”

“But you were here.”

“I’ll always be here for you, Portia. Always.”

Locke found his father in the library, sitting before the fire, drink in hand. He went to the side table of decanters and reached for the scotch. “It’s a girl.”

His father released a deep breath. “Good.”

Stilling, Locke slowly looked over at his sire. “You’re not disappointed?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “The next one can be a boy.”

After pouring his drink, Locke dropped into the chair opposite his father’s and studied him, the way he didn’t hold his gaze but kept shifting his attention to the fire. He didn’t want to tell his father anything he might not know, but his reaction was incredibly strange for a man who had been so insistent upon gaining an heir.

“How is Portia faring?” the marquess asked.

“Tired and weak, but the physician says that’s to be expected. She’s sleeping now.”

“I’ve heard it’s easier with the next one.”

But Locke was still bothered by his earlier reaction, was rather certain he understood the reason for it. “When did you realize the truth about her child?”

His father had the good graces to look uncomfortable. “Shortly after we learned she was with babe. She was showing too soon, increasing too fast.”

“Yet you held your silence.”

“I didn’t want to interfere with your developing relationship. When did you realize it?”

“While we were in London.”

“Do you know who the father is?”

“I’m the father.”

The older man smiled. “Jolly good for you.”

Locke leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, his glass clasped between his hands. “You wanted an heir. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I wanted you to find love. Gaining my heir was an excuse.”

“And if she’d had a boy?”

“Love is more important. Which I think you came to realize.”

He’d come to realize it was the only thing.

Portia opened her eyes, striving to ignore the aches and discomfort. It had all been worth it.

“You’re awake.”

Glancing in the direction of Locksley’s voice, she saw him sitting in the chair by the window, cradling their daughter bundled in swaddling in his arms. “How is she?”

“As beautiful as her mother.”

At that moment, she suspected she looked quite a fright, nowhere near beautiful. He rose, approached, and without her saying a word, placed the child in her waiting arms. The joy that swept through her with the weight of the small body nestled to her breast nearly made her weep. “How can she be so small yet cause so much trouble?”

“You’re not particularly large.”

“Are you claiming I cause trouble?”

“An abundance of it.” His smile was warm. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired, but happy. I want to name her Madeline. I thought it would please your father, but you know the truth of her, and if it would upset you or not be a proper homage to your mother, I’ll call her something else.”

“The truth of her, Portia, is that she is yours, and therefore she is mine. That is the only truth that matters. To name her after my mother will please my father . . . and me as well.” He tipped his head to the side, gave his lips an ironic twist. “And my mother’s ghost, no doubt.”

“We could call her Maddie.”

Leaning down, he bussed a quick kiss over her lips. “We shall do that.” Straightening, he studied her and she had the sense that something was troubling him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, but you should be aware that he knows. My father. He figured out that it wasn’t I who planted the seed, but I’m not going to tell him who did as it’s not important.”

“Does he hate me?”

“Not in the least. He loves you, Portia. And he will love her as I do.”

“You love her already?”

“It is an odd thing, love. Once you open yourself up to it, it has its way with you. I could no more not love her than I could not love you.”

“I will give you an heir, I promise.”

“I would welcome an heir, but know this, Portia—with or without an heir, my love for you will not lessen.”

“Every time I think I can love you no more than I do, you say or do something that proves me wrong—and I find myself loving you a little more deeply.”

“Then I shall look forward to a lifetime of proving you wrong.”