August, 1818

“You’ve a son, Your Grace!”

Nick, pacing outside his bedchamber where Violet had been laboring for the past nine hours, slumped against the wall.

“I’ll fetch the whiskey,” Rand muttered before clapping his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Congratulations.” He couldn’t help but smile as he practically ran to deliver the good news. The entire household had held its breath. No one had mentioned the last time a child had been born at Kilve Hall, and yet he knew they were all thinking about it. How could they not? How could he not?

“Can I go in?” Nick tried to keep the fear from his voice, but was certain he’d failed miserably. The physician was quite aware of Nick’s terror—Violet had made the poor man promise to inform Nick of her progress every step of the way. She’d even negotiated for Nick to be present during her ordeal, but after six hours of watching her suffer, he hadn’t been able to stand another moment.

He really was a coward.

“Yes, do come in,” the physician urged. He opened the door and motioned for Nick to precede him.

The midwife was finishing up with cleaning Violet, while Chalke, grinning broadly, held the baby.

“Oh, Your Grace, he’s just beautiful.”

Nick didn’t doubt it. He was, after all, Violet’s son. And Nick couldn’t wait to hold him. But first he had to make sure she was all right.

With leaden steps, he moved to the side of the bed. She turned her head and smiled weakly at him.

Nick turned his head back sharply toward the physician behind him. “What’s wrong? She’s pale. She looks like she can barely lift her lips to smile.”

The man moved up to the bed beside Nick. “She’s exhausted, Your Grace, which is to be expected.”

Violet gently shook her head at him. “Really, Nick, I’d like to see what you’d look like after what I’ve been through.”

He’d be passed out, probably. He glanced over at the physician. “She’s fine?”

“Excellent. That was one of the easiest births I’ve ever attended. And I appreciated the fine assistance of Mrs. Gowdy here.” He nodded toward the midwife.

Violet had wanted both a physician and a midwife, and Nick had agreed. Why have just one child birthing expert when two were better?

“Where is Maurice?” Violet asked, using the name—his brother’s, of course—they’d chosen if they’d had a son.

He had a son.

The lad was astonishingly quiet. Last time… He shouldn’t think of that. Last time, Elias had squalled incessantly—until he’d become too weak to do so.

“I’m nearly finished here, Your Grace,” the midwife said. “Perhaps His Grace would like to hold his son?”

Before Nick could answer, Chalke transferred the babe into his arms. He was already so different from what Nick had expected. His head was covered in a fine blond down, and his eyes were a dark indigo. Maurice stared up at him in open curiosity, as if deciding whether Nick would measure up.

“Do I pass muster, then?” Nick asked softly. He touched his finger along Maurice’s brow. The boy scrunched his face, and Nick thought he might cry, but he didn’t. Nick looked between the physician and the midwife. “Why isn’t he crying? Shouldn’t he be crying?”

“He did at first,” the midwife answered, covering Violet’s legs and standing back from the bed. “I’ve cared for many babies who didn’t cry much in the beginning. Don’t worry. He’ll get hungry here in a bit, and then I suspect he’ll bawl loud enough to bring the rafters down around us.” She laughed.

The midwife proved an excellent prognosticator, because not ten minutes later, Maurice started wailing and didn’t stop until he latched on to Violet’s breast. Nick watched in wonder, scarcely believing how his fortunes had changed.

Later, when Maurice was asleep in the cradle next to the bed and Violet dozed, Nick stretched out beside her. He closed his eyes, tired but happy. The touch of his wife’s hand against his made him open his eyes and turn.

Fear seized him. “Are you all right?”

Her lips curved up, and she patted his chest. “I’m quite all right. Isn’t he amazing?”

“As perfect as you.” Nick kissed her forehead.

She snorted. “There is no such thing as perfect and nor would I want there to be—can you imagine trying to sustain that? I do, however, believe in miracles.” She gazed at Maurice in adoration. “I still can’t believe we did this. I told you it wasn’t possible.”

“You did, when I asked you to marry me. And, as fate would have it, you were already expecting.”

She shot him a knowing look. “I still say we have my accident to thank.”

“I know your theory—all that rest somehow made the babe ‘stick,’ but I am not letting you hit your head next time we want to have a child.”

She chuckled softly. “I don’t need to hit my head. I just need to stay in bed a lot. I can’t imagine you’d mind that.” She gave him a seductive look.

“God no, but it’s far too soon to think about that.”

She exhaled in resignation. “Yes, but know that I’m looking forward to it.” She narrowed her eyes pointedly.

He kissed her again, this time on the mouth, his lips lingering over hers. “Thank you for giving me a joy I never imagined to feel. I know it hasn’t been easy—I’m not easy.”

“No, but I love you anyway. Our joy is all the sweeter because it wasn’t easy.”

“Such a wise woman. Thank you for persevering, for believing in what we shared and that we could find it again.”

“I’m not sure we found it,” she said. “I think we created something new.” She glanced toward their sleeping son before curling her hand around Nick’s neck. “What we have now is wondrous in all its glorious imperfection.”