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Heaven help them.

Warm fingers closed around her frigid ones. “Forgive me if I’ve overstepped by saying such a thing. I only meant to offer a happier alternative to the duchess having a serious illness.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Child.” Lilias’s smile wasn’t as forced as she’d expected it to be. Not given how perfectly right it felt to have her fingers tucked in his. How long had it been since a man had held her hand? Just held it, to give comfort and perhaps a touch of pleasure? Over two decades—that was how long. Since Cowan had clutched it in his last moments. Since she’d been a lass herself, no older than Rowena. But oh, with so many life lessons stored inside already, and four years of a happy, if hard, marriage behind her. “It would indeed be a far happier reason. But I canna be sure, ye ken.”

He studied her for a long moment in the moonlight, making Lilias infinitely aware of how frazzled her hair no doubt was, how plain the wool jacket she’d put on. How faded the serviceable grey dress beneath it.

How very different from when she sat in the moonlight with Cowan as a lass, so sure of her own beauty and charms. When there were no lines on her face, no sagging in her figure, no grey in her hair. When she hadn’t felt the fool for entertaining notions of romance.

She turned her face up to see the smattering of stars studding the night sky.

Mr. Child didn’t release her hand. “You’ve said you’ve served her family since before she was born. You must care deeply for her, as I do for His Grace and Lady Ella.”

Lilias smiled up at the winking diamonds above. “Even more, I’d wager. She’s a daughter to me, the only one I’ve ever had. I daresay I mothered her as much as Lady Lochaber ever did.” She’d cried for her when the Kinnaird lashed out against her. More, certainly, than she did for Nora. And more than Nora ever did for Rowena, so busy was she crying for herself.

“Her Grace is a lucky young lady, indeed, to have you. And I daresay she has no fear of you taking a position elsewhere.”

Was that a question? A probing? An asking if she would be here as long as the new duchess? Lilias smiled up into the night. “Nay, she’s no fear of that. She may perhaps occasionally wish me elsewhere, as every young woman does her mother, but we have got each other through some difficult times.”

“Well.” He squeezed her hand. “Let us hope that ahead of you lies far more good times than difficult ones. And new life to love rather than sickness, eh?”

“Aye.” But even as she agreed, she had to fight back the sting of tears. Their every action since the wedding night had been based on the assumption that there was no babe. No need to lie to His Grace. No need to rush Rowena into the marriage bed.

But if she
were
with child . . . there would be no lying now, even if they wanted to—which she knew Rowena hadn’t to begin with. There would be no choice but to throw themselves on the duke’s mercy. Nothing to do but pray he chose to protect Rowena rather than toss her out.

He liked her, Lilias could see that. Might be coming to love her. He was kind, and he was gentle. He was
good
. But he was still a duke. He had a long family legacy to uphold.

“Look at you, shivering. You must be chilled to the bone, Lily.” Mr. Child stood and tugged her up with him. “Come inside, have a cup of chocolate before you retire.”

There was nothing to be done about the other just now anyway. Rowena was safely tucked in her husband’s arms. His Grace was soothing her, taking care of her. Tomorrow she would speak to Rowena, first thing. Examine the possibilities with her. Tomorrow they would consider the consequences. Tonight . . . tonight, let them enjoy what ease they could.

Tonight Lilias would let herself revel, if only for a few minutes, in the security of a warm hand around hers, in the fact that he didn’t let go as they walked back to the house. Tonight she would let herself dream that she’d be at Midwynd for years to come, have a chance to discover whether maybe a second chance at love waited with this good man at her side.

Tomorrow she could well find herself out on her rear, a weeping mistress by her side instead.

Brice awoke on his fifth morning in Rowena’s room with words echoing in his heart.

Love her
.

The command was clearer than any he had heard before, resonating. Replaying itself. Turning into a veritable refrain within him.
Love her. Love her. Love her
.

Her hair was fanned out over his chest, a few strands tickling his nose. He smoothed it down, lingered a bit over the long silken locks. And wondered why the Lord thought to wake him with such an insistent command when he’d fallen asleep eight hours before wondering if that was the word for how he felt about the fragile, strong woman in his arms.

Love her
.

Usually the Lord’s promptings brought peace. Just now, it brought irritation. He didn’t have to be
told
to love her. He was leaning that way all on his own. Which the Lord obviously knew. So
why
?

Rowena shifted, turning onto her back. Yes, his stomach went tight when he looked at her, saw the curves that he’d so quickly grown accustomed to feeling pressed against him all night. Not that desire was love. But when paired with shared laughter, with whispered dreams of
someday
like they’d taken to falling asleep to, with a baring of the heart . . .

Love her
.

It was going to be a long day if the Lord kept this up. Brice sat up, careful not to disturb Rowena, and slid out of bed.

“Brice?”

He must not have been careful enough. Her voice still sounded sleep heavy, though—perhaps she could catch a few more minutes. He leaned over and pressed his lips to her cheek . . . and then to her lips, because he couldn’t help himself. “Go back to sleep, darling.”

Instead, she looped an arm around his neck and kissed him again, softly. “Dinna leave yet. I dinna want the day to start. Perhaps if it doesna, I willna be sick again.”

Well . . . he had nothing all that pressing awaiting him this morning. Nothing that wouldn’t wait twenty minutes, anyway. Just more names to go over with Old Abbott and Mr. Child, servants’ histories to examine. Hints to find as to who might be in the pay of Catherine Pratt.

Though he still needed to get up, if only for a few minutes. “I’ll be right back, I promise.” A quick trip to the lavatory—and perhaps a minute with his toothbrush and powder, if more kissing was promised. “Two minutes.”

She grinned sleepily up at him and let her arm fall. “I’ll be counting.”

Chuckling, he raced for the lavatory. The
Love her
refrain hammered him all through his ablutions though, which nearly wiped the grin from his face.

By his estimation, he was at a minute forty when he moved to the doorway again, humming as he stepped from her lavatory into her dressing room.

The voices from the bedchamber brought him to a halt at that second doorway, though. Cowan, the outer door clicking shut behind her even as she said, “Oh, good, His Grace isna here. I must talk to you, lass.”

Rowena levered herself up in bed, brows knit. “He’ll be right back. What is it, Lil?”

The maid perched on the edge of the bed, her back to Brice, and gripped Rowena’s hand. “It’s this sickness. Were it the flu, it would have passed by now. But if it’s . . . that is . . . The bleeding, Wena. Perhaps it was too short. Perhaps it didna mean what we thought. This sickness—it’s just how yer mother was, when she carried you. I fear ye may yet be with child.”

The floor fell out from beneath his feet. The walls closed in, pressing his chest until he could scarcely breathe. But the dagger—the dagger was Rowena’s gaze, which flew straight to him and pierced his heart.

Cowan twisted, spotted him. Her cheeks washed as pale as Rowena’s. “Yer Grace—I . . . she . . . It isna what it seems.”

He held up a hand to stop the tumble of words and took one more step, just enough to emerge from the dressing room and into the bedchamber. But he couldn’t bring himself to step any closer. Not just then.

Love her
.

His nostrils flared. But the facts still managed to crystallize in his mind. “You were attacked.”

Not her fault. He knew that. Wouldn’t judge her. Not for the violation, not for the result.

But for the lies, the tricks . . . the quick plot for a marriage to cover up those consequences—his chest burned at those. And how many prayers had he offered up, that if he were right about his suspicions, this consequence wouldn’t be an issue?

Love her
.

Rowena’s hands shook as she gripped the blanket—looked to the floor, as she hadn’t done around him in days. “Aye. As ye figured out long ago.”

“When?” He hated to ask, didn’t really want to know. But he had to. Whatever he did, whatever decisions he made, he had to know. “When did he . . . ?”

Cowan covered her mistress’s hands with hers and raised her chin. “Just a fortnight before you arrived, Yer Grace. Near enough that no one would know the difference, no one would think it not yer bairn.”

Not his bairn
. No, not his babe. Some monster’s, who would attack a girl who’d dared to trust him. Who would hurt her, abuse her, misuse her. All no doubt to force her to marry him. Oh, but Lilias Cowan and Douglas Kinnaird had outsmarted the monster, hadn’t they? “That was your plan all along. Force her to marry me so you could pass off the child as mine.”

God, why? When I prayed, when I did as you urged me, when I married her to protect her? Why?

Cowan went even paler. Rowena’s shoulders slumped, and tears slipped down her cheeks. Accusations, those.

Love her
.

His wife shook her head. “I didna ken if I was with child or not, Brice. I didna, I swear to you. And I didna have any intentions of lying. If I
had
kent, I would have told you. I couldna keep that from you.”

No, not when she was too terrified of a man’s touch to allow the full cover-up Cowan no doubt had intended.

“Then our wedding night . . .” Her breath was heavy and tremulous, like it had been each morning when the sickness—oh, that wily sickness—struck. She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I thought it my monthlies. I did.”

Love her
.

His insides felt hollow. Burned out.

Cowan rubbed a hand over Rowena’s back. “We’re at yer mercy, Yer Grace. I beg you—”

“No.” Tears streaming unchecked—either at the topic or from the sickness she seemed determined to hold in check—Rowena scooted away from Cowan, to the edge of the bed. “No, ye canna ask him to raise this child, Lil. Ye canna. I will raise the babe. I’ll love it. I’ll not judge it for its father . . . But it’s too much to ask of Brice. He deserves better than this, better than me.”

Love her
.

Pressure mounted behind his nose. His choices were few and stark. He could divorce her, and make it clear in a court of law that the babe she carried could not possibly be his. That meant exposing what she had suffered to the world. Exposing that their marriage had been, thus far, a farce. Preserving the Nottingham line.

He could put her away quietly, a separation but not a legal one. Not have to face her, but still support her and the babe. Still be bound as the legal father to the child, which meant if it was a boy, that boy would still be his heir. The next duke.

He could keep Rowena as his wife but insist she go away somewhere to give birth to the child, and then find a home for it, praying no one ever found out. Force her to abandon her baby.

Or he could let the deception do its work. Let the world think the babe his. Be the child’s father. Be Rowena’s husband.

Love them
.

Not since his own father lay lifeless on the steps had he so wanted to weep.

“And Joseph was minded to put her away quietly . . . but an angel appeared to him in a dream
—
”

He shook away the old story. He was not Joseph. How could the Lord expect him to be? Why, why would He ask him to do this, when all he’d ever wanted was a wife to love him, his own children darting about his feet? To preserve the centuries-old legacy of Nottingham and keep the duchy in the Myerston family for another three hundred years? If he’d known seven weeks ago what was truly at stake . . .

Would he have disobeyed the Lord? The Lord, who knew the moment that life was conceived?

Brice’s eyes slid shut. She was his wife. Was this meant to be his child?

Love them
echoed on within him.

He swallowed, and it felt like a rock stuck in his throat.

Pay attention.
He saw her as she had been that first day at Gaoth, little more than a shadow.
Protect her.
The terror, the devastation when Kinnaird had wrapped his hands around her throat.
Trust her.
The hope that had dared to bloom in her eyes as he took her away from Lock Morar.
Listen.
The disappointment he’d caused every time he ignored her concerns. S
tay with her.
The way she’d begun smiling at him these last few days.
Love her.
Those endless eyes, regarding him a moment ago with a resignation that said she expected the worst. That she still thought it was all she deserved.