The room was in disarray. A lovely chaos. The entrails of packing crates were strewn about their treasures as if the unpacking had been interrupted.
This was what her husband had been wrestling with the past few nights.
Floating inside, Prudence touched each one as if it were made of the most fragile glass.
A wicker cradle. An expensive-looking perambulator. Delicate furniture ready to store tiny things. Soft blankets and cushions. Cunning toys.
Her breath hitched as she stopped in front of a fine-crafted rocking chair. The piece, itself, was lovely but what had her transfixed was the simple little doll placed just so on the velvet cushion.
Pru couldn’t say why she used infinite care to retrieve it. The doll was neither fragile nor costly. The body little more than soft fabric stuffed with batting and covered in a white eyelet lace dress. The round head fit in the palm of her hand, the face painted somewhat catawampus, and the hair comprised of soft strings of lose gold yarn tied with blue ribbons.
No, the doll wasn’t at all extraordinary.
But the thought of the man she’d married. The intense, mercurial knight selecting it for this room… now that was… that was…rather a marvelous image.
Smoothing her fingers through the strings of yarn she wondered, what if their child bore his golden locks? Or the impossible silver-blue of his eyes?
Little butterflies erupted in her belly, this time not at all precipitating sickness. This person they’d created… would sleep here, God willing. Would fill this house with commotion, and maybe a little cheer.
Lord knew they all needed an injection of that.
As Prudence spun in a circle for a moment, taking in the soft butter yellows, muted pinks, and periwinkles of the room, some of the weight pressing upon her fell away. Morley might not be ready to be any kind of husband, but he was preparing to be a father.
And, it seemed to her, relishing the venture.
But, why lock this room away from her?
A dark thought landed in her stomach, crushing the butterflies beneath a stone. What if he meant to raise this child without her? What if—
A ruckus interrupted the stillness of the house. Doors shutting, heavy footsteps on the wood floors downstairs. The scurry from elsewhere as Lucy and Bart rushed to attention.
Of all the days for her husband to come home before tea!
Prudence abandoned the doll to its perch and flew out of the room, locking it behind her. She raced down the first flight of stairs, but it became instantly obvious that she wouldn’t have time to return any of the keys. Masculine voices filtered closer to the base of the stairwell.
“Bloody traffic,” Morley’s growl echoed up to the second floor. “Has the Earl of Northwalk arrived yet?”
“Not yet, sir,” Bart replied.
“Good. Bastard is just as insufferably punctual as I am, which means I have to make a point of being early.”
Pru suppressed a little flutter of panic. An Earl? Coming here? Now?
Northwalk, the title itched at her memory. Something so familiar and yet, she was certain they ran in higher circles than her family.
“I finally abandoned my coach to jog here. The rain soaked through my jacket. If I’ve time, I’ll go upstairs for another.”
Panicking, Prudence shoved the keys behind a potted plant beneath a window, and did her very best to affect a glide as she descended the final stairs to the main floor, hoping to cut him off.
Conversation seized as both men looked up at her appearance.
Pru faltered halfway down.
Why did he have to be so unspeakably handsome?
Why did he have to be so categorically inaccessible?
A week’s time had almost blunted the reality of his imposing, vital allure in her memory. She’d almost forgotten the very sight of him threatened to steal every breath from her lungs and every thought from her head.
Her husband’s gaze swept over her. An arrested expression tightened the casual one he’d been wearing for Bart, his eyes flaring with something intense and ephemeral.
Before she had cause to hope, his features shuttered with the immediacy of a shop locking down for a long absence.
Bart had only just taken his employer’s hat and coat, draping the later damp garment over his arm. He turned and bowed to her low enough to show the round bald spot on his pate. “My lady,” he addressed her diffidently.
“Good afternoon.” She shook herself from her thrall and summoned what she hoped was a convincing smile. “I’d no idea it’d begun to rai—”