To Dance until Dawn - Emma V. Leech Page 0,54

dreadful when I’m hungry.”

“Appalling,” Max agreed affably, pulling out a chair for her. “What did you do that took you so long?” he asked in an undertone.

“I shan’t tell you,” she murmured with a little sniff. “But I can tell you I found more ribbons, and these ones are pink.”

Max groaned.

***

10th April 1827. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.

Lucian stared out of the window of the library, his stomach tied in knots. Pippin had hurried Matilda away the moment they’d arrived, and he’d been unable to draw a breath ever since. It would be all right, he told himself. He was worrying over nothing. Pippin would see to it, whatever it was. Still, his chest was tight with fear, his heart thudding. Outside, he could see Philip and Thomas walking with their tutor. Mr Evans believed fresh air good for the mind and spirit, and often took them walking while they spoke of that morning’s lessons. Philip was listening with a serious frown of concentration, whilst Thomas lagged behind, brandishing a stick like a sword and attacking trees and the occasional rose bush as he went. Lucian felt his heart contract at the idea of having to tell them their adored mama was sick.

No.

No, no, no.

“Please God,” he said aloud. “I know I’m unlikely to be one of your favourite people but, please, don’t take her from me. I can do better. I will do better. Only let her be well. Please.”

A knock at the door had him almost leaping from his skin and he ran to yank it open, giving Denton such a start that the poor man took a step back in alarm.

“Mrs Appleton says you may go up now, my lord,” Denton said, his eyes full of sympathy and concern, for he must know why they had returned.

Lucian nodded but found he couldn’t move, his hand still clutching the doorknob. He drew in a deep breath. “Did… did Pippin say…?”

“No, my lord.”

Lucian swallowed.

“Lady Montagu is waiting for you,” Denton said softly.

That, if nothing else, got him moving. Whatever it was, Matilda likely knew already, and he would not be such a coward as to allow her to face it alone. Feeling like a man climbing the steps at Tyburn, he forced himself up the stairs and went to Matilda’s room, knocking softly.

“Come in,” Pippin said.

Lucian hesitated, trying his hardest to bury his fear so that Matilda would know she could rely on him, that whatever they faced, they would face it together. He opened the door and stepped inside. His heart plummeted as he saw Matilda curled up on the bed sobbing. Lucian ran to her, pulling her into his arms.

“My love, my love,” he said, desperate to make it right, to fight whatever it was she faced for her. “Whatever it is, we will make it right, we’ll find a cure. We can go abroad. I read about a doctor in France who is doing the most wonderful things and—”

“Oh, good Lord, I could knock your heads together!” Pippin cried, interrupting him.

Lucian looked around, confused. How could Pippin speak so callously when Matilda was in such distress? Except now he looked down to find his wife was indeed sobbing, but she was laughing too, her slim frame shaking with mirth.

“Oh, Lucian,” she said, reaching out to touch his face. “Oh, my poor darling. I’m so sorry to have frightened you so.”

“You’re… You’re not sick,” he whispered, hardly daring to hope.

Matilda shook her head. “No, love. Not sick.”

“And you,” Pippin tutted at Matilda, shaking her head sadly. “With two babies birthed and not knowing you was carrying again. I do despair.”

“But Pippin, even you said I couldn’t have another,” Matilda objected.

“I said no such thing, my lady,” Pippin retorted, folding her arm. “I said your chances were very slim but, if you drank that tea I made for you three times a day and were patient, you might be surprised, and so you are.”

Lucian looked between them, still unable to breathe. “A child?”

Matilda looked up at him and gave him a watery smile. “Yes, Lucian, isn’t it wonderful?”

He couldn’t speak, too many emotions battering his poor heart at once. He could only pull Matilda into his arms and hold on tight, burying his face in her hair and concentrating on breathing in and out. When he had composed himself enough to speak, he turned back to Pippin.

“And everything…?”

“Just as it ought to be, don’t you fret,” Pippin said kindly.

“But isn’t she a little—”

“Lucian Barrington, if the next word out of