A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,57

wish to discuss any more of this tonight.” He hoisted me to my feet, positioning me so that I stood between his legs. With him perched on the high, rounded arm of the settee, our heads were almost the same height. His hands shifted to gently cradle my rounded abdomen between them. “You must be more exhausted than I am.”

“I admit, I am looking forward to lying down.” I glanced down at my stomach. “Though this little one now makes it difficult to rest.”

He smiled tenderly at me before bending his head. “Are you pecking at your mother in there, little Branok?”

I heaved a playfully aggrieved sigh. “Not another of your relatives’ names.” This was a familiar refrain, his suggesting we name our child after one of his Cornish great-grandfathers, and me demurring.

“No. But Branok means ‘raven’ or ‘crow,’ so it seemed apropos.”

“Only if you want our child to arrive with raven-dark hair. Personally, I’m hoping he or she looks astonishingly like you.”

His pale blue eyes softened with empathy. “That would put an end to all the spiteful gossip, wouldn’t it?”

“You would think the known facts about gestation would have already done that,” I remarked drolly. “But people seem happy to either live in or feign ignorance.”

Gage’s arms slipped around my waist, pulling me closer. “Forget them,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my lips. “And they’ll forget their ridiculous speculation in time, as well. We won’t let it blight our happiness at Meryasek’s birth, no matter what he looks like.”

I smiled at his persistence in slipping these Cornish names into our discussions about the babe. “What do Meryasek and—what’s the other name you’ve mentioned? Casworan? What do they mean?”

“I believe Meryasek means ‘sea lord,’ after the founder of Brittany. And Casworan has something to do with a warrior or a battle hero.”

I chuckled. “Your father would be pleased with either of those.”

“Well, don’t let that turn you against them.”

I laughed aloud at this quip, and he grinned broadly, a sight that was certain to make me weak in the knees. Skimming my hands up his broad chest, I began to pick at the folds of his cravat, suddenly hesitant to voice my own suggestion. “Actually, if our child is a boy, I wondered if we might name him Will. Well . . . William.” I snuck a glance up into his eyes, uncertain what I would see reflected there.

“After William Dalmay?” he asked softly.

I swallowed past the lump that had gathered at the back of my throat at the memory of my friend. “Yes.”

William Dalmay had been an old family friend and had served as my drawing instructor one formative summer when I was fifteen. That is, before he had suddenly disappeared. He’d served as an officer during the Napoleonic Wars and had struggled to forget the horrific memories of his time fighting in the Peninsular campaigns, so most of us who had been close to him had believed he’d simply run away, too embarrassed to continue to battle his demons in front of those he loved. But the truth had been much darker. His own father had locked him away in a lunatic asylum for nearly ten years. Only upon his father’s death had his younger brother been able to discover the truth and demand his release. But Will had known too much about the terrifying things that occurred at the asylum, and the fanatical doctor who ran it had been determined to silence him. In the end, Will had given his life to save me and others from the doctor’s same machinations, and to avenge the woman he’d loved.

I had grieved for Will deeply, and Gage knew this. But he had also accused me of being in love with Will, blind to the fact that I was already in love with him. He should have realized the truth by now, but that didn’t mean he would want his son to be named in Will’s memory.

He brushed his knuckles along my jaw. “I think that’s a fine idea.”

“You do?”

“Yes, it’s a good sturdy name. Very British. And nothing nearly so fanciful as Sebastian.”

I smiled at the sight of his wrinkled nose. “I like Sebastian.”

He gazed deeper into my eyes. “I like it when you say it. But otherwise . . .” He shrugged.

“Why did your parents choose it?”

“My mother was enamored with Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.”

“Ah,” I exhaled.

“And I believe she convinced Father by referring to St. Sebastian, the patron saint of soldiers. But what about you? I’m not