Later that week, Evan walked along the upstairs hallway. Wall sconces lit the way, creating pockets of light in the passageway. The guests had all gone on to Brighton, including the Prince Regent, who had recovered more quickly than anyone had anticipated. The prince swore it was the dedicated nursing of Louisa Monroe and the beautifully appointed and restful rooms created by Diana that had him on his feet so soon.
Evan secretly believed it was because the cut on his arm, though painful, wasn’t really that serious.
He regretted that Marcus couldn’t stay longer. That had been his plan initially, but earlier that day a messenger had arrived from his family home in Oxford. Marcus hadn’t shared the nature of the dispatch, but the bleak expression in his eyes worried Evan. For a duke’s second son, Marcus had incredible access to the Prince Regent and to information from many sources. Evan respected his friend’s privacy, so he didn’t ask, but he had a feeling Marcus was more than an idle bachelor of the ton. Perhaps someday Evan would know more, but for now he was content to call Marcus Haverly his friend. He prayed whatever was amiss in Oxford could be resolved quickly.
He traced Diana to where he thought she would be, in the nursery, snuggled on the couch with Cian in her arms. Every night of the last week, she’d come here just before bedtime, as if she couldn’t quite believe he was really theirs and always would be.
This time, though, Cian wasn’t asleep. He leaned back against her, clacking a string of spools and babbling.
“He’s decided now is a good time to play?” Evan sat beside his wife, holding his finger out to the boy. With a toothless grin, Cian grabbed the finger and tried to shove it into his mouth.
Contentment settled around Evan, something that over the past several months he thought he’d never feel again.
“Say, I have something for you, Diana.” He fished in his pocket. “It’s long overdue, I’m afraid.” He made a fist over the small object and drew it out.
“What is it?” She readjusted the baby in her lap. “A present?”
She looked so eager, he felt a stab of guilt. He was still learning things about her. Evidently presents were high on her list of good things. He’d have to scatter them through her life with more regularity.
“You remember that the prince awarded a prize, a silver set, to the winner of the shooting contest?”
She nodded.
“When His Highness dispatched the courtier to procure the prize from a London jeweler’s shop, I sent my own private order along with the man.” He took her left hand in his. “For months you’ve been wearing this ring, a regimental ring clearly masculine and military and wildly inappropriate for a wedding band, because your husband was such a dolt that he didn’t buy you a proper ring for your wedding day.” He slipped the heavy gold ring from her finger. “I thought it high time you had that proper ring.”
Setting his regimental ring on the upholstery beside him, he opened his other hand. “Where that ring brings reminders of battle and comrades and campaigns, this one reminds me of you and our union, our promises before God.” He slipped the band onto her finger, where it fit perfectly.
She raised it to the light, her perfect mouth opening slightly and her eyes sparkling with what he hoped was delight. “It’s beautiful.” She turned the band, an intricate design in pierced gold of leaves and flowers. At the center of each flower, a tiny diamond winked and sparkled.
“You certainly are.”
Later, with Cian now asleep on his shoulder and Diana tucked into his side, he sighed. “I wish I could hold on to this moment, this time. I don’t want anything to change. We’re so happy now. The house is done. The Royal Visit is over. The servants and tenants and horses have settled in. Cian’s happy and growing like a well-watered weed.” He brushed the boy’s dark hair, marveling at its softness. “I wish I could stop time.”
Diana’s brows arched. “Hmm, I don’t think that’s possible. Anyway, I don’t want to stop time at all.”
He frowned, a bit stung that she hadn’t joined in his sentiments. “Don’t you?”
“Well, there are always new adventures ahead, aren’t there? And I want to share them all with you.”
He relaxed at her explanation. That made sense.
“There’s one adventure we’ve embarked on that I’m particularly excited about.” She wriggled a bit tighter against him.
“And what’s that?” Evan laid his head on the back of the settee and stretched his legs out, crossing his boots at the ankles. “Being parents to Cian?”
“Cian and the new baby.”
Silence reigned for a long moment, and Evan felt as if time truly had stopped. He lifted his head.
“The what?”
“The new baby. Possibly the new heir to White Haven.” She sat up to look at him, and his eyes dropped to her middle. “Or possibly our first daughter, you never know.”
Waves of happiness burst over him, and he wrapped his arms around his little family. “When?”
“Around Christmastime, I think.” Her joyous smile went straight to his heart.
How much more blessing could one man take?
“You know the Prince Regent will insist upon being the new baby’s godfather, don’t you?” she asked.
With a chuckle, he kissed her temple.
“If he asks, we’ll have to say yes. You don’t say no to the Prince Regent.”
CHAPTER 1
Haverly Manor
Oxfordshire, England
January 1, 1814
HE SUPPOSED THAT someday he would have to forgive the child for being a girl.
Marcus Haverly took one look at the squirming pink bundle in the nurse’s arms and sighed, the weight of the world threatening to push him into the ornate rug beneath his Hessians. He set down the book he’d been reading, his appetite for the written word evaporating as reality set in.
His mother dragged into the study, her shoulders slumped, her hands lax.
Who was more disappointed? He would hate to have to live on the difference. He rose, put his hands into the pockets of his breeches, and went to stand before the window, staring out into the night. Frost rimed the edges of the panes, and in the distance, black trees lifted skeletal arms toward the moon.
“How is Cilla?” he asked.
“The accoucheur has just gone. He says everything went well but that she needs rest.” Mother’s voice sounded as if she spoke from the bottom of a pit. “I can’t bear it. A girl.”
Marcus glanced over his shoulder in time to see her sink into a chair, the very picture of despair. The poor woman. All her hopes dashed in a split second.
The child squeaked and snuffled, drawing his attention. He should at least go and look at his niece. After all, he’d been anticipating the birth for months.
The birth that was supposed to set him free.
She had a tuft of dark hair atop her round head. An impossibly tiny hand lay next to her full cheek, the nails minute and faintly blue. Sparse lines of color indicated where her eyebrows would be someday.
He didn’t know if he’d ever met a baby as fresh as this one. Though he searched her features, he could find no resemblance to either of her parents. Overall, she looked a bit like an old man. Though he would never say so to Cilla. She was much too frail a flower to accept even the mildest of teasing.