“You’re a sensible woman. You know pregnancy is a possibility.”
“An unlikely one.”
He brushed aside her protests by touching a finger to her lips. “If you are, we marry immediately.”
She nodded. She couldn’t argue with that, refuse to allow her child its birthright. “It would be a miracle.”
“Miracles happen every day.”
His enthusiasm, although he’d carefully banked it, was evident to Faith. It worried her that he jumped to conclusions, exactly the reason she’d refrained from telling him. “Please, John. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t let yourself think it.” She swallowed and glanced away, finding a loose thread on the quilt lying over her. She made the pull worse by picking at it. Anything rather than meet his eyes.
The green thread pulled up a series of small gathers behind it. “I’ve been through this before. Waited, and thought. I used to pray for it, even on the hardest of marches, in camps, and I’d tell myself the rigours of army life meant I hadn’t conceived.” She frowned, plucking the thread right out. It left a run in the silk. She searched for another. “Possibly, but I can’t be sure. Nothing happened, John.
Ever. To my knowledge I never conceived.” She dared a glimpse at his face.
He put his hand over hers, and she met his gaze once more. His tender smile warmed her and despite her determination to keep his feet on the ground the concept crept into her mind. To hold his child, to care for him or her. If she allowed herself to wish for it, she’d be lost, for she’d never wanted it as much before.
He squeezed her hand. “Even if we were more certain I’d want to keep the secret, because I know you’re uncertain and doubtful.”
He paused. “Have you thought that your maid has also marked the lack of your courses? That she might spread the news?”
“Turvey?”
He shook his head. “Robinson. A pleasant girl, but a gossip.
How could she hold such a nugget to herself?”
She sat up, alarmed, only to find herself gently pressed back against the soft pillows. “We can’t stop her, sweetheart.”
The endearment had its usual effect, weakening her resolve.
While she was fighting her tenderer emotions, her agitation subsided. He didn’t mean it. She had to remember that, but every time she found it harder to recall the simple fact. “If I’m not—“
“Don’t worry. Gossip circulates, then when it comes to nothing, it’s forgotten in favour of the next on-dit.” He urged her into his arms, and she laid her head on his shoulder with a thankful sigh.
Casting up her accounts had given her a headache. The telltale pressure in her temples had already begun. “If you’re not, then you’re not, but I want you to behave as if you are. Take care of yourself, eat well and rest every afternoon.”
“They’ll know.”
“They, ” he said firmly, “matter nothing compared to your health.” He kissed the top of her head. “I will not have you put at risk.” He got up, laid her down and lifted the coverlet to lay it gently over her. “Rest. Ring for Robinson when you’re ready.”
She had no choice, it seemed and she was only too glad to rest, if truth be told.
John left the bedroom more determined to care for Faith and ensure her well-being. The strength of the resolution surprised him, as did the sudden upsurge of joy when he realised he might become a father. He hid that from her as best he could, because it made her so concerned. Her temporary weakness helped, but he could not hide his pleasure from himself.
However he must retain his perspective. She was correct, although she appeared determined to believe the problem lay with her and not with her last husband. He’d never heard of the late John Smith fathering a child in or out of marriage.
He cut his thoughts right there, savagely refusing to believe it until it was proven. If it was ever proven. He would not show her his disappointment if she was right and the problem went away.
But he would care for her, and she mattered above all others.
Deciding to go into the study and get a little work on the ledgers done, he didn’t turn around when the doorbell clanged. At this short distance, the bell sounded loud, almost discordant. He’d have to have it seen to. If Faith was to get any rest, he’d have to deal with that bell.
“Lord Graywood!” The male voice sounded determined, commanding. He didn’t know it. Making a swift decision to meet the visitor, slowly he turned and faced the caller, who by the tenets of polite behaviour was not supposed to see him until bidden to do so. The demand in the voice intrigued rather than insulted him.
Standing on the threshold, not yet allowed on to the sacred marble floor of the entrance hall was a man who seemed vaguely familiar, although John felt almost sure he’d never seen him before.
John studied the stranger steadily and had his stare met equally indemonstrably but with a determination he liked. He nodded to the footman. “Let him through, Davis.”
The footman bowed slightly and let the visitor in. John stayed where he was, and let the newcomer approach him. He was dressed neatly and well, as befitted a gentleman, in dark coat, crisp white neckcloth and bottle green waistcoat, a gold pin nestling discreetly in the folds at his throat. “May I help you?” John said politely.
“I believe so,” the man said. Unlike most men of his rank, John had become used to meeting people on an informal basis. The last earl would probably have continued into the study, allowed the footman to bring him a card on a salver, and then made his decision. John couldn’t bring himself to behave so inconsiderately.
“My name is Edward Smith. Rather, Edward Dalkington-Smythe. I understand you’ve been looking for me?”
His eyes. That was it. Closer, John could see the eyes. He saw them in the mirror every morning. That wasn’t proof of anything, but for the second time that day anticipation rose in his chest.
“Have I?”
“Yes, sir. I may be a distant relative. In fact I’m certain I am. I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. Yes, I do have proof and I sent copies, but when I visited your man of business he claimed to have never seen it. He said he’d searched for years. Called me an impostor.” He gave a derisory laugh.
Alerted and intrigued, John nodded. Was the man so uncaring of the position and fortune he stood to inherit if his claim were proved? “Please come through.” Changing direction, he crossed the hall to the back parlour. The servants had cleared the room of breakfast dishes. With the table folded and against the wall, had reverted to a small sitting room. He didn’t want to show the man any of the ledgers he had strewn about the study.
He bade the visitor sit. “Please explain.”
Edward Smith nodded and took a place on one of the Sheraton sofas pushed against the wall. The quiet elegance here didn’t appear to daunt him, as it might someone unused to luxury. He refused refreshment when John indicated the decanters on the sideboard. “I did not know anyone was searching for an heir until I read of the death of the previous earl and his brother in an article in my local newspaper. I am generally too busy to read a paper from end to end, but the name caught my eye.” He grinned. “Not Smith, but Graywood. I sent the proofs you would need, but I sent copies, so when I came to London on business, I decided to enquire personally.” He gave a short laugh. “I’m sorry, you must be unaware of who I am. My great-grandfather was your great-grandfather’s younger brother. Their father gave him a small parcel of land and told him to go when he refused to bow to his will. They were not friends and never saw each other again.”
John frowned, remembering something he’d heard once, long ago. “The old man was a disciplinarian, was he not?”