Page 57 of Bound By her Earl

“I should have made her have a physician,” Andrew lamented when Emily first visited him. He looked as though he wished to be sick. “Shouldn’t I have made her have a physician? Not just a midwife? Do you think it’s too late?”

“Mrs. Gilchrist is doing a marvelous job,” Emily assured him, which had the added benefit of being true. Every time Emily felt her own anxiety rise above what she felt capable of concealing from her friend, she would steal a glance at the unworried expression of the calmly competent midwife, who attended to Diana’s every need as if this was merely a day like any other—which, Emily supposed, was accurate for a woman in Mrs. Gilchrist’s profession.

Emily felt soothed by the woman’s unflappable calm every time though Diana had been correct—Emily hadnotliked learning how, precisely, Mrs. Gilchrist confirmed that Diana was “progressing.” Frances had looked like she was going to faint.

But they all held on—Emily, despite her fear and the flickering memories of her mother, and Andrew, despite his aching heart. And Diana, most of all. She held on, fought until she was tooexhausted to speak, until her pains seemed to roll one right into the other, until Mrs. Gilchrist was urging her topush, push, Your Grace, yes, you’re doing it, let’s greet your child, shall we?

And eventually, they did. At twenty-four minutes after ten o’clock in the evening, Grace Victoria Young came into the world, red faced and squalling and as perfect a babe as Emily had ever laid eyes on. She could barely tear herself away from the sight of beatific mother holding her bloody, screaming child as if she’d never seen such a beautiful sight.

But she needed to fetch Andrew. She went down to his study, where she found him, sitting with his head clutched in his hands. This, Emily knew all too well, was a frightening moment for fathers when their wives’ cries had ceased, indicating that their pain had ended—though whether by a successful birth or by death, they could not yet know.

He looked up at Emily, face lined with tension. She smiled at him.

“Diana’s asking for you, Andrew,” she said, watching the anguish melt into relief and happiness. “She wants you to come meet your daughter.”

And then she politely looked away while the Duke of Hawkins hastily wiped at an errant tear or two.

Emily and Frances had once, in the early days of Diana’s marriage, accidentally walked in upon what had obviously been some sort of precursor to marital relations. It was an incidentforever carved into Emily’s mind, shockingly embarrassing in its intrusiveness, and yet that moment had felt nowhere near as intimate as watching Andrew gaze down upon his newborn babe, clutched tight at her mother’s breast, awe evident in his eyes.

“Beautiful,” he murmured into Diana’s hair, a shocked laugh coming from him. “Both of you. Perfect. Amazing.”

This was, Emily felt, her cue to leave. Catching Frances’ eye, she inclined her head towards the door. Frances nodded, and the two began to unobtrusively prepare to leave.

“Wait!” Diana stopped them before they could make themselves entirely scarce. Emily and Frances both paused to look at their friend, who looked exhausted, overwhelmed, and as happy as they’d ever seen her.

“Thank you both,” she said, tone think with sincerity. “Thank you for being here with me today. I don’t know that I could have done it without you both.”

Emily smiled softly. “You could have—but you’ll never need to.”

“You know we’ll always come when you need us,” Frances added.

Diana’s smile sharpened. Tired or not, new mother or no, Diana was always Diana.

“Maybe next time I’ll get to return the favor,” she said slyly. “After all, Em, you are married off now. And baby Grace is going to need a playmate, aren’t you my little darling?”

Fortunately, the lure of baby Grace was strong enough that Diana’s eyes had returned to her daughter before she could see how Emily winced at this comment. She could not hope to assume that Frances had also missed this reaction, so Emily ushed her friend from the room and then the house, hurrying them both off to their respective carriages before Frances could ask any too clever questions.

There was, alas, only one problem with Emily’s efficiency; when she reached the calm and quiet of her own carriage, the peace feeling almost oppressive after the long, noisy, tense day, she was left with nothing to do but consider her own questions about her marriage.

Trite as it felt to admit—after all, she had merely been a witness, not a participant in today’s momentous event—Emily had been changed by what she’d seen today. Not just the arrival of baby Grace into the world though that had been earthshattering in its own way.

No, what had shaken Emily had been the sight of the family together, all three of them, huddled together in a bubble of love that seemed impenetrable from the pains of the outside world. Emily, however, had no such armor, and the realization that she was unlikely to ever have such a moment, unlikely to ever have a husband come to her with adoration in his gaze after she’d delivered them a child—well, it pierced her like a knife.

Things could not stand, not as they were. After all, was Benedict’s ‘no love’ edict supposed to extend to any children they might have? Because Emily knew all too well what life looked like with an uncaring father. She would not subject any child of hers to such a fate, not while she had fight in her to prevent it.

No, she needed to have some very strong words with her husband before things went any further, she resolved as the carriage clattered through Mayfair, various revelers happily conversing in the streets as they entered and exited this ball or that fete. She could not live in this state of uncertainty any longer. She needed to know.

For good or for ill.

CHAPTER 16

Benedict could recognize that waiting up for his wife to return home was both impractical (giving birth was a protracted affair, was it not? He didn’t know, he was a man, and that was women’s business) and likely did not send the message he’d been trying to send to his wife in their conversation that morning.

Every time he tried to rouse himself from the library and put himself to bed, however, he found that he failed. He found an excuse to stay where he was, citing the book he hadn’t processed a single word of or the correspondence he hadn’t so much as opened.

He had plenty of things to do that weren’t just sitting around waiting.

And he was doing them. He was.

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