Page 44 of The Scottish Duke
The duke stared down at her stomach, his expression making her smile.
“He likes to somersault sometimes,” she said. “Every once in a while I think I can see a foot or a hand poking me.”
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“No. It’s just his way of making sure I haven’t forgotten he’s there. I can’t help but wonder if you were the same.”
He opened his mouth, shut it again, then opened it once more, as if words wanted to be spoken but he held them back by dint of his will.
What did he want to say?
“He’s a large baby,” she said.
His frown deepened. “Is that unusual?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Especially since you’re very tall.” She patted her stomach as she sat back in the chair.
“I should be going,” he said.
She nodded, but he made no move toward the door.
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“No,” she said, smiling.
“Is there nothing you need?”
“No. I’m used to doing for myself, Your Grace.”
She wasn’t a cherished guest but a former maid, now hugely pregnant with the duke’s by-blow.
Suddenly she was so tired she could barely keep her head up. She didn’t have the strength for verbal jousting.
“Thank you, again,” she said, hoping he took the hint.
He did. He bowed to her once more. She inclined her head in a gesture she’d seen the duchess make.
Did he know how handsome he was? Had he been told that by countless women? Did he remark on his likeness when he stared into a mirror? Did he give thanks that he was so attractive?
At the ball, women had followed him with their eyes as he crossed the room. He’d seemed impervious to their attention. Had a lifetime of admiration made him immune to women’s glances?
Would their son be as handsome? Would that prove to be an asset or a deterrent?
“May I call on you?” he asked, further surprising her. “I’d like to make sure you’re all right.”
“Of course. It’s your cottage.”
“Perhaps you can teach me more about herbs you’ve found at Blackhall,” he said.
“I’m afraid any explorations are beyond me at the moment,” she said, smiling. “Perhaps another time.”
She was imagining things. He did not look disappointed. No, she was simply too tired to make sense of anything at the moment.
He walked to the door, his stride the same as she remembered, the stiffness of his shoulders just as she recalled from all those times she’d watched him. Had he ever known that she sat in the conservatory after her work was done, hoping for a glimpse of him?
What a fool she’d been.
What a fool she still was.
