Page 67 of The Scottish Duke
“I’m in here,” she called out, just as the arms encircled her again, squeezing from the back. She held onto the dresser with both hands, bowing her head in subjugation to the pain.
“Oh, my dear, is it time? I had hoped to be farther along in convincing you.”
She sincerely hoped that the duchess didn’t require an answer because she was incapable of speaking at the moment. She was dripping with sweat and couldn’t concentrate on anything but the pain.
The duchess stood with her, one hand on her back as she began to sway back and forth. Blessedly, the older woman didn’t ask any questions or say anything else. Then again, perhaps conversation would be better than focusing on the constriction wrapping from her back around to her front.
Her son was making no secret of his impatience.
“Convincing me of what?” she finally asked, biting out the words as the band of pain began to ease.
“To marry my son.”
That comment certainly took her mind from labor.
She turned to look at the duchess, who blotted her face with a lace handkerchief. “Your Grace, have you forgotten? I was in service here.”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten.”
Her stomach tightened, a sign another contraction was about to begin. Were they supposed to come so close together? She took a deep breath, steeling herself.
“You must relax into it,” the duchess said. “Let the pain win. Pretend it’s the ocean and you’re a boat riding a wave.”
The analogy helped a little. The duchess’s presence helped even more. When she didn’t mention marriage again, Lorna concentrated on her labor.
In between contractions, the older woman assisted her in stripping the linen from her bed. She placed one hand on the wall and the other on her stomach as she watched the duchess pad the mattress with the blanket, then tuck in the darned sheets.
“I’m going to use this,” Louise said, tearing up a pillowcase and making two ropes that she attached to the corners of the headboard. “I’ll send you another from the castle.”
“Are you going to tie me to the bed?”
The duchess chuckled. “No, it’s for you to grab when you’d rather pull off Alex’s head. I felt the same about my darling Craig.”
Since the duchess was sitting there, obviously expecting Lorna to disrobe in front of her, she removed the robe à la française she was wearing.
Lorna grabbed the nightgown from the drawer and removed her undergarments. When she got to her shoes, she glanced at the duchess, who only laughed.
“Sit down and I’ll take them off,” she said, smiling. “This reminds me so much of myself. Craig used to have to do the same, as well as massage my feet.”
Lorna wasn’t the least surprised to see tears in the older woman’s eyes.
“Your child will be my grandchild. I never thought to have another chance at one. I realize it’s terribly selfish of me, but I would prefer if he wasn’t ostracized from the moment he drew breath. I want him to be a Russell.”
She only stared at the duchess. Evidently, the woman hadn’t given up the idea.
The pain chose that moment to strike. Long moments passed during which she could hardly breathe, let alone speak. When the cramping eased, creeping back behind the dark curtain where it lived, she opened her eyes again.
“It would cause a scandal,” she said. “A duke can’t marry a maid.”
“The world will be petty and brutal in their assessment of the situation. Do not delude yourself that society is anything but rapacious.” The duchess smiled. “But also remember this. Even kings married commoners. Elizabeth Woodville was married to EdwardIV. Henry VIII married four women without a royal pedigree.”
“I doubt they’d been maids,” Lorna said.
“How many years were you in service, Lorna?”
“Nearly two, Your Grace.”
“And how many years were you your father’s daughter?”
