Ian listened with his usual expression--focused, brows slightly drawn, mouth straight--saying nothing. Whether he followed Hart's words or not, Hart didn't know. He never knew, with Ian.
He looked up at the ceiling. "God, I hate this room. I'm removing all furniture to the scrap heap and tearing out those bloody awful paintings. After . . ."
Ian held out his large hand to Hart. "Come with me."
"Come with you where?" Hart wasn't in the mood for expeditions.
Ian said nothing. He never explained. He simply expected Hart to trust him.
Hart gave up and followed his brother out of the room. Ian didn't go far. He led Hart down the hall to the chamber in which Eleanor lay and pushed open the door without knocking.
Hart smelled closeness, heat, the bite of the coal fire, too many people in a room with no fresh air, and blood. The room was too dark, too stuffy.
A maid swung around, alarm in her eyes. "You can't be in here, Your Grace. Your lordship."
The room teemed with women, maids in caps and aprons, the plump midwife, the wet nurse with her own baby, waiting to take Eleanor's. Beth sat on a chair on one side of the bed, holding Eleanor's hand.
Eleanor lay on her back, the covers bunched around her to form a kind of nest. Her arms, shoulders, and breasts were covered with her dressing gown, the rest of her exposed. Her knees were up, her skin dripping with sweat, her eyes closed in a pale face.
"Not really the place for you, Your Grace," the midwife said, without turning from the foot of the bed. "We'll let you men folk know when the time is right."
Eleanor opened her eyes. Hart thought she might call to him, but her face distorted, and she emitted a long wail that ended in a scream. Her body arched, spasms wracking it.
She fell back to the bed, breathless. Beth stroked her hand, her attention all for Eleanor. Eleanor gasped for a few seconds, then she wailed again.
Hart was across the room, pushing aside the maids, reaching for Eleanor. Eleanor moaned again, her head moving on the pillow, but she grasped Hart's outstretched hand and held it hard. More than hard. She squeezed it to the bone.
She fell back again, spent. "Hart."
"I'm here, El."
"Really, Your Grace. It's not fitting." The midwife, a large Scotswoman with fire-red hair, put her hands on her hips. Hart might be a duke, but this was her demesne.
"Please, let him stay," Eleanor said. "Please."
Hart read the pain in her blue eyes, the fear, the hope. He kissed her fingers, her hands so pitifully swollen.
"Beth says it shouldn't be long now," Eleanor whispered.
Hart saw, out of the corner of his eye, the midwife and Beth exchange a glance. They'd lied to soothe her.
"Good," Hart said. "That's good."
Ian, saying nothing, came around the bed, dragged a chair next to Beth's, and sat down. He took Beth's hand in his, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
Hart knew Eleanor's fears and shared them. She was thirty-three, this was her first child, and first children could be difficult. Eleanor was much more robust than Hart's first wife had been, but childbirth was dangerous in any case.
Hart had taken far too long to find Eleanor again. They'd had less than a year together, and he might lose her tonight.
Eleanor squeezed his hand, this time gently. "Are you all right, my love? You look a bit green."
"Which is why husbands should wait outside," the midwife said. "They're not good with what a woman can take in her stride.
"I'm fine," Hart snarled. "I . . ." He swallowed, forcing the bile down. "I'm fine, love."
"Good," Eleanor said. "I'm fine too." She closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath, and then her body went slack.
"What's the matter with her?" Hart asked in alarm.
The midwife looked harassed, but Beth answered. "She's only asleep. She's been drifting off from time to time. It's all right. Sleep is good for her. Gives her some peace."
But Eleanor looked too wan, her face too waxen for Hart's comfort.
The night wore on. There was another confounded clock in here, ticking, ticking. Eleanor woke up, groaning in pain, but the midwife still shook her head. Not yet.
Eleanor drifted off again, moaning a little in her sleep. Ian stayed with Beth, holding her hand as he dozed.
Hart stroked Eleanor's hand, wishing he could take all the pain away. In the days before his marriage to Eleanor, he'd spent time with women who liked Hart to inflict pain on them--to bind them and command them, and to use the pain, binding, and words to drive them to pleasure. He'd been good at it. Hart had mastered the technique of squeezing a woman's throat just enough so that when air cut off, her climax was that much more robust. A dangerous practice, but Hart had had the touch.