"Yes, most comfortable."
Ranunculus chose that moment to saunter inside, the big orange cat going straight across to Jack to rub against his trouser legs. Clearly unconcerned about any hair the feline might be leaving behind, Jack bent to stroke the cat's striped head and back.
"I see the two of you have already met," she remarked, observing the friendly byplay.
Soft purrs issued from the cat, his eyes closing with contentment as Jack scratched him under the chin. "Indeed," Jack said. "This big fellow introduced himself to me while you were sleeping. He's quite expert at hogging the sofa." His gaze moved to the cat. "Aren't you … Ranunculus, is it not?
"That's right," she confirmed. Obviously Jack had gleaned additional "interesting details" from the servants.
He stroked the cat's head, his voice lowering. "At least she didn't call you Buttercup, old man."
"You know what ranunculus means?" she said, surprised.
His gaze swung up to meet hers. "I know a great deal more on that subject than you might imagine. Let's just say you … inspired me to learn."
Before she had time to respond, he returned to his seat on the couch. "So, what shall we do?"
"Do?" she repeated as the cat jumped into her lap. Automatically, she began to pet him.
"Tonight. It's still a little early for dinner, assuming you're up to eating dinner. Until then, I thought we could play a game perhaps. Or I could read a story or some poetry aloud so that all you need do is relax and listen. Which would you prefer?"
Either, she thought, or both, realizing that his suggestions sounded delightful. But she couldn't afford to delight in them, or in his company. She couldn't get used to having him around, couldn't risk everything that meant.
As though aware of her mercurial mood, the cat gave a meow and leapt to the ground. Padding on quick feet, he left the room.
Exactly as Jack will do.
"I didn't realize you were staying the night," she said in a brisk tone. "Your trip north and all. I believe you mentioned you needed to be on your way."
His brows drew together for a few seconds before relaxing again. "I also said that I wasn't certain of my plans. I have no pressing engagements, so I can afford to be flexible."
///
"I don't want to be a bother-"
"You aren't. I'll sleep in the guest room tonight, shall I?"
She hesitated. Was it wise to let him stay, even in the guest room? On the other hand, it wasn't as if she could throw him out. They might be estranged, but in the end, he was still her husband.
"I'll let Mrs. Mackie know to prepare the room," she said with a nod. "And lay out another place setting for dinner."
His mouth curved in a faint smile. "Thank you, Grace."
She didn't answer, too aware of how fast her heart was suddenly beating.
"Well then," he prompted. "What's it to be? Games or a story? I found a Maria Edgeworth novel in the library that you might enjoy. Ennui, I believe."
"Oh, I haven't read that one," she said, more tempted than she ought to admit.
"Or we could play chess. There's a board I can bring in."
She paused, knowing she shouldn't choose either option. "The story, please," she told him in a rush. "If you don't hate Mrs. Edgeworth, that is?"
A chuckle rumbled from his throat as he rose to retrieve the volume. "I trust I shall survive."
He's only here for tonight, she told herself, settling back in her chair. Tonight and then he'll be gone, so enjoy the moment.
Jack returned and took his seat again. Opening the book, he began to read.
The deep cadence of his voice stole over her, the words like music. Closing her eyes, she gave in to the pleasure.
Chapter 27
Six weeks later, Jack was still there.
Each day, when she came downstairs, she expected to find him packed and ready to depart, anxious to finally be on his way. But then he would smile and ask how her night had been and before she knew it, half the day would be gone. Afternoon would amble past at a lazy pace, then Mrs. Mackie would be at the doorway announcing that dinner was served. By the time Grace glanced at a clock again, she would find the hour far too advanced for him to leave that night.
She supposed she could have asked him to depart, but selfishly-and stupidly-she found herself hoping he would stay just one more day. Equally as foolish was the way she began to depend upon him, especially when it came to her pregnancy.
Instinctively, he seemed to know exactly what she needed-coaxing her to sleep when she was drowsy, making sure she drank enough fluids and got enough to eat, ready with a basin and a comforting hand when the nausea struck and nothing would stay down.
He comforted her when she felt so dreadful she could barely lift her head, and he kept her relaxed and entertained the rest of the time-and all without making a single demand upon her.
As she well knew, Jack was a man of strong appetites-particularly of the passionate variety-so the lack of sex must surely have been wearing on him.
And yet he gave no indication of being displeased. Nor did he appear bored or distracted, as she'd assumed he would be without a constant round of parties and entertainments to keep him amused. In fact, if she didn't know better, she would almost believe he was … content.
But how could he possibly be satisfied living in a sexless union with his frequently ill, pregnant wife? Surely he must be chafing under the burden, anxious to send for his carriage and drive away with as much speed as he could muster. She was certain it was only a matter of time until he did.
Nonetheless, he remained-for reasons she couldn't possibly begin to fathom. But rather than make the attempt, she abdicated the responsibility, knowing he would tell her when he'd finally had enough and wanted to leave.
The last days of September drew to a close, and with them came not only cooler temperatures but also an end to the worst of her symptoms. As her pregnancy grew more advanced, her morning sickness disappeared, her energy rebounding as her body began to develop a new roundness.
She wasn't showing yet-at least not through her clothes-but now, as she lay in bed, she couldn't help but notice the slight bulge beneath her nightgown where her belly used to be flat. On a whim, she tried to suck in her stomach. It wouldn't budge.
Definitely the baby.
Running a hand over the new curve, she smiled.
She was woolgathering when the oddest sensation, like the fluttering of faerie's wings, made the breath catch in her lungs.
Oh, stars, did the baby just move?
Then it happened again, causing a laugh to bubble from her throat.
Abruptly she was overwhelmed with the need to tell someone. To share this small, yet miraculous, occurrence.
Flinging back the sheets, she hurried across to the door that connected her bedchamber with Jack's-a door neither of them had ever attempted to open before. Without thinking, she pulled it wide and raced inside.
///
Standing in front of his shaving stand, Jack turned at her entrance, his razor poised less than an inch from his soap-covered, half-shaven face. He was dressed in a pair of fawn trousers and nothing else, his bare, muscular chest and broad shoulders a glorious sight to behold. Even so, she was too exhilarated over her news to pay more than momentary heed.
"Grace, what is it?" he demanded in clear concern, setting down his razor. "What's wrong? Are you ill?"
"No, not at all. I'm … oh, I don't know how to describe what I am. Just come here and feel."
His brows rose. "Feel what?"
"You'll see. Just give me your hand."
A peculiar expression flashed across his face before he reached for a towel to quickly dry his cheeks. Approaching, he stopped about a foot away from her.
"Closer," she urged. "You'll never be able to feel it from there." Caught up in her excitement, she reached out and took his hand, then placed his palm flat against her belly over the spot where she'd felt the fluttering sensation.
"What are we doing?" he questioned. "What is it I'm supposed to feel?"
"The baby!" she whispered.
Some of her excitement transferred to him. "You mean it moved?"
She nodded. "Yes. At least I think he did. Now, be quiet and let's see if he'll do it again."
Jack edged closer, sliding an arm behind her back while he positioned his palm more fully across her nightgown-clad stomach.
Together, they waited.
And waited.
"I don't feel anything," he said in a low voice.
"Give it another minute," she hushed. "Surely he'll move again."