"She shot you when she discovered you'd taken it?"
"I don't think she ever discovered that it was missing, Rhys. She shot me, as she put it, for being an arrogant prig."
"Well you are arrogant, but no one to my knowledge has ever considered you a prig."
Michael shrugged, then winced slightly. “I denied her request."
Rhys raised an eyebrow at that. “What did she request?"
"She wanted a liaison involving her, myself, and a ten-year-old child. We all have our limits, and as debauched as I may be, bedding children is not now, nor will it ever be, in my repertoire. Perhaps it wasn't simply my refusal. Perhaps she shot me because I had the audacity to tell her that if she ever went near a child again I would see her ruined, and if I could not ruin her, then I would see her dead."
Rhys poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Michael, keeping the other for himself. “Always the savior, Michael? When do you feel that you will have atoned enough for not saving Melisande?"
Michael's expression darkened, and with a practiced motion he drained his glass. “I do not atone for failing to save Melisande, Rhys... I atone for everything I've done since."
Emme paced her bedchamber, calculating and recalculating. She hadn't had her courses since leaving her stepfather's home to come to Briarwood Park. She considered the fullness of her breasts, which she'd attributed to weight gain.
She'd discovered a fondness for the teacakes Cook made. She hadn't been ill. Well, she corrected, she hadn't been truly sick. There had been one or two mornings where her stomach had been slightly rebellious upon waking, but the feeling had passed quickly. “Dear heavens,” she said, as she sat down heavily at her dressing table.
Gussy entered the room a few minutes later and found her still sitting there, staring at nothing. “Finally occurred to you, has it?” she asked, putting away the freshly ironed chemises.
"What occurred to me, Gussy?” she asked, idly toying with the hair brush on the dressing table.
Gussy rolled her eyes heavenward and chuckled. “Your husband shares your bed every night, every morning, and sometimes again in the afternoon. I would be more surprised to learn that ye weren't increasing than to learn that ye were. Besides, I'm your maid. I take care of your clothing. I know when your flow comes almost as well as I know my own."
There were no secrets, Emme realized, none whatsoever. Had it been anyone other than Gussy speaking to her so, she would have died of shame. But Gussy was more friend than servant and had always been so. “I can't believe I never even considered it."
"To be fair, Your Grace, ye've had more than a bit on your mind. Solving old murders, nightly chats with ghostly visitors, and satisfying that mon of yours... It's little wonder ye didn't think of it."
"What should I say to him?"
Gussy rolled her eyes heavenward. “He's a grown mon, your husband. He knows how bairns are made. Just tell him you're with child."
Emme blushed furiously. “Gussy, I hate to, but you're the only person I can ask questions of... Is it—should I—can—"
Gussy took pity on her charge. “Ye can still lie with your husband, until close to time for the babe to come. Ye just go on about your life the same way ye were before. And soon enough, we'll have a wee one to tend to."
"Help me out of this gown, Gussy. I think I will lie down for a bit, after all."
Stripped to her chemise, Emme laid down upon the bed. She pressed her palms against her still flat stomach and tried to imagine the life growing inside her. It was a strange notion, but not an unpleasant one. What would their child look like? Would it be dark like Rhys, with his dusky skin and brown eyes? Or would it be pale like her, with her odd silver eyes? Another thought, far less present, crept into her mind. Would Rhys love their child even if it were like her or would he grow to resent her if their child wasn't normal?
In the library, Rhys handed Michael the cravat pin. He didn't tell his friend about seeing Melisande. Though she had been his sister and he had loved her dearly, he knew that Michael's grief was no less real. He'd often wondered what Michael might have been like had Melisande lived. Would they have married as they had talked about?
In his heart, he believed that they would have. Though they had been children, there had been nothing childlike in their devotion to one another. Michael was a dissolute rake now, though not without honor. Would he have been a good and faithful husband to his sister? Rhys wanted to believe that, that perhaps it was Michael's grief that had driven him to the depths to which he had sunk, but it was all supposition, and he would not hurt their friendship by asking.