“That might not be possible,” she said. He felt her fingers curl around his wrist, moving the hand he’d splayed across her stomach to touch the thin ridge of scar tissue on the side of her abdomen. “This injury reduced the chances of me ever having children.”
He stopped breathing. “But you don’t know, not for certain . . .”
“No. But the odds aren’t in my favor.”
He didn’t know what to say. This was another thing that he’d always taken for granted, along with a grateful—yes, grateful—bride. He liked children well enough, but he’d never given too much thought to setting up his nursery. His progeny would simply be there someday, a requirement in his world, to carry on the family name.
How in God’s name had he fallen in love with a woman who had no wish to be a wife, who might not be able to produce children?
“I guess this changes things, doesn’t it?” He could hear the wry note in her voice, could sense her withdrawal even before she began to shift away from him.
Instinctively, he brought his arms around her. “I’ll get the license—”
“Alec, I’m not stupid. You might not be required to marry an heiress, or even someone with a title. But children . . . that is the one thing you do require in a wife, isn’t it? I can’t guarantee you that.”
“I love you.”
She said nothing for a long moment. Then she lifted a hand and stroked his cheek, a featherlight touch that made him stir again. “You know it’s not that simple.”
He was silent. She was right; it was bloody complicated. His duty to his lineage had been drummed into him since he was a boy. He wasn’t so selfish as to simply toss all those years, all those expectations away. He owed his family something. And yet . . .
His earlier thought drifted back to him. She’d been abandoned by her family, so she expected to be abandoned by everyone—by him.
“I’m not giving up,” he said slowly. “Let’s not think about tomorrow. There’s only—”
“Here. Now.” She slid her hands up his chest. He could feel her lips curve in a smile against his neck. “Yes. If there’s nothing else, that is something we can both agree on, my lord.”
50
They stayed in each other’s arms until the sky began to lighten. By the way the windowpanes rattled in the fitful gusts outside, the weather would remain temperamental. The servants would soon be stirring, the scullery maids stifling yawns as they made their way down to start the coal fires in the kitchens and began scouring and black-leading the mammoth cast-iron stove, filling the enormous tubs with water that would be brought to boiling.
Kendra sat up, then shivered when she felt Alec trace his finger down the indention of her spine.
“You have been thoroughly compromised, Miss Donovan,” he murmured softly.
The quick bubble of laughter took her by surprise. She twisted around to look at him. Then she leaned down to capture his face in her hands and gave him a long, toe-curling kiss. Lifting her head, she smiled. “I think I’ve done a pretty good job of compromising you, too, Lord Sutcliffe. Now I have to go.”
She dressed in silence, while Alec threw on his robe. When he began to follow her out of the room, she smiled at him and said, “You don’t need to show me to my door.”
“I will do the honorable thing, you know.”
“You mean make an honest woman out of me? Thanks, but I’m as honest as I want to be.”
“Kendra—”
She raised herself on her toes and kissed him briefly. Then she sank back down, keeping her eyes locked on his. “Nothing has changed, Alec. So no regrets, okay?”
He said nothing for a long moment, and she could tell he was conflicted, his sensibilities at war against her more modern viewpoint. Finally, he sighed. “No regrets,” he agreed.
He opened the door to make sure the hallway was empty. Then, despite her protest, he accompanied her to her door, like a boy escorting his prom date home. She wasn’t used to such solicitous gestures, so she found herself sucking in her breath when he lifted his hand, brushing her cheek in a gesture that struck her as unbearably sweet. Then he was gone.
She closed the door softly and sagged against the panel. Nothing has changed. She’d meant it. She just didn’t know if it was true.
Kendra opened her eyes when the door opened. The bedchamber was soft with shadows. She flopped around and saw Molly standing on the threshold.
“Good morning,” she said, and covered her mouth to capture a yawn.
“Good morning—ye’re awake then?”
“I hope so. What time is it?”
“Half past ten.”
“Christ! Are you kidding me?” She bolted upright, glancing at the clock for confirmation.
Molly crossed the room to push back the drapes, allowing the gray light of day to invade the room. “Are ye feelin’ ill, Miss? Ye never sleep this late.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
Molly seemed perplexed by the question. “W’ot for?”
“Because . . .” What for indeed? It’s not like she had an office to go to. “Because like you said, I never sleep this late.”
“’Tis normal for the gentry to stay in bed ’til noon, Miss.”
“I’m not gentry.”
Another questioning look. “If ye’re not gentry, w’ot are ye, Miss?”
What am I? Who am I? Who am I—here? She didn’t know. “I’m not up for a philosophical debate right now.” She raked fingers through her hair. “God, I’d love a bath.”
“I’ll have one fetched, Miss.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean . . .” She bit her lip—she actually would love a bath—and tried not to feel guilty when Molly went in search for half a dozen servants to make it happen. Two footmen hauled a large copper tub into the adjacent dressing room and three maids brought buckets of hot water from the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, Kendra eased herself into the steaming water, feeling quite decadent. It was eleven in the morning and she was soaking in a hot bath. She rested her head against the rounded lip of the tub and closed her eyes.
“Do ye want me ter bring ye breakfast?” asked Molly.
“That would be nice,” she said, and smiled.
Molly hesitated, giving her a puzzled look. “Are ye all right, Miss? Ye seem a bit different.”
Nothing has changed. Her words now seemed to mock her. She straightened abruptly, the water sloshing dangerously close to the edge. “Why? What do you mean?”
“Nothin’, Oi suppose. Ye just seem . . . happy.”
Oh, God, she was acting like some giddy, lovestruck teenager. “I’m—” Shit, what could she say? That Molly was mistaken, that she wasn’t happy?
“I’m starving, Molly. I’d love something to eat. Thanks.”