Chapter Twenty
After conversing long into the night, Clara forced herself to hold to her decision that she and Pearce not share a bedchamber—at least at first. Though she would have given anything to sleep within the protective embrace of his arms and feel the heat of his skin against hers once more, she knew they required space to move past the pain of their separation.
She hadn’t lied when she told him she wanted him with her, but she was simply not willing to allow her desire to overshadow all the pain she’d felt.
She credited him for his admission that he’d tried to protect her by leaving, but the fact remained that he’d gone, plain and simple.
There was a path to reconciliation they needed to walk, and she did not believe it would be fair to either of them if they jumped ahead and tried to resume their life together as it had once been.
She was not prepared to welcome him back into her bed—both from the hurt he had caused her, and because she did not trust her addled brain enough to keep her hands off him.
As wonderful as she did not doubt it would be, Clara knew she deserved more for herself than to fall back into bed with the man who—though they loved one another—had abandoned her.
For his part, Pearce did not argue. He respected her wishes, maintained nothing but respect for the boundary she had made, and set about proving to her that she could trust and rely upon him.
Oddly enough, in the following weeks, it felt almost as if their marriage had come full circle: Pearce would kiss her and bid her good night and pleasant dreams each evening, but he’d then retreat to his own chamber.
However, he did a horrendous job of masking how it killed him to finally be near her once more but be unable to hold her or sleep beside her.
It was as plain as if the words had been written upon his face.
Clara could read the longing and the regret as easily as one would a smile or a sob.
Still, he seemed determined to keep his promise to do whatever it took to make amends, starting by following her lead when it came to integrating himself back into her life.
In a way, it turned into the courtship they’d never had.
To Clara, it felt as if her husband had made it his mission to plant little joys for her throughout the day.
He plied her with a near constant stream of her favorite shortbread from the Coylton kitchens.
He read to her when she was too fatigued to do much of anything else.
When it became apparent that the mere sight of any rare venison on the table would send her scrambling for a basin to be sick, he personally ventured into the kitchens and either threatened or coerced (depending on who told the story) the cook into swearing that the dish would not be served again until Lady Brinley deemed it safe to do so.
“I might have been more put out about him ordering around my staff, but there was something endearing about the man becoming lost twice on his way to the kitchens and handling the task himself,” Amelia said to Clara one evening as the two of them sat in the family parlor, pretending to read but making no headway.
Pearce even sought out the best places for Clara to practice her watercolors whenever she felt up to doing so.
She didn’t know how long he scouted out the most advantageous views of the Scottish vista from the various rooms and windows, but he’d collected no less than five new locations for her to enjoy.
Each quiet gesture he employed was another chink in the armor Clara had donned.
*
“I quite like this one,” Pearce said thoughtfully as he gestured to the watercolor Clara had laid out to dry.
He recognized the landscape as the scenery viewed from the empty chamber he’d located during his wanderings earlier in the week.
He’d made it his mission to keep Clara entertained as her physical limitations increased, and, while an infinite number of card games, books, and other quiet pastimes were employed on a regular basis, he took great pleasure in scouting new sights for Clara to paint.
“You are bloody talented,” he added, a little in awe with how she was able to capture the rolling hills, the croft of trees.
The sky looked alive and roiling, a single shaft of golden light holding on for one more breath before being smothered by the impending storm.
“I only dabble,” Clara responded while attempting to stretch her back.
“You are an artist,” he insisted.
The shy smile she offered him in return sent a bolt of lust straight to his groin.
She was so damned beautiful that it hurt to look at her.
Her willowy figure had rounded out in the best ways, softening her cheeks and lending an inherently maternal air to her presence.
It took every shred of willpower he possessed to not pull her into his arms and show her with his body how much he missed her, how sorry he was, how much he loved and desired her.
His cock pulsed with excitement of the most primal variety when he contemplated how it was his seed growing in her belly, his essence that had claimed her and, together, they were creating life.
But he’d made a vow to himself that he would remain steadfast in his convictions until she welcomed him into her bed.
Though he and Kempton were close, he’d been unsure about their two families sharing a household.
It was no secret that both Lord and Lady Kempton had a penchant for grudge holding, so it was a pleasant surprise when he felt more welcome and accepted than he’d ever have imagined.
When Lady Kempton offered him a warm greeting at the breakfast table the first morning, Pearce suspected that she’d been made aware of Anna and Malina; it was the only explanation for her unquestioning acceptance when he knew her nature was more to throw him out on his pathetic arse and thumb her nose at his back.
While she never expressly mentioned his past, she was quick to reassure him each time he felt a rising panic when Clara developed a new discomfort or felt unwell.
It helped to have someone there at all hours to remind him that these things were normal and were not a sign of distress.
Months before, he might have felt betrayed by Kempton for revealing his demons to his wife, but instead Pearce recognized a small glimmer of relief.
The truth was in the open. Anna and Malina’s lives and tragic deaths were known by more than just him.
In his own way, he felt vindicated and more understood than he ever had before.
Of course, this did not entirely exorcise his demons.
There were times he’d retreat into himself, and the dark thoughts would take over.
That was when Clara would take his hand and speak to him of things to take his mind off the memories, his dread as her anticipated due date crept ever closer.
For his part, Kempton did his best to distract him with riding, trapping, and other masculine pursuits—anything to exhaust his body when his mind felt as if it was spinning out of control.
Unfortunately, there was nothing to stop the nightmares after he retired alone. More often than not, he lay awake dreading sleep, falling unconscious for only a few snippets at a time. When he could resist sleep no longer, that was when the real horrors began.
The screaming.
The bleeding.
He’d jackknife in bed, covered in icy sweat, his chest heaving with each labored breath.
Things only became worse as the deadline crept closer.
Sleep became something he both prayed for and avoided until the only thing that helped drag him through the day was his determination to finally be the supportive husband Clara deserved.
*
Though his physical presence became an appreciated constant in Clara’s existence, she couldn’t help but notice the undercurrent of Pearce’s mental suffering and exhaustion.
His fears were plaguing him, unleashed by the inevitability of her impending labor.
No matter how often she reassured him that the babe’s movements in her womb were strong, that she, herself, felt hale and optimistic, there remained a haunted look behind his dark gray eyes.
Worry and sleeplessness began to carve deep lines around his eyes, marring his beautiful expression with their severity.
She did what she could to reassure him that all would be well, but she also realized that there were limits to what she could accomplish.
One day, she and Pearce were sitting and reading together on the sofa in the library. Freezing rain battered the small glass panes of the windows, pinging with the sound of a thousand glass beads being hurled from the sky. It was the perfect weather for sitting by the fire.
Nearby, Dori flipped through some of his correspondence and Amelia scribbled away at the small desk in the corner.
Much of her business was conducted alongside her husband in their shared study, but the desk had been placed there for occasions such as this when something occurred to her and she could jot it down before the idea fled.
Beside her, Clara noticed Pearce’s blond head nodding ever so slightly as he was lulled into a sense of peace by the warmth and quietness of the room.
Without a word, Clara slipped the book from his drooping hands and set it aside.
Next, she carefully plucked the spectacles from his face.
He startled a little when she did so, but she rubbed the little red spots on either side of the bridge of his nose and cupped his cheek.
“Rest,” she said. “You need to sleep.”
“I am not tired,” he groused. Deep furrows carved across his forehead as he fought to appear more alert than he really was.
“Yes, you are. And you sound like Archie, protesting like that.”
His answering chuckle softened his features.