Chapter 18 #2
“Of course,” he answered. Madeline did not look at him.
She was looking at the baby, her expression soft.
Her face seemed almost naked without her spectacles.
He had never noticed before just how long her lashes were.
They were the same blonde as her hair, tipped with gold.
An impulse rushed through him to lean forward and let those lashes touch the tip of his finger.
He did no such thing, of course. It was hardly appropriate, and in any case, her attention was solely focused on the baby.
At that moment, Adam stirred a little, one of his fat little arms coming free of the swaddling. He reached upwards, his tiny fist closing around a tendril of Madeline’s hair. He didn’t tug, only seemed content to hold it, staring up at her with wide eyes.
A slow, soft smile spread across Madeline’s face.
“Are you feeling better, my little one?” she whispered. “Can you breathe a little better? We’re going to take the best care of you, Tristan and I.”
He swallowed hard, his gaze moving from the baby to her face once more.
An odd warmth opened up in the middle of Tristan’s chest, spreading through his torso and through his limbs. He wasn’t entirely sure that it was comfortable. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was certainly new.
Madeline glanced up at him and gave him a wry smile.
“I cannot tell whether your face is blurry because of all the steam in here, or if it’s because I am not wearing my spectacles.”
She can’t read the expression on my face, Tristan thought, swallowing. That is probably just as well. I imagine that I look like a fool.
He blinked, suddenly aware that he was staring. It was as if he could not look away from Madeline, not even if he wanted to.
I want to kiss her. I want to take her in my arms.
This was a different impulse from what he’d felt in the dressmaker’s shop. There, he had simply wanted to unlace that tantalizing gown and watch the material fall away from her skin. He wanted to touch her, kiss her, make her give breathy, surprised little gasps when he found her secret parts.
This feeling was, in a word, purer. Wildly, he thought that with the steam curling around her, she could be an angel soaring through the clouds.
Perhaps it is I who has the fever, he thought miserably.
Before he could venture another word or do something inadvisable, the sound of carriage wheels on cobblestones sounded from outside, coming closer.
“Who is that? Is it the doctor?” Madeline asked, glancing up with a frown and squinting at the window.
Tristan got to his feet, hurrying toward it.
He wiped away the condensation and peered out.
He recalled riding past, seeing the lit-up washroom window high above.
Had Madeline watched him approach? How had that made her feel?
Had she been relieved? Was she happy to see him?
Was she relieved that he was back? Did she feel any sort of quickening in her heart when she saw him, any of the desire he felt?
Or was she simply annoyed that he was coming home? Perhaps she felt nothing at all.
He wasn’t sure what was worse—the idea that he annoyed her and that she disliked him, or that she felt entirely neutral toward him, the way one might feel toward a particularly dull uncle by marriage.
“It is the doctor,” he said, his own voice sounding distant to his ears. “Shall I go down and bring him up? I went straight to the nursery and was surprised to find you were not there. They’ll want directing here.”
“Yes, that seems sensible,” Madeline responded, a little absently. Her attention once more was fixed upon the baby, who was now trying to cram his entire fist, still clutching Madeline’s lock of hair, into his mouth.
Tristan hurried out of the washroom without another word.
He felt cold and damp the instant he stepped outside, his now-wet hair plastered to his forehead.
He did not look thoroughly wet, only embarrassingly damp.
Sweaty, perhaps. His cravat drooped miserably, and Tristan absently adjusted it, crumpling the linen even more.
He strode across the landing and paused at the top of the stairs.
Doctor Hought stood in the foyer, peeling off his greatcoat and handing it to a footman. Dorothea was there, her face a mask of urgency. She glanced up and spotted Tristan standing at the top of the stairs. Her face pinched.
“Tristan?” she whispered. “What news?”
He breathed out slowly. “We think that Adam is out of danger. He is in the duchess’s washroom, which is full of hot water and steam. By all accounts, he is improving, but of course, the doctor must look him over.”
“It sounds as though you have done the right thing,” Doctor Hought remarked, tugging off his scarf. “Did your nursemaid manage it all alone?”
“No, I believe this was the duchess’s doing.”
Doctor Hought gave an approving nod. “Then the duchess is a clever and practical woman, and I daresay she might even have saved the child’s life. I congratulate you on your clever wife, Your Grace, and I shall congratulate her upon her quick thinking myself. You are a lucky man indeed.”
Tristan swallowed tightly. “Yes. I imagine I am.”
He could feel his mother’s eyes on him, but carefully did not meet her gaze. The doctor began to climb the stairs, with Dorothea following closely behind.
“Well then, Your Grace,” the doctor said briskly. “Do lead the way.”