Chapter Thirty-Nine
Five months later.
Devil’s breeches, could his beloved wife be in any more pain? Why weren’t they doing anything? Surely no creature could endure such suffering for so long?
Charles winced when Olivia dug her fingernails into his palm as she shook with another spasm. She threw her head back and let out a primal roar, her face contorted with agony. He gestured toward Mrs. Brougham, but she ignored him.
They all ignored him.
So many bloody women, together in a confined space! It was enough to make a man weak with fear. And he would have been, save for the one person who made him strong.
His wife—the woman he’d fight the whole world to protect from harm.
Yet here she was, lying before him, racked with agony—agony that he was solely responsible for.
Dear God, what will I do without her?
He let out a whimper as she turned her face toward him, her eyes glazed with pain.
The midwife’s crisp tones cut through the air. “Lord save me from weak-bellied men! Why a man thinks he has the stomach for a birthing, I’ll never understand.”
“Mrs. Cheam, Lord Devereaux is—”
“He’s a man, and as such, has no place here.”
Olivia’s spasm subsided, and she lay back while Susie placed a cloth over her forehead.
Treacherous little creature—Charles would never have forgiven Olivia’s maid for the role she played in her mistress’s accident, but an impressionable child, swayed by an older sister she’d worshipped, was perhaps to be forgiven.
Her crimes had been born of folly rather than evil—at least, that was what Olivia had said.
And Susie had tended to her mistress since that day with penitence and devotion.
“That’s enough, Susie. Don’t crowd your mistress.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Duchess Whitcombe shooed the maid aside then took Olivia’s free hand.
“Your moment has come, dearest,” she said. “Listen to Mrs. Cheam and all will be well.” She glanced at Charles. “Lord Devereaux, I really think it’s best if you join my husband in the drawing room. Olivia doesn’t want you distracting her, and I don’t want you fainting.”
He arched his eyebrows, and she let out a huff.
“You think you’re different from other men?
My Montague passed out when I gave birth to Horatio.
He’d convinced himself that he had the constitution of an ox, but at the first sight of blood, he fainted like a baby bird falling out of the nest. Fell against the armchair, cracked his head open, and bled all over my finest carpet. I suspect he soiled his breeches also.”
Olivia let out a giggle between gasps for air.
“You think I jest, dearest?” the duchess said. “Poor Susie here, I am sure, does not wish to mop up the floor, or wash her master’s breeches, after such an event—especially considering the enormity of the luncheon he consumed today. Two helpings of meat pie, and—”
“Eleanor, stop!” Olivia laughed. “I want my husband here. I’ll scrub his soiled breeches if the need arises.”
Was this how women discussed their menfolk when left unfettered?
But the smile in his wife’s eyes was reward enough. If it made her laugh, he’d gladly empty his bowels and his stomach all over the floor and make an utter arse of himself.
That was, after all, the definition of love.
Olivia let out another cry. Charles placed his free hand on her cheek, gently turning her face until their eyes met.
Focus on me, my love.
As if she heard his thoughts, she tilted her head in a slight nod while the women bustled about at the foot of the bed. Then, her eyes focused on his, she let another long, low wail that heightened in pitch, crescendoing together with the chattering of encouragement from the women, until…
Until he heard another cry—weak at first, then growing stronger, a high-pitched wail that tugged at his soul, winding itself around his heart like a coiling spring.
The cry of a child.
“Well done, Olivia!” the duchess said, her voice muffled.
“Congratulations, Lord Devereaux,” Mrs. Brougham said. “You have a son.”
The spring snapped and Charles let out a cry, convulsing with sobs.
He took his wife’s head in his hands and kissed her.
She parted her lips, and he slipped his tongue inside, gently at first, but she thrust her tongue greedily into his mouth, deepening the kiss as if she were a woman starved.
When she broke the kiss, her eyes were wet with tears.
The duchess reappeared and placed a bundle in Olivia’s arms. Charles caught sight of a round, pink face, tiny and wrinkled, among a sea of cotton and lace. Then the child opened his eyes and regarded Charles with a thoughtful, searching gaze as blue as the deepest of oceans—and his heart was lost.
How was it possible to love another person as much as he loved his wife? And how was it possible for that love to only increase the more he gazed at his son? He placed his hand over his heart and opened his mouth, but his throat tightened, and his body froze.
“No, my love,” Olivia said softly. “You have no need to speak. I love you as you are. And why would I want a man who tells me that he loves me? Too many men will speak of their love, but I prefer a man like you, Charles. You have no need to tell me that you love me, because you show it every day. What wife—or son—would want for anything else?”
She placed another kiss on the baby’s forehead.
“Hello, young sir. Would you like to meet your father?”
She offered the bundle to Charles.
Ye gods, surely she wasn’t going to trust him, with his huge hands and clumsy frame, with something so precious, so fragile?
“Oh Lord,” the duchess said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Susie, you may have to fetch the mop and bucket after all.”
Bloody hell, were they laughing at him?
Olivia let out a giggle, then silenced it as he met her gaze. She leaned toward him and whispered in his ear.
“Forgive me, husband,” she said, her breath tickling his neck, sending a fizz of need into his groin. “I will permit you to think of a fitting way by which I can atone. In this bed, perhaps, though we have yet to share our love in the kitchen garden.”
Then he grinned at her and motioned with his hands.
And over my desk in the library.
“Ah yes, husband. There’s nothing I like more than a good book.”
Could any man be as fortunate as he? Out of an unfortunate incident, he’d managed to find the best woman in all England.
A natural child, a misfit, the very last woman who ought to have suited him.
And yet, as misfits together, they were two halves of the same soul.
He was ready to defend her against the world, while his beloved Olivia had, as his housekeeper had foretold, brought light and laughter back into his home—and his life.