Chapter Nineteen #2
Clara waited several tense heartbeats before she reached out a shaking hand and took his hand in hers.
She placed his cold palm on her stomach.
“I need you to remember that I am not Anna and this child is not Malina,” she said adamantly as she held his hand in place so he would not retreat.
“I will be all right—both of us will. And we both need you.”
His shoulders lifted when a little thump echoed from inside her womb.
His lips parted and his wide eyes met hers.
The expression of utter awe and wonder made Clara’s tears begin to spill onto her cheeks.
He bowed his head, propping his forehead on his palm as he felt the movements of his child.
Clara guided his palm as the babe turned and moved.
Finally, his shoulders shook on a sob.
“Oh, God, Clara.” The reality of his child was palpable—no longer an abstract fear—and it nearly crushed him. “I love you. I do not deserve you, but I love you, regardless.”
Clara choked on a small laugh as his shoulders kept shaking and his breathing was uneven. She’d quite literally brought this man to his knees.
She grabbed his hand and tugged him to her.
She held his face in her palms and kissed him lightly on his lips, tasting the salt of his tears, his love, and his longing.
He kissed her back and held her to him tightly, like a man who had discovered salvation and was terrified it would slip through his fingers.
*
Dorian quietly shut the door to the library, leaving Clara and her husband in the firelit privacy of their reconciliation.
He’d waited in the hallway, prepared to intervene only if the reunion went sideways.
Now that he was sure there would be no bloodshed, however, he felt relieved of his duty and could finally make his way to the chamber he shared with Amelia.
After hours in the cold carriage, he could think of nothing but curling up beneath the coverlet of the warm bed with her.
These couple of weeks away had felt interminably lengthy and he knew she would be waiting with eager anticipation to learn how everything transpired.
He opened the door to find the bed empty, but the linens disturbed.
Amelia sat by the fire, a tartan shawl wrapped around her shoulders as she held their son to her breast. Dorian took in the sight and, not for the first time, could not believe that fate had seen fit to grant him such perfection, such happiness. It stole his breath.
Amelia opened one of her eyes as he closed the door behind him. Her smile could still make his stomach flip, though he was well past the age of boyish fancies.
“You have returned!” she whispered excitedly.
He crossed the room and kissed her as soundly as he could without disturbing their child. After greeting her, he ran a gentle finger over Owen’s downy head, his hair already darker than when he’d been born. “Near frozen to death, but it is good to be home.”
Amelia peppered him with questions about his journey as he began to peel the clothes from his body and stretch his aching muscles.
“And Brinley is belowstairs? Right this minute?” she asked.
“Do not tell me you doubted I would be able to achieve my goal of dragging him back to Scotland,” he jested as he rolled his right shoulder. Days in a carriage were growing less kind to him the closer he came to his fortieth birthday.
“I am more surprised that Clara agreed to see him. It broke my heart to see her so despondent.”
“Honestly, he was already preparing to return even before my arrival. It did not truly take any convincing on my part.”
“So, you are saying you did not need to hold a pistol to his head?” she asked absently as she repositioned the sleeping infant and adjusted the neckline of her nightrail.
She’d foregone a nurse, preferring to care for Owen, herself, as she’d done as a young mother with Archie.
She looked up to find Dorian sitting on the edge of the mattress, half undressed, watching her intently with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“He left because he was terrified, Amelia.”
“What do you mean? Of Clara?” she asked with a frown. “Surely, becoming a father was a possibility he’d considered? And with his wife, no less. This is not a miraculous conception.”
Dorian shook his head. “He’s lost a child before.” Dorian sighed and proceeded to reveal to her the depths of Brinley’s hidden trauma.
“The poor man,” Amelia choked out at the end and couldn’t help but stroke the cheek of her perfect, healthy son and count her blessings. “And he never gave you any indication of what occurred?”
Again, Dorian shook his head. “And I feel rotten for not having been there for him. I was too blinded by my own pain to see his.”
Amelia rose and said, “The point is that you can be there for him now. These next few months will likely be terrible for him. They will dredge up all sorts of fear and trauma—some he may not have even considered. It is reassuring to know that, at his heart, he left as a way to protect her. He is here for Clara now, and that is what is most important. She will need him.”
Dorian agreed wearily and watched appreciatively as she placed the infant in his bassinet set near the chair and ensured he was sleeping soundly.
“All we can do is be supportive of them and foster a place where they can heal.” She cupped her husband’s whiskered cheek and kissed him. “I have missed you, my love. And I am proud of you for not killing Brinley.”
He chuckled. “Me, too. On both counts.” He untucked his shirt and she knelt before him to help remove his boots.
“You know,” she whispered, having set aside his boots and run her hands up his muscular thighs, “our son is eight weeks old now…” Her fingers began to tug at the falls of his breeches with agonizing slowness.
Dorian watched raptly, growing hard with startling rapidity, his stiff length already evident.
“Is he, now? I’d lost count,” he said with obviously feigned flippancy.
“Liar,” she purred. Both knew well that they were to refrain from intercourse and she was to avoid any strenuous activity for at least six weeks following the birth. That, coupled with the months before had left them anxiously awaiting their deadline.
Dorian’s heavy erection sprang into her hands and his breath hissed between his teeth with the delicious agony of her touch.
“If your intention is to kill me, then you’re well on your way…
” he breathed, enamored by the sight of her pale, delicate hands on him.
With a wicked smile on her beautiful lips, Amelia stroked his hard length in a tempo she knew would tease him to trembling desire.
He reclined on his elbows as she touched and tortured him.
When her lips closed around his swollen head and she took him deep, Dorian’s head fell back with a guttural moan.