“No, indeed. He’s my mirror image. But it’s your stubbornness he’s got running through his veins.” St. Clare dismounted, and after looping his reins around a nearby branch, came to assist her down from her mare. His hands were gentle but firm at her waist, lifting her easily and setting her carefully on the ground.

She clutched at his shoulders. “I’m not going to break, you know.”

“No.” He gazed down at her. “But every time you’re in this condition…” His brow furrowed. “Is it too much to ask that we remain in one place for the duration?”

They had been traveling a good deal. Autumn had been spent in London, with Lord and Lady Mattingly. Jane and Mattingly had married less than a year after St. Clare and Maggie, and their children were of a similar age. Their two families always enjoyed their time together.

Visiting London was, nevertheless, somewhat of an ordeal. The gossip over St. Clare’s legitimacy had never been fully extinguished. It had merely been subsumed by the gossip over the scandal of his birth—the fact that his mother had been a tavern wench and that he’d been born into a life of servitude.

Even after six years, there were still stares and whispers to contend with. Maggie and St. Clare only endured it on account of their children. Making their presence known in fashionable society, however uncomfortably, in the hopes that one day James, Ivo, and Jack—and the babe yet to come—would have an easier time of it.

After London, they’d traveled north, where they’d spent the winter and most of the spring at Worth House, Lord Allendale’s palatial estate in Hertfordshire. The earl doted on his great-grandchildren, delighted to have both an heir and two spares to spoil.

And then, as May drifted lazily into June, they’d finally come home. It had been at Maggie’s insistence. She looked forward to the warm spring and summer months at Beasley more than anything.

“Everything is going to be fine,” she promised, curving a hand around St. Clare’s neck.

He bent his head. “You always say that.” His lips brushed over hers. Softly, slowly. A prelude to a kiss.

She stretched up to meet it, heart beating swiftly. Her eyes closed as his mouth captured hers. She clung to him. Even after all these years, his kisses still had the power to make her knees go weak. “Nicholas,” she breathed. It was a name she only ever used in their most intimate moments.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I believe this is how we got into this predicament.”

“A predicament. Is that what you call it?”

“A lovely, wonderful predicament.” He rested a hand on the slight swell of her belly. “I wonder if this one will be a girl?”

“I sincerely hope so. The ladies in our household are woefully outnumbered.”