That would not matter with this child. She was its mother, which meant its first companion would be her, its first source of comfort would be her, its first moments of attention would be from her.

Her nature, as once she had been, need not be the nature her child knew of her. She could be the mother she wished to be, the version of a mother she wished her mother had been. She could make this time in her life, this relationship between them, anything she wanted. Anything she thought would bring her child happiness and make their life better.

And through that, her own.

And yet she felt very strongly that her child’s happiness would bring about her own, even if she did not consider it from the beginning.

She had always considered her own happiness first. That had been the driving force behind her shameless flirtation with Phillip. Her determination to take charge of her marriage. Her wedding dress. Being hostess of balls and parties.

Her own happiness, all of them. But now…

“You play that one so much better than I do.”

Adelaide laughed very softly to herself, looking toward the door to the room, where her husband stood wearing a smile. “Perhaps I practice more than you.”

“Undoubtedly, you do.” He nodded and came toward her, his stride easy and comfortable, which made her smile. “If my ears are not deceiving me, you have been playing in here for quite some time. Anything wrong?”

“Other than being exceptionally large and unable to move or breathe with any ease?” she quipped, trying to keep the bite out of her tone. “No, not really.”

Basset hissed in sympathy as he reached the instrument. “I am sorry about that. It seems rather unfair that only one of us should bear the burden of this when we were both part of the production of it. Believe me, you wear the experience with dignity and grace, and you are still as beautiful as you were the day I married you.”

The tears she had thought impossible to produce were suddenly there, and she tried to swallow the wash of them. “I am not,” she protested in the weakest attempt at modesty known to man, lowering her head. “I am awkward and ungainly, and there is nothing you can do to make this better.”

“Not even shower you with compliments?” He sat beside her on the bench, his shoulder touching hers, his hand resting on her knee. “You know I am not a flatterer, Adelaide. I would never say something I did not mean.”

“I know,” she whispered, hiccupping on more tears. “That’s why I’m crying.”