A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(55)

This was part of the reason Haverford adored his wife. Elizabeth knew what to say, she knew what to do, and she went about saying and doing the appropriate things with no need to draw attention to herself.

“This is good news,” Haverford said. “If you’re to be the favorite uncle who spoils my children rotten, then I should have a chance to fulfill the reciprocal role. Will you leave us any shortbread?”

“Yours is better than ours,” Radnor said. “I must admit, the thought of becoming a father appeals. The idea of what Glenys must endure to become a mother, though…one worries.”

Elizabeth was watching Haverford as she deftly added stitches to her knitting.

“One does,” Haverford said slowly. “Incessantly. I suppose it’s good training for raising children.”

Radnor finished his first cup of tea—or Haverford’s third. “I’m told peppermint tea is soothing to the nerves. I shall doubtless become a peppermint tea drunk. I’m off to pass along my good news to the vicar. Prayers, you know. Can’t hurt.”

The bashfulness was back, while a lone piece of shortbread remained on Elizabeth’s plate.

Radnor was friendly by nature, though he was no fool. Once his temper was provoked, he was every bit as thunderous as he could be sanguine. He knew everybody and was universally liked, and also respected.

“Radnor, are you familiar with the Earl of Brantford?” Haverford asked.

“Quinton Bramley. He’s a few years younger than we are, family seat in Northumbria or the West Riding. Somewhere dreadfully bleak. Has an interest in coal mines. Indulges in the usual vices.”

The usual vices being a mistress, and moderate drinking and gambling.

“Sherbourne has sold him an interest in the colliery,” Haverford said. “Brantford is dropping around next week to inspect the progress of the works. Her Grace and I are to host the visit.”

Elizabeth whipped the bulk of whatever she was making aside and started on a new row. “The same works that suffered a mudslide earlier today.”

Radnor rose. “Those works. I heard that nobody was injured despite considerable damage to the grounds.”

“The damned hill decided to move itself a good thirty yards to the east,” Haverford said. “Sherbourne seems undaunted, but I’ve asked my tenants to lend a hand putting things to rights.”

“Sherbourne excels at seeming undaunted,” Radnor said. “Duchess, a pleasure as always. I’m off to the vicarage. Haverford, be a dear and see a man off, would you?”

Elizabeth remained serenely knitting on her sofa, though she doubtless knew Radnor was asking for some privacy with a friend.

“Away with you both,” she said. “Though if you could have a pot of China black sent up, I’d appreciate it. Somebody seems to have drunk all of mine.”

Radnor paused with one glove on, the other in his hand. “But Haverford told me last week—”

“A fresh pot,” Haverford said, “along with another plate of shortbread. No bother at all. Radnor, come along.”

Radnor kissed Elizabeth’s cheek, and came along like a good marquess who didn’t want to return home sporting a black eye.

“Glenys claims it’s early days,” Radnor said, once they’d gained the corridor. “I reckon that means another seven months of fretting and fussing before the real worry sets in. Do you know how large the newborn human is, Haverford?”

“I’m several months ahead of you pondering that alarming topic. Gives a man pause.”

“Gives a man a bilious stomach. The ladies marry us, knowing what the likely consequences will be. One can only marvel at such fortitude.”

Haverford paused at the top of the main staircase, for this was not a conversation to be overheard by servants.

“Why,” he asked, “does one marvel at such fortitude only after one has fallen arse over ears in love, married, and got a woman with child? We see babies everywhere, hear them squalling at every church service, and yet…”

“And yet, our babies will be different,” Radnor said. “Our entire worlds will be different, because we’re to become fathers. I’m scared witless. You will please tell me I’m being ridiculous, and never mention this discussion again.”

They would have this discussion regularly for the next thirty years. “If you weren’t concerned for Glenys, I’d have to call you out, but then there’d be nobody to talk sense to me when Elizabeth’s travail begins.”

“Is your digestion upset?” Radnor asked, lowering his voice. “I vow, Haverford, I’m in worse condition than Glenys in the morning.”

“You’re simply worried. The dyspepsia will pass.”

“Not for months. Months, this ordeal goes on. I already told Glennie we’re having an only child. Fat George can have the marquessate. My nerves are too delicate for more than one lying-in.”

“You were an only child. You need heirs.”

Radnor started down the steps. “If that’s your idea of cheering a fellow up, you can forget about being anybody’s godfather. I’ll prevail on Sherbourne and his new bride.”

Like hell. “Radnor, has impending fatherhood addled you that badly?”

“No, actually,” Radnor said, rounding the landing. “I will be a competent father because Glenys will see that I am. It’s the other part, which might cost me my wife less than a year after I married her, that bothers me. The part that could cause Glenys endless, awful suffering, and consign her to a lingering death. The part where she bleeds—”