A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(68)

“And the handles are carved in the shape of—”

Miss Osborne saved them all, thank God, when she flung open the salon doors. Jeremy shot to his feet. Toby, Gray, and Joss followed suit, with lumbering movements.

“No babe yet,” Miss Osborne said.

Four chests deflated in unison. Jeremy sank back into his chair with a muttered oath. “Oh, God. She’s going to die.”

“She is not going to die,” Miss Osborne said firmly. “There is no cause for concern. Everything is progressing as it should. First labors are always lengthy, and Lucy is weathering the pains well. I expect it will be a few hours more.”

“Can I see her?” Jeremy asked.

She paused. “No, my lord.”

At the words “my lord,” Jeremy seemed to recall his position of authority. Toby watched the decision to pull rank travel up his face, starting with the firming of his jaw and ending with his ice-blue eyes and heavy brow as they flexed the Look.

“I’m going to see her,” he said, standing again and drawing to his full height.

“No, you’re not.”

Toby had to salute Miss Osborne. There weren’t many women—there weren’t many people—

who would have stood their ground against Jeremy in full Earl-of-Kendall arrogance.

“You can’t keep him away from her,” Joss objected. “She’s his wife.”

Gray joined the effort to argue Jeremy’s case. “Miss Osborne, surely you can permit him a few minutes with Lucy.”

The young woman shook her head. “It’s not a matter of me granting my permission, it’s a matter of Lucy granting hers.” Her sharp gaze landed on Jeremy. “And she doesn’t want to see you, my lord. She expressly told me so, and I will heed my patient’s wishes above even the demands of an earl.”

Jeremy swore again.

When Joss echoed him, Miss Osborne threw him a strange look.

“I came to inform you of Lucy’s condition,” she continued. “Now that I’ve done so, I must return upstairs.”

She turned to leave, but Jeremy darted forward to catch her arm.

“Hetta, please.” His voice cracked. Toby thought he had never seen his friend look so vulnerable. “I know Lucy’s angry with me. We did not part well earlier. But you must let me see her, give me a chance to put things right.”

“You will have a chance, my lord. After the babe is born, but not before.”

“You mean to keep me from her?” Jeremy loomed over the young woman. Her face blanched, throwing her freckles into sharp relief. “If I decide to see my wife, ten men couldn’t keep me from her.”

“Jem.” Toby stepped between them, placing a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder and guiding his friend back with a light yet firm touch. “I know it’s difficult, but you must respect Lucy’s wishes. As Miss Osborne says, you’ll have ample time to make up later.”

“Listen to your friend, my lord.” With that, Miss Osborne dropped a perfunctory curtsy and left the room.

Frustrated, impotent silence resumed. Jeremy paced the carpet. Gray moved to uncork a fresh bottle of liquor. With a vicious oath, Joss quit the room. The door slammed shut behind him. Toby supposed he ought to start prattling again, provide more distraction. But he didn’t really feel like talking. What he felt like doing was charging upstairs, finding Isabel, gathering her into his arms and burying his face in her sweet-scented hair. He didn’t want to kiss her, or lie with her, or even speak to her. He just wanted to be near her. Desperately. The yearning hit him like a fist, leaving a dull ache in his chest. And with it came a realization that left him without words.

He was deeply, irretrievably in love with his wife.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

Miss Osborne froze on the first riser of the staircase, hand on the banister. She didn’t turn around.

“If a man wants to see his wife, who are you to stop him?” Joss demanded, stepping closer. Staring into the fine wisps of auburn hair where they curled against her pale neck. So delicate and soft. So completely unlike her.

“If a woman does not wish to see her husband,” she said calmly, pivoting to face him, “who am I to force her?” Miss Osborne was a small woman, but with the benefit of one step’s height, she stood nearly eye-to-eye with him.

“Do you know what it does to a man, listening to his wife in such agony, knowing he is powerless to help her? Knowing she could die? It is the most acute form of torture imaginable. Any devoted husband would swallow hot coals to spare his wife a moment’s suffering.” He jabbed a finger toward the closed salon door. “That man is sick with worry, and your heartless remarks only multiply his distress.”

“If Lord Kendall is sick with anything, it’s guilt. He regrets their argument, and well he should, from Lucy’s report of it. But his apologies will have to wait. I’m here to deliver an infant, not coddle a grown man’s conscience.”

Her impersonal tone only added fuel to Joss’s anger. It was clear from her prim carriage, the proud jut of her chin—she meant to deny his presence had any effect on her. But he knew it did.

He stepped closer, knowing she would not back down. Though she stood perfectly still, her pupils widened a fraction, and her auburn lashes quivered as she blinked. Good. He wanted to unsettle her. He wanted to crack open the ice encasing this woman and discover the warm, beating heart that instinct told him must lie somewhere within. “Miss Osborne,” he whispered.