A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(87)

“She loves you, Miss Finch!” Sally called, draping swags of fabric over the banister. “Now, this is the red. It’s striking, but maybe it will be too much, with all the uniforms in the room? And then we have this blue, but it’s a touch dark for an evening affair. Which do you think best?”

Susanna tilted her head, considering.

“I agree wholeheartedly, Miss Finch,” Mr. Keane called down, appearing next to Sally on the balcony. “Neither will do. We need something with more spark. I suggest gold.”

“I told you, vicar,” Sally said. “We don’t have enough of the gold.”

“You’re right. Unless . . .” The vicar snapped his fingers. “I know. We’ll combine it with the tulle.”

“The tulle!” Sally exclaimed. “That’s divine inspiration, that is. Just hold a moment, Miss Finch. We’ll show you what he means.”

They both disappeared, ducking to rummage in their boxes of supplies.

Susanna sighed, shifting Daisy from one arm to the other.

“There you are. I’ve been searching for you all over.” Bram was suddenly at her side.

Thrown off balance, she juggled the infant in her arms. “You have?”

Save a few glances across the green, she hadn’t seen him for the better part of three days. And of course, he would show up so dangerously attractive, wearing only an open-collared homespun shirt under his brand-new officer’s coat. She tried not to look at him, but avoiding direct eye contact was the best she could manage. Instead, her gaze lingered on the strong angle of his jaw, the sensual set of his lips. Then dropped to the exposed wedge of his bare chest, and the dark hair curling there.

Was he trying to torture her?

“What, pray tell, are these?” He displayed his newly hemmed cuff for her, pointing out the brass buttons studded there.

“Oh, those.” She bit back a smile. “Aaron Dawes made the mold and did the casting. Every proper militia needs a symbol.”

“Yes, but proper militias don’t choose a lamb.”

“As I recall it, the lamb chose you.”

His thumbnail traced the motto—a tiny crescent of Latin. “Aries eos incitabit. A sheep shall urge them onward?”

“Be careful, my lord. Your three terms at Cambridge are showing.”

His mouth softened into that subtle hint of a smile she’d come to love. “Buttons aside, you’ve done a remarkable job. You and all the ladies. The uniforms, the training . . .” He glanced around the room. “All these preparations.”

His approval warmed her inside. “We’ve all worked hard. I happened to see part of drill the other day. Very impressive, my lord. Tomorrow will doubtless be a splendid triumph.”

An awkward silence grew between them, until Daisy filled it with a wet gurgle.

“Who is this?” He nodded at the squirming infant in her arms. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“This”—she swiveled to give him a better view—“is little Daisy Bright.”

“Should have guessed it from the hair.”

The towheaded babe stretched a chubby hand toward Bram, reaching for the shining buttons on his coat. Susanna yearned to reach for him, too. On impulse, driven by equal parts emotional distress and arm fatigue, she thrust the child at him. “Here. Why don’t you hold her?”

“Me? Wait. I don’t—”

But she left him no opportunity to object, settling little Daisy in the crook of his arm. The delighted infant grasped for a button and gave it a yank.

“Someone likes the buttons, see?” Susanna looked up at Bram. The poor man was frozen to stone, positively stricken with terror. “Do try to be calm,” she teased. “She’s a baby, not a grenade.”

“I have more experience with grenades.”

“You’re doing fine.” Relinquishing the button, Daisy grasped for Bram’s thumb and squeezed it tight. “Look, she adores you already.”

A lump rose in Susanna’s throat as she watched him holding the infant so gingerly, viewed those stout little fingers wrapped secure around his thumb.

There he went again, with the torture. She’d never given it much thought before, but now . . . oh, how she wanted a child. She loved the image of her br**sts and belly swollen with pregnancy. Loved the idea of staying up nights, feeling the babe kick at her from the inside. Loved dreaming about what the child would look like, wondering which of his parents he’d favor. She loved everything about the idea of carrying not just a child, but Bram’s child.

Because she loved him.

She loved him. And perhaps he was too stubborn to admit it, but he needed her love. She couldn’t let him walk away.

She did have one last hope, she supposed. There was the gown. A great ivory cloud of a gown, dripping with pearls and brilliants, currently hovering in her dressing room upstairs. She hadn’t worn it but once, a few years ago in Town. But when she’d tried it on last week for fitting, the bodice stretched over her form like a second skin. The neckline pushed her br**sts high and plump, and the sewn-in boning trimmed her waist.

She’d entertained this foolish vision of herself, floating down the grand staircase in that lovely, ethereal gown tomorrow night. In her imagination, Bram stood at the bottom of the steps, regarding her with a mixture of pride and sheer lust-struck wonder. Despite every indication that he wasn’t much of a dancer in actuality, her Dream Bram claimed her hand and pulled her into a slow, romantic waltz. And there, before a crowd of admiring onlookers, he twirled her to a halt and confessed his undying adoration.