Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(86)

She felt his lungs expand with a deep, gasping breath. His knee shook, fluttering her draped skirts. Her hand flew to his face, and she found his skin clammy to the touch. He was so pale.

He looked as though he’d come face-to-face with Death.

“Julian, truly. I understand a bit of male protective impulse, but this is nonsensical. Women have babies every day. It’s hardly cause for alarm.”

He swallowed hard and gave a little nod. “I know. I know.”

Seeming to recover a bit of his strength, he stood once again and carried her into the bedroom, laying her gently on the bed. Straightening, he shrugged out of his coat and paced back and forth, patrolling the bedposts.

“Julian?”

He pushed a hand through his hair and continued pacing, mumbling something to himself.

“Julian.”

He halted mid-step, still staring straight ahead, glaring a hole in the wainscoting.

Lily rose to her knees, pulled off her cape and tossed it aside. Leaning forward, she took him by the wrist. “Come,” she said, tugging firmly.

He gave in with numb resignation, sitting on the edge of the mattress and reclining to join her on the bed halfway, wrapping an arm about her waist. Even in this moment of emotional upheaval, she could tell he was trying to keep his boots off the counterpane, unwilling to muddy the lace. A pang of tenderness wrenched her heart.

“Never mind it,” she said, pulling him down beside her. “Just be with me.”

At last, she had his full surrender. He stretched out alongside her, and they tangled together, holding one another tight.

She tried to calm him, stroking her fingers through his dark hair and pressing kisses to his temple. “It’s all right,” she said. “I understand. Parenthood is rather overwhelming to contemplate, isn’t it? I’ll admit to being a little scared, too. There’s so much to be anxious about. Not just the pregnancy and birth, but after. What if our …” Her voice faltered. Perhaps she should have held her tongue, but the words came out anyway. “What if our baby needs me, and I can’t hear his cries?”

With a quick flex of his arm muscles, he drew her close and tight.

Lily took refuge in his strong, secure embrace, allowing herself a few private teardrops. There were so many fears, more than she could possibly express. Fears she’d been tamping down for years, preferring to remain unmarried just so she wouldn’t have to face them. What if she inadvertently neglected her own child, when he was in pain? What if she needed to call out in warning, and her voice failed? There was already deafness in Julian’s family; what if their baby was born deaf, too? What if he wasn’t, and he grew to be ashamed of his mother?

Julian’s arms released her, and he maneuvered back, putting just enough space between them to sign. His leg remained thrown over her hips, holding her close.

“Never think,” he said, his eyes fierce with sincerity, “that I doubt you. You will be the kindest, best, most capable mother to ever live. I am certain of it.”

She nodded. If Julian’s mother could give birth to him in a vacant warehouse and raise him alone in the streets, surely Lily could cope with this. She had a comfortable home; she would have nursemaids to help. Most of all, she had a husband who would always understand, as few people could.

“I tell myself it will all be fine.” She tried to sound braver than she felt. “Of course it will be. I have you.”

His face drew tight.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she said, suddenly understanding his distress. She smoothed the hair from his brow. “That’s what has you so concerned. What if something happens to you?”

He nodded, closing his eyes and resting his brow against her hand.

“Will you tell me what happened before? With your mother, when she fell ill?”

She recalled his heartrending emotion when he spoke of being jailed and letting his mother die alone. Perhaps if he talked about it, he would feel more at ease. He would see how different matters were now, and how unlikely it was that something similar would happen with Lily.

“Please,” she urged. “I’m your wife, Julian. You can tell me. You should tell me.”

“Yes,” he finally agreed. “You should know.”

He helped her to a sitting position, and they separated, folding their legs and facing one another. Carefully, he undid each of his cuffs and rolled his shirtsleeves up to the forearm.

“You told me you were jailed,” she prompted. “You ran afoul of the wrong aristocrat.”

“It starts before that.”

She recognized him settling into his lengthy-discussion posture. Arms and hands at the ready; facial features relaxed, ready to lend nuance or emphasis to his words. He went slowly with his story, using both spoken words and signs, repeating himself or offering clarification at her slightest frown.

“The coffeehouse,” he began. “You already know it was entirely staffed by the deaf. That was the establishment’s draw. Gentlemen met there to feel charitable and noble, ostensibly. But other times, to discuss matters they didn’t want overheard, not even by a serving girl. The place offered private meeting rooms for that purpose. Since I worked there and signed with the others, the clientele just assumed I was deaf. I was careful to never contradict their assumption.”

“So,” she said, “you heard things you weren’t meant to hear.”