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Maybe kissing her was a good idea after all.

In the end, however, the choice was taken from his hands—and not by anything Emily did. Frankly, she was no help at all, given that she wasalreadysort of starting to softly sag into the grip on her arm which wasn’t even tight enough to hold her up and was probably a good sign that he should grip her tighter.

But he didn’t even get to decide to dothat,either, because a soft, timid knock came from the doorway to the breakfast room. Benedict and Emily both swiveled their heads to look at a very unhappy maid.

“Begging your pardon, My Lord, My Lady,” she said in a tone that suggested a lightning strike would not be unwelcome. “But there’s been a message for Her Ladyship.”

Benedict blinked. Of all the things?—

“Marked urgent,” the maid continued.Oh, very well. “From the Duchess of Hawkins?—”

Emily tore free from his grasp, crossing to the maid in an instant. The young woman handed the note over with a distinct air of relief and left in a manner that said she was fleeing but trying very hardnotto seem like she was fleeing.

Emily’s eyes flickered over the note, quick and keen, and then she gasped.

“Diana’s having her baby!” she exclaimed, this news sufficient to replace the previous anger in her eyes with excitement. “I have to go at once.”

He took a lurching step toward her.

“Emily, we have to—” He didn’t even know what he was going to say. Keep talking? Kiss until she melted beneath him? He’d prefer the latter option, obviously, but he could make do with a return to the former, so long as the kissing came after.

But she gave him a faintly harried look; her mind was already clearly elsewhere. Despite all this morning’s evidence to the contrary, Benedict was not a stupid man. He knew when to retreat.

“Go,” he said, resigned. “Give my felicitations to Their Graces.”

He wondered if he was deluding himself when he thought that look in her eyes was gratitude. It was too quick to tell, certainly, for he’d scarcely finished speaking when Emily was gone.

CHAPTER 15

Emily would have never thought to call Diana’s husband Andrew a nervous man. If anything, her main objection to him would have been that he was a bittoocertain of himself. It didn’t bother her overmuch, aside from the slight difficulty it provided to getting to know him, but it made poor Frances downright twitchy.

When Emily reached Diana and Andrew’s home, however, panting like she’d dashed across Mayfair on foot instead of sensibly taking a carriage, she did not find the usual poised, steady Andrew Young.

Instead, the man she saw before her looked so sick with anxiety that it stopped Emily from dashing directly up to Diana’s bedchamber.

“Andrew?” she asked. She’d never before referred to the Duke of Hawkins by his Christian name, but she’d also never before seen him so clearly in need of comfort over proper address. “Are you all right?”

The man stopped his pacing at her words, looking at her as though he’d been too lost in his thoughts to notice her entry.

“Emily,” he said on a huff of a sigh, apparently also realizing that now was not the time for formality. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you—no, I’m afraid I am not all right at all.” He let out a humorless laugh. “She’s been at it since before dawn, you see. Wouldn’t let me send for you or Frances until it was a decent hour.”

Andrew, for all his typical sternness, consistently looked at Diana like she was the sun itself. As such, he did not brook any criticism against his beloved wife. Despite this, Emily felt that an eyeroll was, at this moment, appropriate.

She knew she’d judged this correctly when Andrew’s mouth quirked up into a weary, pained smile.

“Quite,” he agreed. “She made no protest about calling the midwife, at least, which is how I knew she was…” he trailed off, then cleared his throat. Emily was not quite brave enough to reach out and squeeze the formidable Duke’s hand though she suspected he could have used that as well.

“I just don’t want her to be frightened,” he said thickly after a long pause. “And she cannot—she cannot die, Emily.”

Emily found that she had to swallow hard against the lump in her own throat at those words.

“She’s not going to die,” she said fiercely when she was certain her voice wouldn’t betray her. She promised it, as if speaking it would make it so, when she knew that wasn’t true—when she knew that women died during childbirth, when her ownmotherhad died in childbed.

Andrew nodded, clearly desperate to agree with her though the terrified, wan look to his expression did not alter.

Any further interruption was cut off from a sharp, pained cry from upstairs, not quite a scream but clearly lined with distress. Emily watched as Andrew, a man who had essentially shrugged off a bullet wound like it was an inconvenience, physically flinched away from the sound.

The sound was short, but its effect was lasting. When Diana fell silent again, Andrew looked even more haunted.