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Despite her nervousness, Olivia found herself distracted, and grateful for it. “What kind of eggs?”

Amelia shrugged, albeit nervously. For the first time, Olivia realized this particular sister-in-law was moving more deliberately than usual.

“You…don’t know what kind of eggs you’re trying to hatch?” she clarified.

Amelia glanced around, as if to ensure they were alone. Once she determined no servants—or inconvenient mothers—stood nearby, she gestured them all closer. Holding her breath, she unfastened the top five buttons of her shirtwaist and pulled the sides apart.

Olivia stared doubtfully at her sister-in-law’s expression.

“Look at my cleavage,” Amelia commanded.

“…I’m certain it’s magnificent.”

But Amanda nudged her. “Look in her corset. That is where she is keeping the eggs.”

As Olivia girded her loins and stepped forward to peer at her sister-in-law’s bosom, Amelia explained, “I am hoping for peacocks. Or perhaps more cockatoos. Something magnificent. They must be kept continually warm, and I cannot exactly sit on them. I have a device set up in my chambers to reflect warmth from a flame, but this is easier.”

Sure enough, there were three eggs nestled at the top of her corset, pressed against her chemise in a way which must have been quite cozy.

“It seems…dangerous,” Olivia admitted.

“Not to me,” Amelia announced as she tucked them back in and began to re-button. “I am quite safe.”

“Of course, she started out with a dozen,” her sister explained.

Amelia nodded sagely. “Yes, but I am not nearly as lucky as you are, Olivia, in the bosom department. My own was quite unsuitable for twelve eggs, but three seems an ideal number.”

“You should have seen the mess,” Amanda whispered behind a hand.

Olivia, who’d never thought of herself as lucky, when it came to breasts which got in the way of seeing her own navel, merely nodded dazedly.

“And…what are they? Parrots?”

“I do not know,” declared Amelia happily, “but they are all different sizes, and I am delighted to discover upon their hatching. I feel like an expectant mother!”

“You have eggs in your corset, darling,” her sister deadpanned. “You look like an expectant mother, as well.”

All in all, the conversation was enough to sufficiently distract Olivia for the remainder of the afternoon.

But by the time she went to her room “to rest, dear, before your big event!”—according to Alistair’s mother—her stomach was in knots again. She’d barely eaten at all that day, and was so nervous she doubted she’d be able to sleep.

Staring at the canopy of the bed, Olivia wished she had Alistair beside her. After last night—that horrible, amazing evening—they hadn’t had a chance to talk, but found other ways to comfort one another.

Better ways, one might say.

Smirking slightly, Olivia closed her eyes and forced herself to relax.

And now it was hours later, and she’d spent a sufficient percentage of that time being prodded and pinched into an indecent blue gown. Or rather, a blue gown which happened to be indecent, in the cut—she had nothing against the color blue, and thought it quite decent indeed.

But this gown… To put it one way: if Olivia were tasked with incubating a trio of eggs in her bosom, the poor things would fall right out.

Her maid stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Oh, Your Grace, your husband will take one look at you and swoon.”

“Swoon?” Olivia repeated teasingly. “I sincerely doubt that.”

“Swoon,” came the hoarse rasp behind her.

Both women whirled to see Alistair in the doorway of their shared rooms, a covered platter in one hand and a small smile on his lips. He was wearing the Kincaid kilt with a formal jacket and waistcoat, his hair and beard immaculately groomed, looking as strong and handsome as could be.