Page 21 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)
(List dropped in the shuffle.)
T he dowager’s gaze never left Caro’s face, and Oliver could see he wasn’t the only one drawing comfort from the confidence with which the older woman handled the situation.
“That’s it. You’ll do brilliantly as long as you keep breathing.
Women have been bringing children into the world since the beginning of time. Now, are these your first labor pains?”
“Her back hurt more than usual today. She mentioned it when we arrived,” Miss Martin said. Even though her voice held concern, Oliver appreciated the way she kept a cool head at a time like this.
“Also, she hasn’t had an appetite for more than tea since breakfast,” Miss McCrae added.
“A few cramps earlier today, but they didn’t continue,” Caro added, then winced again and let out a low groan.
Dorian finally snapped out of his panic.
“We have a plan for this. Caro, keep breathing.” He lowered his mouth to her ear, but his words carried in the quiet room.
“I adore you. You’re brave, and you’re strong, and we both know you can do whatever you set your mind to, including this. Now, let’s get you to bed.”
As the duke gathered his wife in his arms, Miss McCrae pointed to a footman. “You, send for the midwife.”
“This isn’t some village in the middle of nowhere, girl. Send for the doctor,” the dowager argued.
Oliver wanted to cheer when the dark-haired cousin’s face turned stony before turning back to the footman. “The duchess, the mistress of this house , gave clear instructions on this matter, correct?”
“Yes, Miss McCrae. Her Grace wants the midwife first. We are to only send for the doctor if the midwife is unavailable.” The footman refused to look at the dowager, and Oliver couldn’t blame him.
“Then you have your orders,” Miss McCrae said, then the footman fled the room.
Miss Martin knelt to gather the glass from Caro’s broken goblet, and Althea joined her. From where he stood, feeling absolutely useless, Oliver watched two blond heads come together, and heard the low murmur of voices, but couldn’t decipher their words.
He detested feeling useless. Oliver motioned to another servant, hovering nearby—“Could we have a broom please, to deal with the glass?”—then joined the women.
“Please watch the sharp edges, ladies. One medical emergency per night is my limit. If one of you needs stitches, you’ll exceed my emotional resources. ”
Althea snatched her hands back, but Miss Martin continued plucking glass off the floor, onto a napkin. A second later, she hissed, then sucked her finger.
He’d swear his heart stopped. “How bad is it?”
The flash of her dimple, directed at him for the second time this evening, struck Oliver as nearly obscenely inappropriate, given the circumstances. “No more than a nick.”
Thankfully, a maid hurried over with a broom and waved everyone away from the remaining shards on the floor.
“Althea, I’ll take you home, then return to stay with Dorian. Miss Martin, I assume you plan to be on hand during the labor?”
“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.” Miss Martin brushed her hands on the skirt of her gown, then examined her finger again. Oliver craned his neck to see the cut, but she shot him an exasperated look. “Go. We will be here when you come back.”
Miss McCrae appeared at his side and sent him a wry smile. “It sounds like you have your orders as well, milord.”
Althea said her goodbyes, then left to retrieve her cloak from the butler.
“Ladies.” Oliver bowed. “I’ll see you both soon.”
At the front door, he took his hat from Hastings, the butler, and waited impatiently as Althea fussed with her cloak until it draped just so over her shoulders.
Why was she taking so long, when she knew he was eager to be with Dorian after seeing her home?
And he wasn’t the only one. Caro’s cousins would be right by her side as well. Which reminded him—
“Hastings, please send someone up with a plaster for Miss Martin’s finger.” Thanking the man, Oliver placed his hand at Althea’s back and guided her out into the night.
Sweat dampened Caroline’s hairline, while strain pinched the corners of her mouth. Dorian stood by her side holding one hand, stubbornly refusing to leave the room, even after the midwife arrived. Hattie held Caro’s other hand.
Constance pulled up a chair beside Hattie’s, but without a hand to hold, she found herself picking at her cuticles.
Not long after they got Caro settled in her room, a servant arrived with a plaster for Connie’s finger.
When asked, they said Lord Southwyn had requested it on her behalf.
Now, with nothing to do but wait—and waiting wasn’t something nature had equipped her to do comfortably—Constance stared at the small bandage as if it held some secret meaning.
Which was silly. Southwyn was merely being kind.
Tearing her gaze from her finger, she checked on Caro.
“So much of this evening will need to be edited out of the official story we tell this child when they ask about their birth,” Caro murmured when her body relaxed after another contraction turned her belly to stone. “I’m sorry about what the Dragon said, Connie. That was uncalled for.”
“Push it from your mind, darling. You’ve much more important things to tend to,” Connie reassured her.
“Must we have so many people present, Your Grace? Babes like peace and quiet when they enter the world.” The midwife cast a disapproving glower over the room as she pulled items from her leather bag.
Constance eyed her askance when the woman poured gin into a small bowl rather than a glass.
Then she placed a variety of sharp things into the bowl.
A needle. A pair of scissors. A wickedly sharp knife.
Bile lurched up Constance’s throat.
Hattie clearly didn’t battle squeamishness. “Why gin?”
“’Tis cheaper than whisky. Wounds heal better with a splash of spirits. Makes sense to douse in spirits the things that make wounds, eh?” The woman tied an apron around her waist and sighed. “None of you are leaving. The dowager saw sense and left; why can’t you lot?”
Caro’s mouth was a flat line as she leveled the midwife with a look. “I’ve been alone for too many important moments in my life. These are my people, and I will have them beside me when I bring my child into the world.”
“Men don’t handle this well, Your Grace. Messes with their heads to see their wife’s body doing this kind of thing, ye understand.”
Dorian’s answer barely fell short of a growl. “I’m staying.”
And that was that. Constance smirked, knowing it wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation with this particular midwife, or the one before her. In fact, the woman they’d sent for tonight was the third midwife to tend to the duchess during her confinement.
The first had smelled so poorly, she’d literally made Caro vomit.
The second was neat and tidy, but she’d been immovable in her opinions regarding a husband’s place during what she called the “women’s work” of labor. Having lost her mother during childbirth, Caro was equally insistent on having Dorian stay beside her.
Thus, the current midwife who would deliver the first child of the Duke and Duchess of Holland.
The woman’s number of successful deliveries far outweighed the alternative.
Her overall cleanliness, coupled with the fact that she wasn’t afraid to push back a little on certain topics, rather than bowing obsequiously to the couple, cinched their decision to let her attend them.
That matter dealt with, Caro returned to her original statement.
“As I was saying,” then paused as another contraction gripped her.
Her face turned red until Dorian’s quiet reminder to breathe made Caro wheeze out a long exhale as she rode the pain.
A moment later, she opened her eyes and continued as if nothing had happened.
“Tonight wasn’t the finest dinner party I’ve attended or hosted.
Oliver was oddly quiet. Althea was quite drunk from what I could tell.
And did she really flirt with the footman? ”
A knock at the door interrupted. Dorian squeezed his wife’s hand. “I’ll be back, love.”
Hattie nudged Constance with an elbow as soon as the duke left the room.
Connie said, “You both know Althea’s behavior was for show. The dowager being here was a potential issue. In the end, Althea decided the potential benefits outweighed any risk. When she and Lord Southwyn left, she was feeling rather put out with his lack of reaction.”
Caro raised a brow. “Would you happen to know anything about Oliver’s subdued mood tonight?”
Her cousin was far too intelligent for comfort. Blinking innocently, Connie said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
Hattie grinned, and Caro started to, before her face contorted with pain once more.
Dorian returned and faint sounds from the hall slipped into the bedroom with him. Constance thought she could pick out Lord Southwyn’s voice.
Even as she recognized the way her attention sharpened to that sound, she hated it. Engaged to Althea , she reminded herself. Has to be convinced to not marry Althea.
Sent a bandage for my cut , a contrary part of her interjected.
This ridiculous attraction served no purpose beyond making her keenly aware of her own failings.
Yet she couldn’t help the way each sense came alive in his presence once she’d admitted to her fascination. Damn him, and damn her fickle heart.
“Oliver wishes you a quick and easy birth. He’d thought to keep me company, but I sent him home.
Told Mother to go to bed as well.” The duke laced his fingers with Caro’s, then lifted her hand to his lips.
Constance didn’t miss the way he spent a moment breathing in his wife’s scent as he kissed the fine blue lines of lifeblood at her wrist. His voice was rough when he said, “I’d take the pain on myself, if I could. ”
Caro wound a lock of his wavy hair around one finger, her other hand held securely in his. “Just be here. Don’t leave me to do this without you.”
The bright, pure love in her cousin’s gaze shone so confidently, it made emotion sting behind Connie’s eyes. No one in the world deserved that kind of love more than her cousin. The kind of love that could be loud, completely sure of its welcome.
Yet that very thing had never felt more out of reach.
With Dorian back, Connie could step away for a moment. Excusing herself quietly, she slipped out the door, then stood in the hall, gripping the doorknob behind her, unsure what to do next.
Lord Southwyn’s rangy form strode away down the hall. She could call out and get his attention, but that seemed a tad dramatic. However, the question became moot when he inexplicably slowed, then stopped. Southwyn stared back toward her. For several heartbeats, no one moved.
His expression was one she couldn’t read.
It was ludicrous to think she might accurately guess at his mood.
With the exception of their conversations about his cat, he’d never been especially emotive around her.
Caro’s observation that he’d been quiet this evening resonated, and Constance would love to know why.
Releasing her grip on the door, she took one step toward him, then another. After a few seconds, he moved closer as well, until they stopped, a few feet apart.
“Are you leaving already?” Connie realized this was the first time they’d been alone since that day in his study.
His jaw lacked the stubble, and his evening clothes were pristine and tailored to perfection.
But his citrus scent was the same. It made her want to bury her nose in the dip where his jaw and neck met.
She didn’t though, because that would be ridiculous, and if she made a habit of chasing every errant thought, she would probably land in prison for entirely preventable reasons.
“I’ll only be a burden on the staff if I stay.
” The words said one thing, but the way he looked at her made Constance think something else was going on behind those eyes.
Whatever his emotions, she knew they weren’t frustration, anger, or disdain.
She had enough experience with being on the receiving end of those to recognize them.
Knowing what he wasn’t feeling didn’t help her understand what he was feeling.
Of course, she’d be hard-pressed to narrow her emotions to merely one or two.
Uncertainty over what to do or say grappled with an aching sort of awareness because he was right there, and they were alone, and blast it but he smelled delicious.
Licking suddenly dry lips, Connie tried to determine the best action to take. Perhaps she should encourage him to stay. Or should she do as planned, and thank him for sending a plaster for her finger?
His gaze shifted to her mouth, and she caught a flash of something all too familiar. Breath snagged in her lungs. Hunger. Or, if not full hunger, at least awareness.
Finally, an emotion she recognized. Her lips curved into a smile, and she leaned closer, seized by the reckless impulse to offer to stay with him in the sitting room—or at least split her time between the bedchamber and sitting area.
Except, he moved away. One step, then another. Slowly. Rather like one would retreat from a wild animal.
Oh. That must not have been hunger she’d seen after all. Embarrassment at how she’d misread the situation turned her cheeks hot.
Holding up her finger with the bandage, Connie offered an excuse for her presence. “I won’t delay you any longer. I merely wanted to thank you.”
Again, something crossed his face, and she wished she knew him well enough to hazard a guess at what it meant. Dipping his head in acknowledgment, Southwyn turned and continued down the hall without another word.
He didn’t look back. Not even once. And she felt like a ninny for lingering outside the door long enough to know that.
Silently castigating herself at her foolishness, Constance returned to the bedroom in time to hear the midwife say, “Right then. Let’s take a peek at how the babe is progressing, shall we?”
Morose thoughts could wait. It was time to have a baby.