Lovemaking was different when a man was trying to get his wife pregnant, though Esther might kick him to Cumbria if she suspected that was his aim. Instead, she sighed and trembled and ran her hands over his backside and over his shoulders, in the light, warm caresses he’d learned to crave.
“Percival, I love you too.”
The words were wrenched from her, as if against her will. As he plunged into Esther’s body, Percival had the sense that her orgasm was also wrenched from her, a surrender she regretted even as the pleasure grew most fierce.
When he was sure her passion had been sated, Percival let himself fly free too.
A child, please, one more child so I might have reason to call on my wife when all other excuses have been exhausted.
The release was exquisitely intense, in part a function of long denial, but also, Percival suspected, a function of desperation. When he’d regained the ability to move, he pitched off his wife and drew her against his side.
“Percival?” Esther’s fingers winnowed through his hair. “Did you intend that?”
That. Did he intend to risk conception, when for the past months they’d been avoiding it? The question was free of judgment on her part and reasonable, so he told a reasonable lie in response.
“I did not. My self-restraint grows weak from overuse, perhaps, or the pleasures we share overwhelm it.” He kissed her cheek, drawing in the scent of roses and despair—he had sunk to lying to his wife in their very bed.
Something in Esther’s silence told him his prevarications lacked conviction, so he troweled a layer of truth onto his falsehood. “You’ve seemed less tired lately, Esther, or am I mistaken?”
A few beats of quiet went by while Percival traced the curve of her jaw. The depths to which he would miss this woman were unfathomable. How did a man march off to war, leaving his wife and family behind?
How did a man not march off to war, when his wife and family were threatened?
“You are not mistaken. I am feeling somewhat better.”
She sounded surprised, as if she were just realizing it. Percival sent up a prayer of thanks and reminded himself to renew his orders to the kitchen. Not a cow would be left standing in the realm if feeding his wife beef was restoring her health.
Except soon he would not be in a position to dictate her menus. Percival closed his eyes and gathered his wife closer.
“Are you up to a trip back to Morelands, Esther?”
Another silence. She rolled out of his embrace to lie on her back. When she didn’t reach for his hand, Percival reached for hers.
“You just sent Tony and Gladys to Morelands, and the children have only in the past few days settled in here, Percival.”
She did not want to go. He took solace from that. Better she not want to go than that she leave him all too willingly.
“I’ll follow soon, my love. The holidays will be upon us, Parliament will recess, and His Majesty will understand that my place is with my family.” God willing, Cecily O’Donnell would understand too.
He waited, listening to the soft roar of the fire while Esther’s fingers went lax in his. “Esther?”
She had either fallen asleep or was feigning sleep. In either case, she hadn’t refused his request for a swift departure to the country—nor had she given her consent.
“How much do you want?” When he longed to wring Cecily O’Donnell’s neck, Percival instead affected bored tones.
Cecily rested her fingers on the décolletage of a gown that barely contained her breasts, a gesture intended to call attention to the pink flesh peeking through pale lace just above her nipples.
“This isn’t entirely about money, Percy. This is about what’s due the daughter of a man well placed in Society. I’ve heard you might stand for a seat in the Commons, and with your ambition and social stature, there’s no telling how high you might rise in the government.”
She threatened and flattered with equal guile, though as far as Percival was concerned, her words meant nothing compared to the documents she’d produced. Irrefutable evidence that the girl, Magdalene, could indeed be his daughter.
“Magdalene is a by-blow at best, madam. One you chose to keep from my notice until the moment suited you. Society will remark that and draw conclusions that will not devolve to the girl’s benefit.”
Cecily’s rouged lips compressed, suggesting this line of reasoning had escaped her consideration. “Society will keep its opinions to itself if we’re seen in company often enough.”
“No.”
The word slipped out with too much conviction, such that even Cecily couldn’t hide her reaction.
“You are not in a position to dictate terms to me, Percival Windham. I spread my legs at your request, and you will honor the resulting obligations.”
“I will never rise in government, will never even take a seat in the Commons if you’re seen hanging on my arm. His Majesty takes a dim of view of licentiousness, as does his queen.”
Cecily rose from her sofa on a rustle of skirts and marched up to Percival, her heeled slippers making her almost of a height with him. “Then you won’t take that seat. I’ve provided for this child every day of her life, seen her clothed, fed, educated, and disciplined. You will not turn you back on her without losing what reputation you have. I’ll bruit about details of our liaison your own brother will blush to hear.”
The scent of rice powder and bitterness wafted from her person. This close, Percival could see the fine lines radiating from her eyes, the grooves starting around her smile. He turned away and fixed his gaze on the clock that graced her mantel.
Esther was tired, her stamina and energy stolen by successive births. Cecily O’Donnell had given up her youth and her coin to nights at the theater, high fashion, and a succession of lucrative liaisons. Percival watched the hand of the clock move forward by a single minute and realized he could not leave the child in Cecily O’Donnell’s keeping. If a woman was to end up exhausted, worn out, and much in need of cosseting, then it should be because she’d sacrificed much to her children, and not to her own vanity.
And as for a seat in the Commons? Esther had not been enthusiastic about such a prospect. Percival tossed that ambition aside between one tick of the clock and the next.
He shifted his gaze to Cecily’s face. “I shall visit with my daughter now.”
Triumph flared in Cecily’s calculating eyes. He’d admitted paternity, though it meant nothing without witnesses. On instinct, Percival whipped open the parlor door to find a footman crouched by the keyhole.
Bloody damn, he’d been stupid. “You, sir, will take me to the nursery, now.”
Cecily sputtered several dire curses then fell into silence, though Percival knew she was merely planning her next series of broadsides.
Leaving the woman to sip her tea and plot his downfall, Percival went on reconnaissance through the upper reaches of the house. What he found disappointed more than it surprised. At the head of the stairs, Cecily’s bedroom was still a temple to elegant indulgence. The bed hangings, curtains, and pillows were all done in matching shades of soft green brocade, and a single white rose graced the night table. Beyond the bedroom, the house grew increasingly chilly, and on the third floor, there was not a carpet to be found.
The footman knocked on the nursery door, which was opened by the child herself.
“Hullo.”
Percival glowered at the footman. “Leave us.”
The man withdrew, looking unabashedly relieved.
“May I come in?”
She drew the door back, revealing a room made sunny—also downright cold—by the lack of curtains across the windows. In the middle of the bare floor sat a worn mess of fabric, yarn, and stuffing that might once have been a doll, along with five wooden soldiers, one of whom was missing part of a leg.