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Her time came upon her quite unexpectedly, ten days before she had expected to begin her labor. It was a gloomy morning when she came down to an early breakfast after a night in which she had slept little. It was so difficult to find a comfortable position in which to sleep, and turning over in bed was a major and exhausting undertaking. It looked as if it would snow before the day was out.

Perhaps it was the threat of a storm that set her to thinking about Alexander. It was a day very similar to the one on which she had first met him. She could not shake off her thoughts of him, though she tried to keep herself busy as far as the advanced condition of her pregnancy would allow. She sat finally in the morning room putting the finishing touches to a gorgeously embroidered christening robe that she made for her child. He would come for the christening, of course. Perhaps duty would make him come as soon as she was able to send him the news that his heir had been born.

Alexander. She gazed through the window at the gray world without and saw him as he had appeared to her on that first evening: handsome, vibrant, almost dangerously attractive. He had appeared like a creature from another world. She saw him as he had been at Portland House: disdainful, contemptuous, aloof, yet inexplicably tender and passionate in their more intimate encounters. She returned her attention to her embroidery. She must not allow herself to indulge in memory. Not only was it a pointless exercise, but some instinct of self-defense warned her that her fragile peace of mind could be shattered very easily if she did not cling to the present and the immediate future.

It was at this moment that the she felt the first of the pains, a stabbing sensation and a tightening of muscles that robbed her of breath for a moment and left her feeling frightened and very much alone. She continued to embroider, every nerve in her body tensed for another sign that her time had indeed come. When she had counted eight such pains, she rang for Mrs. Rush and calmly suggested that the doctor be summoned. A half-hour later she was in bed, knowing that the pains were not going to stop. She wanted Alexander.

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The doctor, standing at a window gazing out into the darkness, turned as the bedroom door opened, and his eyes widened in surprise. He took one step in its direction but stopped when he saw Mrs. Rush about the same errand, horror written large on her face.

"My lord," she said in an urgent whisper, "this is no place for you. Do go downstairs at once and I shall have Dodd bring you refreshment. I shall come myself to inform you as soon as there is any news."

Merrick brushed past her just as if she were not there. His face was still deathly pale. He stood looking at the bed, where his wife lay on her side facing away from him, breathing in deep gasps, whose duration she seemed to be trying to control. She moaned quietly to herself before relaxing and turning her face into the pillow.

Mrs. Rush hesitated for a moment, threw a hasty and pleading glance in the direction of the viscount, and bustled to the bed, where she dipped a cloth into a basin of water and proceeded to dab at her mistress's hot face.

Merrick continued to stand just inside the door, which he had closed behind him. He watched Anne for a couple of minutes until the pain gripped her again and her breathing again became deep and even in her attempt to control panic. He watched, as he had when he had first entered the room, one hand come behind her back and push ineffectually against her lower back. He did not remove his eyes even when the doctor crossed the room to his side.

"My lord," that flustered individual said in a lowered voice, "I really must ask that you leave the room now. It is not at all fitting for you to be here. There is really nothing to be done at the moment. I must wait until her ladyship is ready to deliver. I assure you that all is well under control, and Mrs. Rush is an able assistant. But there is no knowing how long it will be."

Merrick did not reply. So this was what he had brought her to. He had forced her against her will to cater to his pleasure, and now he must watch her suffering cruelly to deliver a child she had never desired. He would not leave. If she must suffer, the least he could do was to stay with her and know the full extent of his guilt. He looked at her hair, damp and tumbled around her face and over the pillow, and at the one flushed cheek that he could see. He looked at her swollen form clearly outlined against the sheet that was her sole covering. When she tensed again against pain, he strode across to the bed, gently removed the hand that had come to support her back again, and placed his own palms against her back, pressing firmly and slowly massaging.

"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Rush," she said faintly when the pain had once more receded. Her eyes were closed and she had turned her face again into the pillow. "That felt very good."

Mrs. Rush, flushed with embarrassment, glared uneasily across the bed at her employer.

It seemed as if it would never end. She had stopped an hour or more ago asking the doctor when she might expect it to be all over. His answers had been so soothingly noncommital that she had realized that he did not know any more than she how much longer she must endure this labor. She was in a haze of pain and exhaustion, willing herself to relax and rest in the intervals between pain, which were becoming shorter and shorter, and steeling herself to endure without panic the pains, which were becoming more severe. If they continued much longer, she felt, she must give in to the urge to scream and fight in order to be free of the crashing pains, which were very nearly beyond her endurance.

The hands at her back helped. They were strong and warm and somehow braced her against the terrible force that seemed to be tearing her spine in two. She pushed herself against them and concentrated on the comfort they brought, a comfort that was not only physical. In a strange way those hands also cushioned her against the loneliness of her labor. They became disembodied in her tired mind. Although one part of her brain assumed that they belonged to Mrs. Rush, it did not occur to her to find it strange that that lady was in front of her each time the pains subsided to smooth back the hair from her flushed face and to sponge her face and neck with cool water.

"Doctor Selby," Anne cried Finally, panic in her voice. She surged over onto her back. "I cannot… I must… I have to push!" And she immediately suited action to words, bearing down against her pain in nature's effort to rid herself of her burden.

Both the doctor and Mrs. Rush jumped into action, but the latter did not neglect to glare meaningfully at Merrick and order him from the room, almost as if she were the employer and he the servant. Anne turned her head, her pain for the moment in abeyance, and looked without surprise into her husband's eyes. Of course! She would have known it was he if only her mind had not been dulled by exhaustion. As she felt again the tightening sensation that was now such a familiar warning of pain to come, she reached for his hands at the same moment as they came out to her. They gripped each other, one set of hands on either side of her head while the doctor positioned her for birth and while their daughter made a hurried entry into the world.

Viscount Merrick left his wife's bedchamber ten minutes later, when it appeared likely to him that she would survive her ordeal and that the child was safely launched into life. They had not spoken. She had taken the red and wrinkled little bundle of humanity that was their daughter and put it to her breast, and she had gazed up at him, her face still flushed, her eyes bright and anxious. Was she still so afraid of him? Did she think that he still meant her harm?