Prologue

September, 1819. Crossthwaite.

" I want a child."

Oliver Hartwell froze behind his newspaper. Everything in his body—his heart, his breath, his mind—came to a halt as the print on the page in front of him swooped and swarmed like a murmuration of starlings.

He forced himself to speak. "You do?"

To his own ears, his voice sounded unnatural, strained, distant.

"Will you give me one?" she asked.

He folded his newspaper with even more care than he usually did. Finally, every page was perfectly aligned, every crease was sharp, and he could not delay any longer. He put the newspaper aside and moved his gaze to the fresh face of his young wife sitting opposite him, her embroidery in her lap.

"You're a girl."

Henrietta had the most womanly body possible, lush and curved and feminine, but she was still so young. Oliver constantly reminded himself of that in an ineffectual bid to keep his thoughts in check.

She blinked, her pale-blue eyes disappearing for a fraction of a second under her golden lashes. "I am not. I am one-and-twenty."

She was? "And I am forty-three years of age."

She took a deep breath. "Forty-three is not too old. You are capable."

Yes, he was, and she knew it.

Never mind that she had been fully aware he had already sired a son when she married him. Only a week ago, she had caught him in his bedchamber, shamefully hunched over, his cock in one fist and her shift in the other. He had not been able to stop his spend even when he heard her gasp and saw her eyes go wide, her face so white the freckles on her nose stood out in relief, her pink lips forming a shocked O .

In fact, her presence had catapulted him over the edge.

Thank God, at least he had not been grunting out her name as he so often did when he yielded to his basest desires. And he prayed she had not recognized her own undergarment in his hand.

Yes, he was more than capable. And with her? His capacity would be endless. He could give her scores of babies, keep her swollen with child for years on end.

"It's not seemly," he said finally.

Her forehead wrinkled in vertical perplexity exactly the way her father's did. "We are husband and wife. What could be more seemly?"

He could not answer that. Because, of course, she was right. Husband and wife were meant to indulge in amorous congress, to be fruitful and multiply.

What was unseemly was their marriage. That a beautiful, vibrant girl full of promise like Henrietta had been consigned to wed a shell of a man because she had a kind heart and he was a weak, selfish fool.

She leaned forward and patted Oliver's hand. A thrill ran through him just as it always did whenever she touched him. No matter how chaste the contact. No matter that this wholesome, consoling pat was exactly what she would also give his five-year-old son when he scraped his knee.

"The room can be dark," she reassured Oliver. "There would be no need for us to see each other."

Was she modest? She had never struck him as such. She was all exuberant health, not bothered one whit during a game of chase if her skirts hitched up to show a strong ankle, a plump calf. Never bashful when she let herself be caught and she bent over to laugh with Nathaniel and her bodice gaped and showed beads of sweat along the tops of her bountiful breasts, tempting Oliver beyond all reason while he stood under the shade of a tree and watched her gambol with his son.

She sat back. "So, you see, it's all right. The darkness would let us think of another."

She could think of the boy he had kept her from marrying. And he could think of?.?.?.?whom could he think of? For the two years of their marriage, he had thought of no one but her.

Her.

She looked away from him, towards the fire that made the red-gold curls atop her head glint like flames themselves. "And I hope you would tell me how I could please you."

Please him? Was there anything about her that didn't please him?

"Then you understand men derive pleasure from the act of conception," he said carefully.

Her spine straightened, and she turned her head to meet his eyes.

"Yes." A blush spread across her face, and she swallowed. "Did you know women may also derive pleasure from it?"

In principle, yes. But not his wives. Not with him. Not the kind of pleasure he?—

Oh.

He'd always assumed Henrietta was a virgin, but perhaps he'd been mistaken. Perhaps her childhood sweetheart had taken her maidenhead before the incident that had forced Oliver and Henrietta together. If so, why hadn't the young man demanded he be the one to wed her? No, the cad had abandoned her, thinking the worst of her, when it had all been perfectly blameless. On her end.

Oliver would like to bash the boy's face for not sparing her from?.?.?.?well, him.

He shifted in his chair. "May I have some time to consider your request?"

"Of course." She smiled politely, but he wasn't deceived. He knew her smiles. She was disappointed.

"I would like to grant your every wish, but?—"

"This is sudden," she said quickly. "I have surprised you. And I know I can be rash at times, but this is not a whim. I want to be a mother. I have always wanted to be a mother. I want a baby."

She should want a baby. He believed most women did. And he couldn't imagine any better mother than the one Henrietta would make.

Would make? Come now, he chided himself. There could be no better mother than the one Henrietta already was . Because, despite Oliver's cruel insistence Nathaniel not call her Mama, Henrietta was his son's mother in all but blood.

She gave him a real smile now. "And it would be so good for Nathaniel to have siblings. A large family, just like mine. He'll be a splendid big brother."

Something in Oliver's chest reached up and grabbed his throat, choking him, forcing him to blink away tears. He did not deserve to share a house or a name with this miraculous creature who was so unstinting in her love and generosity towards his son.

And she wanted a large family. This would not be a one-time occurrence. Oliver might be expected—nay, welcome—in her bed for years to come.

"But I will let you think on it," she said, nodding. "I know you do nothing without weighing the matter carefully."

Nothing, except importune a girl who only meant to comfort a sad, old man.

She went on. "And you made it perfectly clear when we married that we would not— I mean, I know you would prefer?—"

What did she think he would prefer?

"—for us to be as brother and sister."

Never once had he thought of her as a sister.

He had thought of her as someone far too young to be saddled with him as a husband.

He had thought of her with gratitude and admiration for how she had gladdened his and Nathaniel's lives and the lives of everyone around them.

He had thought of her with a deep, dark, pulsing, possessive, disgustingly animal lust.

He had never harbored a single brotherly feeling towards her.

"Yes, I will think on it."

She beamed at his answer, and he picked up his newspaper and unfolded it, only to stare at it blindly, completely unable to comprehend a single sentence.

With just four words— I want a child —she had turned his world topsy-turvy. His orderly mind had dissolved into a jumble. His usually placid blood raced, a hot and greedy river drenching every organ of his body.

And dread and hope gnawed at his heart, in equal measure.