The topic of tribal warfare in the nursery was much safer, though why the exchange regarding a straying chambermaid and her swain should be upsetting, Esther did not know.

Not exactly upsetting, but Percival’s reaction to it gave Esther pause.

He deserved to know about the boy, Devlin St. Just. Esther admitted this to herself as she and her husband wandered up to the jungle on the third floor, and tucked sleepy, well-fed, happy little warriors into their cozy beds.

As Esther settled Valentine into his crib, and Percival waited patiently in a rocking chair by the fire, Esther realized the decision was not truly about Percival’s deserts, or about Mrs. St. Just’s, or even about Esther’s.

A boy needed to know who his father was and to have the protection that man could afford him in this precarious and difficult life. One pearl bracelet was no substitute for a father’s protection, much less a father’s love.

Coming to this conclusion and broaching the matter with her spouse were two separate acts of courage.

In a silence that should have been companionable, Esther accepted her husband’s assistance undressing. His hands lingered in seductive locations, on her nape when he unfastened a necklace, at the base of her spine when he unhooked her dress. His lips strayed to the spot beneath her ear that sent shivers over her skin.

Of all nights, why was he seducing her now?

When she was wearing only a chemise, Esther turned, intending to unknot Percival’s neckcloth. She was willing to be seduced, willing to accept some marital comfort and to forget for a few moments what—whom—the day had brought to her back gate.

Had Percival not built up the fire while Esther had removed her remaining jewelry, Esther might have missed the little glint of red on his sleeve. She drew his neckcloth from him slowly and turned to toss it over the open door of the wardrobe, when a hint of coppery fire caught her eye.

Two red hairs lay on his coat at the shoulder, two brilliant, gracefully curving commas of evidence that Percival had been close to somebody other than his wife. Mrs. St. Just had hair that shade, but she would hardly have come calling at the home of a man who was paying her for her favors, would she?

Gladys also had red hair, but not nearly this long.

“Esther?” Percival leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. “I would join my wife in our bed, if she’d allow it.”

He was asking to bed her, to exercise his marital privileges, while his very clothing bore traces of congress with somebody else.

“Of course, Percival.” Esther finished undressing her husband, wondering how it was that she could love a man whose casual behavior also had the power to devastate her.

When she was naked on her back, Percival braced above her and, joining their bodies with excruciating deliberateness, Esther tried to push the ugly, desolate thoughts aside:

Was it guilt—or something more arrogant and possessive—that drove him to make love to his wife while he was also keeping a mistress?

Should she wait out his renewed interest in the behaviors of an unmarried man, or accept that their marriage had served its purpose and separate lives awaited them?

Percival set up a languorous rhythm, tucking himself close and running his nose around her ear. “Where are you, Wife? Do you grow bored with your husband’s attentions?”

He punctuated the question with a kiss, a hot joining of mouths that tormented as it aroused: Did he kiss his mistress this way?

As Esther’s body undulated in counterpoint to her husband’s, her imagination flashed on Cecily O’Donnell’s bright red hair and full mouth. Even through the pain of that recollection, Esther felt her husband’s passion shift from teasing to focused arousal. She responded—some part of her hated that she did; another part of her wept from the relief of it.

Percival levered up on his arms, regarding her by firelight as their bodies strained together. “I love you, Esther Windham. Only you, always you.”

She traced her fingers over his jaw. He meant those words. Here, now, their bodies joined, he meant those words with his whole heart.

“Percival, I love you too.”

This was a truth as well, one that might yield to what lay before them. As Esther gave herself over to her husband’s pleasuring and felt the first quickening flutters deep in her body, she said a prayer that their love would somehow endure the coming storm.

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.