"No?"
She ran her hands down his chest, tickling her palms over his abdomen, then lower, until her fingertips brushed his manhood. "Definitely not cows," she murmured, running her tongue along his lower lip while her fingers encircled him and gently squeezed.
Stephen groaned, unable to believe that he was hard again so soon, but he was. He rolled her onto her back and settled himself between her thighs.
"This is only a five-hour coach ride and we have three months to make up for, wife," he said, sliding into her velvet warmth. "We'd best not waste a single second."
"No," she agreed with a heartfelt sigh. "Not a single second."
Epilogue
« ^
Hayley's labor pains began in the morning exactly nine months to the day after their wedding. Stephen paced the carpet in the private study of his London town house and tried to focus on something, anything, other than the sick panic threatening to undo him. He glanced at the mantel clock and realized only one minute had passed since he'd last glared at it.
A knock sounded, and he snatched the door open so quickly, he nearly took it off its hinges. Pamela stood before him.
"Is it over?" he asked.
Pamela shook her head, a sympathetic smile touching her lips. "It could go on for several more hours."
Stephen plunged his hands through his hair. "Several more hours? Does it normally take so long?"
"Yes." Pamela took him by the arm and gently pulled him from the room. "Why don't you come into the drawing room? Your mother and father arrived a short time ago, and Gregory, Victoria and Justin are here as well."
Stephen stopped dead in his tracks, halting Pamela. "I really don't feel up to making conversation."
"Stephen. Listen to me. Hayley is going to be fine. Why, look at me! I gave birth only a month ago, and I feel wonderful."
"But it's taking so long."
"It's actually only been a few hours," Pamela said with a laugh, once again tugging him toward the door. "The time will pass much more quickly if you busy yourself rather than just standing about and watching the clock." She tugged on him until he moved.
Stephen stepped into the drawing room, momentarily forgetting his worries by the sight that greeted his eyes. Callie was presiding over a tea party that had been set up in the middle of the large room. Her tiny furniture had been brought from Albright Cottage, and someone had somehow managed to procure additional chairs for the set. Stephen suspected his father had done so, but the Duke refused to admit to the deed.
Seated around the small table, their large frames squashed into the child-sized chairs, sat Gregory, Justin, Marshall Wentbridge, Grimsley, Winston, and most incredibly of all, Stephen's father. Stephen stifled a bark of laughter at the sight of his indomitable father sitting on the pink chair, his legs doubled so his knees bumped his chest, sipping tea from a thimble-sized cup.
"They're expecting you," Pamela said in an undertone, clearly struggling to keep a straight face. The expressions on the countenances of the men at the tea party ranged from pained, to surprised, to resigned, to horrified.
"I hate those bloody little chairs," Stephen murmured.
"Yes," Pamela said, her eyes dancing. "I suspect you do."
"I can see I'm not going to receive any pity from you," Stephen said dryly.
"Not a bit."
Stifling a sigh, Stephen joined the other males, and gently eased himself into the last remaining chair. Callie beamed at him and handed him a thimble of tea and a cookie, and he knew he was defeated. Yet no sooner had he gotten settled than a footman entered the room.
"The doctor has sent for you, my lord," he said to Stephen, his expression carefully blank as he gazed upon his employer folded up on the tiny chair.
Stephen could actually feel the blood drain from his face. He jumped up, not an easy thing to do with a little pink chair attached to his bottom, and barked, "Get this damn thing off me."
The footman hurried forward and freed him. Stephen dashed from the room, ran up the stairs, and nearly knocked the doctor down in the corridor.
"Congratulations, my lord," the doctor said with a jovial smile. "The marchioness did splendidly. She is fine and your baby daughter is perfect." He inclined his head in the direction of Hayley's bedchamber. "They're expecting you."
Stephen sprinted down the hallway and entered the bedchamber, his heart pounding so hard he thought he might actually faint. The sight that greeted his eyes completely unraveled him.
Hayley sat on the bed, dressed in a fresh cotton nightgown. She cradled a small bundle wrapped in a pink blanket in her arms. She looked up, saw Stephen, and a melting smile spread across her face.
"Stephen, look at her. Isn't she beautiful?"
Stephen walked to the bed. His legs felt decidedly weak. He dropped to his knees, grabbed Hayley's hand, and pressed a warm kiss into her palm.
"Are you all right, darling?" His voice came out in a husky rasp and he cleared his throat.
"I'm fine." She smiled tenderly. "Honestly, Stephen. I'm perfectly fit."
He had heard stories of women dying in childbirth. Long, painful, agonizing deaths. Dear God, Hayley's own mother had died having Callie. His blood ran cold at the thought. "To be perfectly honest, I've been rather frantic," he admitted sheepishly.
Hayley squeezed his hand. "I feel wonderful. Just a bit tired. Now, come sit beside me and meet your daughter."
"My daughter," Stephen repeated in an awe-filled voice. He carefully sat on the bed next to Hayley and peered into the blanket. He gazed at the wonder of his daughter and instantly fell in love. Her tiny bow-shaped mouth opened in a huge yawn. "She's so tiny." Reaching out a hesitant finger, he touched her face. Her skin was so incredibly soft. "My God, Hayley, she's beautiful."
"Are you disappointed she's not a boy? I realize the importance of an heir—"
Stephen halted her words with a gentle kiss. "How can you even ask that? I'm completely awed by my daughter. And her mother. I will gratefully accept as many daughters as you care to give me. I shall spoil them rotten and shoot any man who dares come near them." His gaze strayed back to the miracle that was his child. "Look how beautiful she is. I'll be beating suitors off with sticks."
"Not for a few years," Hayley said with a quiet laugh. "What shall we name her?"
Stephen tenderly touched his daughter's tiny hand. Her fist opened and she wrapped her perfect, minuscule fingers around his thumb. A swell of love hit him so hard, it stole his breath. A lump lodged in his throat. Dear God, another angel.
"I think we should name her after her mother," he said softly.
"Good heavens, surely you don't want to name her Hayley," she said with a chuckle. "And let's not carry on the Albright tradition of naming the children based on where they were conceived. I have no wish to name our daughter Carriage."
Stephen looked again at his finger clutched by the tiny sleeping infant, then he raised his eyes and looked at his beautiful wife. His chest expanded and his heart turned over with love.
Overcome, he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a kiss to Hayley's brow. "I want to name her after her mother," he repeated in an emotion-filled whisper. "Angel. I want to call her Angel."
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RED ROSES MEAN LOVE Page 34
