The air burst from her lungs in a puff of frustration and she drew back a little to look into his face.
Which was a mistake.
His crystal gray eyes were narrowed, his mouth flattened, and his nostrils flared just a bit. All in all, not an encouraging expression.
“Margaret,” he clipped out, using her full Christian name, “what are you doing?”
She winced. If he had to ask, her attempt at seduction must be truly lacking.
Baby. She must keep her purpose at the forefront of her mind.
She smiled, though the effort might’ve been a trifle strained. “I … I thought tonight would be a good time to become better acquainted.”
“Acquainted.” The word dropped, lifeless and heavy from his lips, and fell like a dead halibut between them.
She’d never liked fish. Megs inhaled to explain, but he set his hands on her waist, lifted her up and aside, and strolled past her to the fireplace.
Megs goggled. She’d never been one of those fairylike girls, the ones who lived on marzipan and the odd strawberry here and there. She was a bit over average height and had the figure of a woman with a fondness for hearty country food. Yet her husband—her elderly husband—had lifted her with as little effort as he would a fluffy kitten.
Megs squinted at Godric, now on one knee by the hearth, stirring up the fire that had died while she’d dozed waiting for his return. He’d left off his soft cap tonight, and she saw for the first time the shorn hair that lay close to his scalp. It was dark, nearly black, but there was a wide swath of gray at both temples.
“How old are you?” she demanded, truly without thinking.
He sighed, still efficiently prodding the fire into life. “Seven and thirty and, I’m afraid, well past the age of enjoying surprises.”
He stood and turned, and somehow he seemed taller tonight, his shoulders broader. Without his gray wig, without the habitual half-moon reading spectacles, he seemed … well, not younger, precisely, but certainly more virile.
Megs shivered. Virile was good. Virile was what she most needed in the prospective father of her child.
Why, then, did Godric seem suddenly more daunting as well?
He gestured to one of the chairs before the fireplace. “Please. Sit down.”
She sank into the chair, feeling a bit like she had the time her governess had caught her hoarding sugared almonds.
He leaned against the mantel and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“We’ve been married two years,” she began, crossing her arms, then immediately uncrossing them. Best to try not to look like a schoolboy being called on the carpet by a particularly dreary schoolmaster.
“You seemed happy enough at Laurelwood Manor.”
“I was. I am. …” She held her hands flat out and shook her head. “No.” She wasn’t making any sense, but the time had come to stop prevaricating. “No. I’ve been content enough, but not entirely happy.”
His dark brows drew together as he stared at her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She leaned forward urgently. “I’m not blaming you by any means. Laurelwood is a wonderful place to live. I love the gardens, Upper Hornsfield, the people, and your family.”
One eyebrow arched. “But?”
“But it—I’m—missing something.” She jumped to her feet, pacing restlessly around the chair, trying to think how to make him understand. At the last moment, she realized her direction was taking her to the bed. She stopped short and whirled, blurting, “I want—I desperately need—a child, Godric.”
For a moment he simply stared at her as if stunned speechless. Then his gaze dropped to the fire. The light behind him silhouetted his profile, outlining a long brow and straight nose, and Megs thought rather irreverently that his lips from this angle looked so soft, almost feminine.
But not quite. “I see.”
She shook her head, pacing again. “Do you?” Not toward the bed. “I was pregnant when we entered into this marriage. I know it was wrong of me, but I wanted that child—Roger’s child. Even in the grief of his passing, it was something to hold on to—something of my very own.” She stopped before his dresser, severely ordered, severely plain, only a washing basin, a pitcher, and a small dish on its surface all equidistant from each other. She reached out and picked up the dish. “A child. A baby. My baby.”
“The urge toward motherhood is natural.”
His voice had grown remote. She was losing him and she didn’t even know why.
She faced him, her hands outstretched toward him, the little dish still in her hand. “Yes, it is. I want a baby, Godric. I know it’s not part of our original bargain.” She stopped, laughing bitterly. “Actually, I’m not sure what the original bargain you made with Griffin was.”
He looked up at that, his face closed and detached. “Don’t you? Didn’t Griffin tell you?”
She glanced away, feeling too exposed. She’d been so shamed, so embarrassed, and so grief-stricken that she’d not even been able to look Griffin in the face when he’d told her. Asking any questions had been quite beyond her. And since then …
She realized now that she’d been avoiding her beloved older brother for years. She closed her eyes. “No.”
His voice rasped low. “Consummating—or not consummating—the marriage wasn’t mentioned.”
Megs’s eyes snapped open as she stared at him, this stranger who was her husband. It hadn’t been mentioned? Belatedly—very belatedly—and for the first time, she wondered why, exactly, Godric had agreed to marry her. At the time she’d been near mad with grief and terrified of being pregnant out of wedlock. She’d only had the strength to follow Griffin’s firm management. Now, though, she wondered … why? Had her baby survived, the child would’ve become Godric’s heir. Hadn’t he cared that he would’ve sheltered a cuckoo in his ancient familial nest? Money was the obvious answer—the Readings had enough to bribe a man to overlook the provenience of his heir. But Megs knew that Godric must not’ve been swayed by wealth. He had enough of it himself. Besides Laurelwood Manor—and its extensive property—he had land in both Oxfordshire and Essex, and although Saint House hadn’t been in the best shape on her arrival, he hadn’t blinked when she’d cited the sum needed to hire the new staff and redecorate. If anything, he’d seemed bored by the conversation.