Aldridge, as always when he had been with his father, returned jittery and bitter. No point in talking to him until he could think straight. All he wanted was the comfort of Becky’s body, and for days, she barely left the town-house’s great bed, as he expended his nervous energy and slowly regained his poise.
Becky kept putting off the conversation they must have, until one morning when they lay half asleep in the aftermath of a particularly energetic bout of morning bed sport.
Aldridge, who was propped on one elbow idly tracing patterns on her belly with one finger, commented, “You’ve put on a bit of round, my love.” He circled his finger around her navel. “Eating well?”
“No more than usual,” Becky said. “It isn’t that.”
He paid no attention, tracing up her torso to cup one breast. “Here, too. I’m not complaining. I like it.”
“It isn’t food, Aldridge.”
He was occupied teasing one nipple back to erect attention with his finger. “Looks good enough to taste.”
“Aldridge, I need you to listen.”
He looked up, his laughing eyes meeting hers. “What is it, my darling Mrs Darling? A problem? Tell me, and I’ll fix it.” Then he curled in to touch her nipple with his tongue.
Becky twisted out of his reach. They were going to discuss this now, before she lost her nerve again. Aldridge was the most indulgent of protectors, but she had no idea how he would react.
“Please, Aldridge.”
He sat up then, propping himself against some of the pillows that littered the bed. His eyes were still dancing, but he composed the rest of his face.
“Very well, my dear. What is it? Have you run through your allowance? Do you want to break our contract and run off with the Prince of Wales? Are you about to confess to being a spy for Napoleon?”
“I am with child.” There. It was said.
