Tristan came in, Margaret hot on his heels. It hadn’t taken Mama cat very long to decide that Tristan was hers, and she perched on him whenever he was remotely still. He was in his riding clothes, which meant he had come directly from the stables. His hair was slightly disordered from the windgiving him a devil may care look that set her blood ablaze.
Her husband was an exceedingly attractive man.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“I’m appreciating,” she corrected.
He grunted and took a seat in his usual chair. Margaret immediately jumped up and settled herself in his lap. “Bloodycats are everywhere.” His words were cross, but his demeanor belied the truth. He adored their felines as much as she did.
He picked up his book.
She looked down at her lap. “Tristan,” she said.
“Hmm?” he said, not taking his eyes off the pages of his book.
“I have something I need to tell you.” She paused. Ptolemy shifted on her feet and began to purr with. He clearly had no qualms about the current conversation.
When she remained quiet for a few breaths, Tristan looked up. “Are you well?” he asked, concern etched into his features.
“I am—” She stopped. She drew in a breath, then tried again. “We are going to have a child.”
Silence.
It was a short silence, and entirely different in quality from his usual silences. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.
“You are certain?”
“As certain as I can be. I have not had my courses since we arrived here.”
He nodded.
Her heart pounded. “Are you displeased?”
He stood, picking up the large calico from his lap and setting her on the chair. He walked to the window seat and cupped her face.
“Never. I could never be disappointed with you. And certainly not because of this.” He pressed his lips to hers, then leaned back, looked at her for a long moment. “Are you well?”
“Quite well. A little tired in the mornings, but nothing—” She stopped at his expression. “Tristan, I am perfectly fine. You are not to become anxious about me. Women have babies every day. And I clearly come from some very fertile stock.”
“I am not anxious,” he said quickly. Though the nerves tightened his voice.
“You are doing the face you do when you are organizing something in your head.”
He appeared to consider denying this, then did not. “Italy,” he said.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“We were to go to Rome in September.” He said it not accusatorially, but with the particular quality of a man discovering that a plan he had invested considerable effort in required revision. “And then Greece.”
Something moved through her chest, warm and complicated. She set the letter aside. “We will go another time. Rome will still be there.”
“I know Rome will still be there.” He carded his fingers through his hair. “I had arranged everything. The itinerary, the accommodation, the letters of introduction.” A pause. “I had found a scholar at the British Museum who had agreed to meet us at the Forum and spend two days walking us through it in detail.” Another pause. “His name is Professor Alderton and he is apparently the foremost living expert on the Palatine Hill.”
She looked at his back. Something was happening in her throat that made speech temporarily inadvisable.
“You organized a scholar,” she said, when she had recovered the use of her voice. “For me.”
“You wanted to go to Rome.” He said it simply. “One should go to Rome properly.”