CHAPTER 1

Wetherington’s Point, August 1875
The Midlands, England’s heartland

“I am with child.” The four words, Victoria knew, damned her. Like hangmen’s nooses draped over a gallows, they hung suspended in the air between her and her visibly stunned husband. Tears of shame pricked Victoria’s eyes and belied the defiant set of her chin. She—the young Duchess of Moreland, Her Grace Victoria Sofia Redmond Whitfield, a reluctant newlywed wife from Savannah, Georgia—stood ramrod straight in front of the duke, an Englishman little more than a stranger to her.

He—John Spencer Whitfield, the tenth Duke of Moreland—sat enthroned on a sky-blue silk-upholstered chair in the staggeringly grand south parlor on the first floor of his impressive ancestral country estate. He glared at her, as unyielding as if he’d been cut from the same marble that paved the floor. The look on his face plainly told her he would have been happier to learn of an outbreak of cholera in his household than he was with her news. “I should be elated by this … revelation,” he said, “but of course I am not.”

“No, Your Grace, I didn’t suppose you would be.” When his granite countenance became too much for her, Victoria shifted her gaze mere inches to his right, to a vase of flowers on the table next to him. She could hardly blame him for being angry, if angry was a strong enough word for what he might be feeling. Whatever the emotion was, he had every right to it, she knew that—just as she knew that her news could not have come at a worse moment for them as a couple.

It was so unfair. Just as they were finding some common ground together, a way to be content, if not happy. And then … this. Without a doubt, something between them had died with her announcement. She had actually felt it. Had it been hope for their future? Perhaps. Trust? Certainly gone. Respect? Gone, also.

Victoria chanced a quick glance, under cover of her lashes, at her husband. With jet-black hair and smoldering eyes to match, he was certainly handsome and possessed the wonderfully fit physique of a man of athletic pursuits. But beyond his physical attributes—and they were many—he also owned qualities of personality she respected … but from afar. He was a man of his word. Responsible. Honest. He was stern and patrician, yes, but that was his heritage and his upbringing. Even so, she wished he would smile more. Laugh more. She was never sure if he was happy, or if such a thing mattered to him.

How was it, then, that she always seemed to want more from him, or of him, than he could or would give her? Confusing her was the realization that she couldn’t even say why she hungered for this elusive something from him. She didn’t love him. But what did she really know of love? She knew of seduction and betrayal. But not love. She knew also of guilt and remorse, both of which urged her to run to him now and throw her arms around his neck and tell him how very, very sorry she was. But she and he did not have the sort of relationship where such a gesture could heal, much less be wanted. But even had they, he’d hardly welcome that from her at this moment. And maybe never, after this.

Again she tore her gaze from his, casting it over to the French doors, which were thrown open to capture the sweet-scented breeze blowing in from the formal gardens with their neat rows of shrubs and exuberantly blooming flowers. With birds singing their encouragement, with bees and butterflies flitting industriously from one nectar-laden flower to the next, the August afternoon spilled in through the open doors and beckoned to Victoria’s senses.

“Are you contemplating fleeing, Victoria?”

Though she started at the deep, rumbling timbre of her husband’s voice, she managed to reply evenly. “No, Your Grace. Should I be?”

“That would be most unwise,” he said quietly and with complete authority.

Swallowing hard, twisting her lace hanky into knots, Victoria feared she would be burned to a cinder by the blazing contempt directed her way from him. He slowly arched an eyebrow, reminding her of a dark angel. Handsome. Dangerous. Unknowable. Irresistible. “You’re certain, then? You are with child?”

To hear her shame spoken aloud by him weighed Victoria down with guilt. Though she felt as if a slab of limestone had fallen on her and was crushing her, she exerted an intense effort of will and found the strength to respond. “Yes, I am. I’m … certain I’m with child.”

He had every right to ask, Whose child? But all he said was: “I see.”

The duke, this man to whom she had been quickly wed, following a scandal in Savannah, soberly studied her with those intent black eyes of his, which seemed to bore deep into her secret shame. “How long have you known this, Victoria?”

She knew why he asked. He meant had she known of her delicate condition before their marriage? “I’ve only just realized it, Your Grace.”

“My name is Spencer.”

“I recall.”

“I am your husband.”

“I recall that as well, Your Grace.”

He exhaled a breath laden with exasperation. “And so you will call me Spencer when we are alone.”

“Yes, Your Gra—I beg your pardon. Spencer.” She had trouble thinking of him by his Christian name. He was such a very formal person … and a daunting one. Victoria didn’t mind admitting that his title, though she also now owned a similar one, intimidated her as well. She half feared he could, by law, have her beheaded or locked away in a tower, should she displease him in any way. And certainly, this bit of news had not pleased him.

“I suppose,” he was saying, “I should commend you for telling me so promptly. Not many women would have, under these circumstances. They would have kept their secret as long as possible to make their husbands believe the child was his.”

Though her heart knocked against her ribs, Victoria forced the same casual note into her voice that his held. “But the child could very well be yours.”

He nodded. “Or it could not.”

It was like being in the room with a hungry raptor. Victoria heard herself talking on out of nervousness. “I will admit I contemplated not telling you yet, but in the end, I had no wish to make matters worse by delaying this news. I realized you would have known soon enough, anyway.”

“Yes, I suppose I would have done.” He cocked his head at a considering angle and roved his gaze over her person.

Victoria had all she could do not to squirm as he blatantly searched for any discernible physical changes that went along with her condition. She could have told him, had he simply asked, they were nonexistent, really. But he hadn’t asked. Instead, he chose this silent and probing scrutiny of her. If his intent was to humiliate her, he was succeeding admirably.

“Given the time frame, Victoria, this certainly complicates matters, to put it mildly.”

“Yes. Complicated on more than one level, Your Grace.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’ll be its mother, the poor little creature. It will surely start screaming the moment it realizes that.”

She couldn’t be certain but she thought she’d almost made him laugh. He quickly rubbed his fingers over his mouth, shifted his position in his chair, and frowned sternly. “Yes, well, you’ll have a nanny and a nurse to help you. But surely you know something about babies. You are, after all, a woman.”

“Oh, no, sir, that has nothing to do with it. No more than your being male causes you to instantly know all about horses. Truly, I don’t know the first thing, except what I’ve observed.”

There was a definite creasing of the skin at the corners of his eyes as he watched her. Was it humor? Did she amuse him? “And what have you observed, Victoria?”

“Mostly that infants are limp little beings who are wet and loud at both ends, Your Grace, and sometimes simultaneously.” She grimaced and shook her head at the horror of it all. “Very daunting.”

He nodded his agreement. “This entire situation is a bit daunting.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Chastened, Victoria lowered her gaze to her shoes, but her thoughts were with the tiny, fragile little life she carried inside her. She was going to have a baby—a helpless mite whose father its mother could not name with any certainty. How could this have happened? But she knew. She saw, in her mind’s eye, herself in Savannah, before her marriage, that night in her bedroom when he’d come in—No. It can’t be his. It just can’t. But it very well could be, and well she … and her husband … knew it.

Unexpectedly, emotion welled up inside Victoria, pushing reticence aside and propelling her a step closer to him. “I swear to you, if I could make this not be true, I would do so. I would. But I cannot, and for that I am so very sorry.”

He slumped in his chair and rubbed tiredly at his forehead. “Of course there are ways we could … solve this dilemma, or make it not true, as you said. But we dare not resort to them.”

Puzzlement brought a frown to Victoria’s face. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do. End the pregnancy. Don’t look so naïve or shocked, Victoria. There are ways. But we cannot consider it because the truth is as you said: The child could be mine. And the dangers involved for you are too great. The end result could be you may not be able to have another, should something go wrong, and that would leave me without an heir. And perhaps a wife, as well.”

Though he’d spoken as if in great pain emotionally, Victoria stared in horror at her husband as realization swept over her. “You mean an … abortion?”

“Yes. Didn’t you?”

“No! Never. I meant I wish I could make what happened to me in Savannah not true. That’s all. I never wished for an end to my baby.” As though physically threatened, she gripped her skirts and moved away from him. “Never. No. I won’t do it.”

He held a hand out to stop her retreat. “No one is asking you to undergo such a thing, Victoria. I simply expounded on what I thought you to be saying.”

She stood her ground, her chin high. “Well, then … good. Because I would never consent to such a thing.”

His black eyes bored into hers. He didn’t have to say it. She knew what he was thinking: She could protest all she wished. Had he insisted, he could have forced her to undergo the hideous procedure. His will, had it been different from hers, would have prevailed. Never in her life had she felt so much like a possession to be treasured or disposed of at the whim of her husband—a man who had taken her to wife and taken her to his bed, as was his right. Despite the heat and the power of her husband’s lovemaking, he’d only been performing his duty with her. That was Victoria’s belief, and he had never given her reason to believe otherwise. He had offered no protestations of love, no endearments, no statement of want or need.

“How long have you had symptoms?”

“Symptoms?”

“For the love of God, woman. Yes, Victoria. Symptoms. I am trying to ascertain, by the length of time you’ve had symptoms, exactly whose child this is.”

His tone of voice, low and angry, could have been hands wrapped around her throat and squeezing hard. Victoria could produce no more than a whisper. “The child I carry is exactly mine, Your Grace.”

His dangerously narrowed eyes met her words. “How grand it would be if only that were all that mattered.”

There was nothing she could say. This predicament she found herself in was, by society’s and the church’s dictates, one of her own making, despite the involvement of two men. Victoria lowered her gaze and stared hotly at the lovely rose pattern woven into the thick Aubusson carpet under her feet and thought how unfair it all was.

“Victoria, do me the courtesy of looking at me, please.” It was a quiet command she obeyed, one that showed her an impatient glint in her husband’s eyes. “I asked you how long you’ve been experiencing symptoms. And I mean exactly. To the day.”

“It’s very hard to pin down—”

“Try.”

“I—I am trying, Your Grace. Truly, I am. I do not—”

“I will not tell you again to address me as Spencer.”

Flustered now, Victoria gestured with her hanky. “I’m sorry. I am trying. But, you will forgive me, I find myself hard-pressed, sir, to think of you in intimate terms.”

Clearly offended, he looked down his aristocratic nose at her. “I beg your pardon, madam? We could not be on more intimate terms.”

He meant the bedroom, of course. Victoria felt the flush of embarrassment on her cheeks as she looked away. She wanted so much to tell him that her bed was the only place where he shed more than his clothes, where he allowed her to know anything at all about him. Throughout the course of their days, he behaved as if their nights together had never happened. He treated her like a pretty bird in a gilded cage. She could barely stand it. With that acknowledgment came anger and courage. “Yes, we are intimate,” she said, looking into his eyes, “but not in any way that matters. You care nothing for me.”

Her husband’s grip on his chair’s arms visibly tightened. “Do not presume to tell me what or how I feel, Victoria.”

“But I speak the truth. You care only for the wealth I brought to your coffers when you married me. That, and my tinge of royal Russian blood with which you mean to enrich your bloodlines.”

He slowly sat forward. “And have you, Victoria? Have you enriched my bloodlines with that royal Russian blood? That’s exactly what I’m trying to ascertain here. And since you’re in a mood for truth, madam, tell me: When did you really realize you were with child?”

He was calling her a liar. Outraged, Victoria held her head high. “Only this morning. I have had symptoms for weeks, I admit. But I had no idea what could be the matter with me. Then, earlier, Rosanna brought it to my attention—”

“Who the devil is Rosanna?”

“My lady’s maid.”

“Yes, of course. Rose. Go on.”

It was Rosanna, but Victoria chose not to correct him. “As you wish. I had attributed my tiredness and the bouts of illness, as well as my lack of…” A furious heat worked its way up her cheeks. One simply did not speak of such things, not even with one’s husband—and certainly not in broad daylight and in the parlor.

Spencer waggled a hand at her impatiently. “Yes? Come on, your lack of what?”

“My monthly ills,” she blurted, humiliated beyond belief.

But all her husband did was nod. “Ah. And how many have you missed?”

She wanted both to cry and strike out at him for putting her through this awful interrogation. Had he no sensibilities? “I have missed my second one.”

“Well, that certainly doesn’t clarify anything, does it?” His glare slowly bled into a thoughtful expression as he cocked his head and considered her. “I begin to believe you truly had no idea. What an appalling situation it is that you well-bred young ladies are told nothing of those things that are most important for you to know.”

He made it sound as if she were stupid somehow. “I don’t know that I agree with your assessment, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It is not required that you do.”

Arrogant man. Victoria gritted her teeth against the urge to respond in kind. Looking for something about him to hate, she roved her gaze over his face—his undeniably strong and ruggedly handsome face, replete with sculpted masculine planes and hollows that boasted a high forehead and cheekbones, an aquiline nose, stubborn jaw, and generous mouth. To her consternation, she found nothing.

“How many weeks have we been married, Victoria?”

He knew. He just wanted her to have to say. “Nearly eight. Which makes it entirely possible that this baby I carry could be yours.”

Although he nodded, he said, “Or it might not be, and nothing but absolute certainty is all that will do.”

“I understand that. But how does one decide absolute certainty, Your Grace? Given that we—you and I—look nothing alike, and the baby could resemble me with reddish-brown hair and blue eyes, I don’t see how—”

“Oh, but I do.” His slashing scimitar of a grin would have made a pirate proud. “Every true Whitfield has the same birthmark.”

“Birthmark?” Victoria’s expression crimped into one of puzzlement. “But I’ve never seen…” She mentally, furiously, explored what little bit she’d seen of her husband’s naked body. Though they’d shared passion, he’d always come to her at night when her room was darkened—

“It’s there, Victoria. I have it.”

His knowing smirk irritated her further. “I shall take your word for it, sir.”

“Would that I could take your word so easily, madam. However, I have a sacred duty to the six hundred years of Whitfields who came before me, as well as to those who will follow me, to protect my title and my holdings through untainted bloodlines. So I must know, and without the first measure of doubt, that the male child who bears my name is indeed my son.”

“I could be carrying a female child.”

“I am aware of that. If so, we’ll … try again for a male to inherit the title.” He roved his gaze up and down her body in a clearly suggestive way. “And that child I will know is mine.”

Instant images of tangled covers and passionate moans assailed Victoria. Fighting her body’s tingling, tightening response, she raised her chin, determined to ask the one question that meant everything to her. “What will happen should this baby, male or female, I carry now … prove not to be yours?”

His expression hardened. “It will not bear my name.”

Somewhere, deep in her heart, she’d known he would say that. Still, the shock of hearing the words nearly sent Victoria to the floor. A hand pressed against her mouth to prevent a cry of protest, she stared at the man who would label her child a bastard. He had condemned it, male or female, to a life of being ignored, of being pushed aside, all because of the accident of its conception. And the child, should it be male, would be passed over for the title and the duchy … and would come to hate her, his mother, when he was old enough to realize all that had been denied him.

As Victoria’s fledgling-mother’s heart constricted with pain, she lowered her hand to her side and spoke with quiet passion. “No. You will do no such thing.”

He pulled back, clearly surprised. “I beg your pardon. You do not dictate terms to me—”

“In this instance I do, and you will listen to me.” Victoria’s heart pounded, forcing her to breathe in gasping breaths. “Understand that I will stand here and allow you to heap scorn on me. I have no choice, given my … my recent past. I might even deserve it. Certainly, I shamed my family, and I will live with that for the rest of my life. But what I did not do was shame you in any way. So you may act as injured as you choose—”

“‘Act as injured’? You think I’m merely acting?” With a tense leonine grace, the duke rose smoothly to his feet and slowly advanced on her. “Perhaps, Victoria, you should consider not saying anything else.”

Though she backed up, her hands fisted, she continued with her tirade. “And yet I will. I find I have more to say, and you will hear me out, sir.”

When he stopped, his chin lowered, his black eyes sparking fire, Victoria stood her ground, as well. Her husband crossed his arms over his chest. “I see. Then have your say, madam.”

“I will.” Victoria had never been this afraid—or this determined. “No matter what you might think, I had no idea when I came to your bed on our wedding night that I might be carrying another man’s child. None. And I still do not know that it’s true. The very likelihood is this child is yours as much as it is mine. And birthmark or no, rest assured, sir, you will not cruelly label this child a bastard because I will swear all day long and to whomever I must that this child is yours, and I will hold you accountable for its future. I have done many things for which I am sorry, but the one thing, Your Grace, I will not do is shame my baby by saying I am sorry for having it.”

Her husband’s lightning-swift movement caught Victoria off guard. Before she could even draw in her next breath, he had her arms pinned in a painful grip and had jerked her to him. “You think hearing you say you’re sorry is what I want?”

Victoria’s heart thumped so wildly she expected it to jump right out of her chest, but she could not stop her intemperate tongue. “I have no idea what you want because I don’t know you in any way that matters. But one thing we both know is how much you knew about me when you married me. You knew I had no claim to innocence—”

“Yes, I knew. And my reasons for marrying you were no more noble than your father’s were for marrying you to me. And yes, money exchanged hands. And yes, I now control it and you—”

“Oh, you are sorely mistaken, sir. I have my very large allowance as determined by our marriage contract. And I will do as I please. No man controls me.”

“You think not? Whose bed were you in last night? And whose ring is that on your finger?” His grip on her arms tightened as he yanked her even closer to his face. Filling Victoria’s vision was the sight of his black and glittering eyes. “Whose name is it you now bear, Victoria?”

“It doesn’t matter. If you disown this child I carry now, there will be no others, Your Grace, I swear to you. I will do whatever I have to do to prevent it. I will see to it that no Whitfield heir will come from me—”

“Allow me to grant your wish, madam. When your child is born, if he or she is not a Whitfield, I will be sending both of you back to your father with your divorce papers in your hand. Raising another man’s bastard was not a part of our bargain.”

“How dare you!” Victoria raged, struggling wildly in his grasp. If she could just gain a free hand, she would slap his face until it bled. But her efforts bore no fruit. Spencer Whitfield easily held her prisoner.

“Be still,” he warned, “and listen to me.” He waited, glaring daggers at her. With no choice, with her face hot and damp with emotion, she stilled in his embrace, a mockery of a tender prelude to a kiss. “Until this child is born,” he said sternly, “I will give you the benefit of my doubt and treat you with the courtesy and respect due you as my duchess. But that is all, and even that I will do from a goodly distance.”

Dread washed over Victoria, causing her to forget her physical pain as she envisioned imprisoning towers. “What are you saying? Where are you sending me?”

His smile, so close to her face, to her mouth, was a slash of angry decision. “I’m sending you nowhere. In fact, you will go nowhere. You will, instead, remain here in the country while I reside in London—”

“But you can’t leave me alone out here in the Midlands—”

“I assure you I can, and I will.”

“But I know no one. I don’t know what to do—”

“That much is evident, madam. All your spoiled life, you’ve had to do nothing except demand. Allow me to assure you that those days of getting your way in everything are gone.” With that, he put her away from him.

Victoria caught herself by gripping a chair’s curved back. With a hand fisted tightly around her lace hanky, she was aware only of horrible shock as she listened to her husband pronouncing her sentence.

“Between now and the time the child is born, all of Wetherington Point’s assets are at your disposal. Too, I shall have a doctor look in on you. He will be instructed to send me reports of your progress. But should you have a need, for whatever reason, to communicate with me, you will do so through my solicitor.”

Victoria could barely make sense of all he’d said. She was a Southern miss and he was a British peer. They had nothing in common, except a marriage neither of them had wanted yet both of them had desperately needed. But what was she to do now? Then, unbidden, something deep inside her turned. She felt her initial horror steadily congealing into an icy disdain that had her raising her chin. “So I’m never to see you again, is that it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. But would you care if you did or not?”

“No.” She refused even to blink. “Not in the least.”

Her husband made a mocking, chuckling sound. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I will return when I am notified it is time for the birthing. And then, my dear, we shall see. We shall see.”

Victoria tried very hard to hang on to the cold inside her that stiffened her spine and held her erect. Was this, then, to be her life? A loveless marriage? Alone in a foreign country with a child who could claim no heritage? Suddenly, the years seemed to stretch into eternity—and it was too awful to bear.

“I hate you!” she shouted, startling her husband as much as she did herself. “I do—I hate you, and I’m sorry I married you. I’m also every bit as sorry you were made to marry me. But what’s done is done. You can think me the worst person in the world, but I’m not—not in my heart. I am not a wanton. In my innocence, I believed a man’s pretty words—”

“That is quite enough.” Her husband pointed a warning finger her way. “Believe me, Victoria, I will not listen to—”

“Don’t you ‘Victoria’ me.” Lost to reason and caution, she batted his hand away. “You may rest assured that I feel every bit as trapped as you must. Neither one of us wanted this marriage.”

“Well said, madam.” Her husband again crossed his arms over his chest—and gave Victoria the impression that he waited for her to step over some imaginary line he’d drawn. When she did, he would pounce.

Even realizing that, the words poured forth from her. “You are not the one so far away from home and family and friends. And you are not the one who is sick every day and tired all the time because you are going to have a baby. I am. And you are not the one who is scared to death. I am.” Her fears got the better of her. She took a deep, ragged breath and bleated out a pathetic sob. “I hate it here, and I want to go home to my mother!”

Her hands fisted at her sides, Victoria watched Spencer open his mouth to speak, but then close it. He stood there, staring at her, seeming suddenly to be more at a loss than he was angry. Victoria glared at him, naming him the source of all her problems. Even if her parents did think of him as their savior because he, an impoverished nobleman, had married her, a fallen woman in the eyes of Savannah society, she didn’t feel the least bit grateful to him or even think she should.

Finally, the duke spoke … slowly, softly: “I wish—fervently so—Victoria, that you could be with your mother. Believe me, I do. But that’s not possible.”

“Why isn’t it?” She hiccupped softly, quickly covering her mouth with her hanky, then using it to dab at her tears.

“Because…” His voice trailed off as he looked around him, apparently searching for something. He pointed to the chair in which he’d been seated. “Would you like to sit down?”

His solicitousness caught Victoria off guard. Actually, she would have liked nothing better than to sit down, but she refused to accept any kindnesses from him. “No.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows. “No? I see. Would you like a drink of water, maybe? Or some tea? Something stronger?”

He was being so nice and polite. Victoria decided she should have screamed at him a long time ago. “No. But please help yourself.”

He smiled briefly, uncertainly. “Thank you. I think I will.”

This was the oddest exchange, she marveled, given all the passionate shouting that had just transpired between them. She watched him turn and stalk toward the crystal liquor service set up on an ornate sideboard across the room. Once there, he stood with his back to her, his weight evenly distributed on his strong legs.

Though he’d held her roughly and had threatened divorce; though she had told him she would deny him her bed and an heir, Victoria could do nothing but rove her gaze up and down the solid, muscular length of her husband—

“Victoria,” he said suddenly, speaking over his shoulder. She jerked her gaze up guiltily. The sound of crystal tinkling against crystal told her he was pouring himself a drink as he talked. “I’m sorry you feel so alone here. I confess I hadn’t really thought about how strange everything must seem to you. Our customs—”

“And your food.”

He pivoted to look fully into her face. “Our food?”

“Your cook boils everything.”

“I see.” He again turned to the sideboard but only long enough to stopper the decanter. When he turned back to her again, he had a brimming glass of whisky in his hand. “You have only to tell Mrs. Pike how you wish your food to be prepared and she will do so. You are, after all, the duchess here.”

“I remember.” What she didn’t know was how long she would be the duchess here. But the weight of the huge sparkling diamond on her left ring finger was a constant reminder. In fact, she was ashamed of how often she stared at it and turned her hand this way and that to see it sparkle. It was so big it was unseemly … and beautiful.

“Good.” Her husband approached her, holding out a hand to indicate a delicate divan. “Are you sure you won’t sit down?”

Somehow it seemed all right to do so now. Besides, her knees felt watery. “I think I will.”

As he approached the chair he’d been sitting in a moment ago, Victoria surged forward and took it first, ignoring him and his stunted snort of protest as she arranged her voluminous skirt of forest-green silk becomingly about her legs and feet. Done with that, she turned innocent eyes up to her husband and watched as he, with a feline grace that she envied, settled himself on that nearby divan. Once he was comfortably seated, she said sweetly, “I believe, sir, that I do feel a thirst coming over me now. Do you suppose there might be some water over there?”

With practiced grace, she charmingly pointed to indicate the bar service at which Spencer had just busied himself. The man’s eyes narrowed as he watched her over the rim of his whisky glass.

He took a healthy swig, held it in his mouth a moment, and then swallowed, wincing no doubt at its strength … all while staring long and hard at her. “I feel certain there is water there,” he drawled at last. “You may feel free to help yourself to some.”

If she vacated her seat, he would take it—and reclaim the victory. Victoria inhaled through the thin crevice of her parted lips, all while maintaining eye contact with her husband. She watched him as she would a wriggling water moccasin if she’d found herself in the water with it. “Never mind. I’m not thirsty.”

She thought he fought a grin as he inclined his head in acknowledgment. “If you say so. Now, tell me, why do you wish to go to your mother?”

Because I’m pregnant and scared to death and very afraid to be alone here. But she would die first before she would say that again. “I’ve just … never been away from Savannah before. I miss it and everyone there.”

“It’s only natural that you would. However, and I am sorry for bringing up the unpleasantness again, your family does not wish you to be in Savannah any time soon. But even were that not so, I would not permit you to travel.”

“May I ask why not?”

“It would be too dangerous.”

“You mean the days on end bumping and rattling in the coaches? The possibility of highwaymen? Staying at the various and atrocious inns along the way? And then the Atlantic crossing on a tossing and churning steamship?”

“Yes, I do. You’ve made my point admirably.”

“But I’ve only just survived all of that.”

He nodded, sipping again at his measure of liquor. “But I was with you. And that was before I knew you were carrying a child who could possibly be my son and heir. A trip such as you’ve just described would be too dangerous.”

“Then you won’t allow me to go home?”

“This is your home now, and here you will stay.”

Infuriating man. Too bad she didn’t have the courage to pick up and hurl at him the small porcelain figurine within her reach on a side table. The satisfying mental picture of her doing exactly that would have to suffice. “Then I’m never to see my home again?”

“I do not like having to repeat myself. I have told you already that you will be staying right here until this child is born. If it should prove not to be a Whitfield, then you will get your wish. You will be returning to your mother for good.”

Victoria stared at the arrogant male who was her husband … a tall, passionate, and handsome man of broad shoulders, jet-black hair, and eyes equally dark. “But I wish to go home now,” she said quietly, stubbornly.

Her duke narrowed his eyes, the shine in them reminding her of the predatory gleam of a leopard. “You may wish all you like, but you do not dictate terms to me, madam. Though it may be a bitter pill for you to swallow, you are my wife, and you will travel only as I see fit. Do we understand each other?”

Victoria locked her gaze with her husband’s. “Yes. We do.”