Page 102 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
Kenneth’s hand moved to rest on her belly, a look of wonder crossing his face as he felt a strong kick against his palm.
“I still can’t believe we’re going to be parents,” he murmured. “A new generation of Spencers to grace these halls.”
“Speaking of which,” Beatrice said, a mischievous glint in her eyes, “have you given any more thought to names?”
Kenneth groaned. “Oh no, not this again. I thought we’d settled this argument at Aunt Marjorie’s dinner party.”
Beatrice’s laughter filled the room once more, echoing off the wood-paneled walls. “You mean when you insisted that if it’s a boy, we should name him Horatio Fitzwilliam Spencer?”
“It’s a strong name!” Kenneth protested, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “A name fit for a future Duke of Dunford.”
“It’s a name fit for a character in one of Shakespeare’s more ridiculous comedies,” Beatrice retorted, her eyes dancing with mirth. “Besides, you’re not even the second. Where did you get ‘the Third’ from?”
Kenneth shrugged, pulling her closer. “It sounded more impressive that way. More… ducal.”
“Well, my love,” Beatrice said, rising on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips, “I’m afraid I must put my foot down. Nochild of mine will be saddled with Horatio Fitzwilliam as a name, duke or not.”
“No?” Kenneth asked, his hands moving to her waist. “And what would you suggest, oh wise and talented wife of mine?”
Beatrice pretended to consider for a moment, her gaze drifting to the family portraits lining the walls. “Well, if it’s a girl, I’ve always been partial to Eugenia Hildegard Spencer.”
Kenneth’s eyebrows shot up. “Eugenia Hildegard? And you thought Horatio Fitzwilliam was bad? I’m not sure even these sturdy old walls could contain such a name.”
“I’m only teasing, you goose.” Beatrice laughed, swatting his chest playfully. “Though the look on your face was priceless. It would have made a wonderful portrait to add to our gallery.”
Kenneth chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “You, my dear, are incorrigible. What am I going to do with you?”
“Love me forever?” Beatrice suggested, her eyes softening as she gazed up at him, the strength of their bond seeming to add warmth to the grand but sometimes imposing castle.
“Always,” Kenneth murmured, leaning down to capture her lips in a tender kiss. As they parted, he rested his forehead against hers. “Though I still think Horatio Fitzwilliam has a certain ring to it. It would certainly stand out in the family records.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes fondly. “Keep dreaming, my love. Keep dreaming.”
As they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, surrounded by the vibrant canvases that represented Beatrice’s evolving artistry and the centuries of Spencer history, Kenneth felt a profound sense of contentment wash over him.
Whatever name they chose, whatever challenges lay ahead, he knew that together, they could face anything.
And as Eric Westback’s latest masterpiece dried on the easel behind them, a symbol of Beatrice’s growth and their shared secret, Kenneth silently vowed to always support her dreams, to protect her art, and to love her with every fiber of his being.
Beatrice stood before the easel in the morning room, her paintbrush gliding across the canvas with practiced ease. The light from the large windows bathed the room in a soft, golden glow, illuminating her latest work.
Despite the admonitions of Kenneth, Mrs. Whitfield, and her lady’s maid, Anna, Beatrice found solace in her art, even in the late stages of her pregnancy.
“Your Grace,” Anna suggested, her tone gentle but firm, “perhaps it’s time to rest. You’ve been painting for hours, and the doctor did say?—”
“I know what the doctor said,” Beatrice interrupted, her hand instinctively moving to her swollen belly. “But lying in bed all day exhausts me more than painting ever could. I feel so restless, so confined.”
Anna sighed, a look of understanding crossing her face. “I know it’s not easy, Your Grace. But you must think of the baby. And yourself.”
Beatrice set down her paintbrush, turning to face her maid. “I am thinking of the baby, Anna. Painting calms me, soothes my nerves. And a calm mother means a calm child, doesn’t it?”
Just as Anna opened her mouth to respond, Beatrice felt a sudden twinge in her abdomen. She gasped, her hand flying to her stomach.
“Anna,” she whispered, her eyes widening, “I think it’s time.”
Anna’s eyes widened, and she immediately sprang into action. She helped Beatrice to the chaise longue, propping pillows behind her back for support.
“I’ll fetch Mrs. Whitfield and send for the doctor,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement and nerves. “Just stay calm, Your Grace. Everything will be all right.”
