Page 117 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“My lord, you should leave,” the doctor said, standing at the foot of the bed as though he had little more to do than survey the contents of the room.
Only he couldn’t, not now that he’d seen her. Quickly, he rushed over to her, took her hand, felt her fingers closing around his. “I tried to see you earlier but they wouldn’t let me.”
“I know.” Reaching up with a limp hand, she brushed at his hair. “Don’t look so worried. I’m just tired.”
“It’s taking so long.” Too long, too damned long. He could see how much the ordeal had weakened her. His father might be right. He might lose her. Never in his life had he known such terror—and he’d faced wild animals, harsh storms, treacherous terrains. He knew what it was to have his heart pumping with fear, but all he felt now was cold, frigid fright skittering through him. He lowered his head until his cheek touched hers and his lips rested near her ear. “Portia, I know you’re weak and weary, but you must find the strength to carry on. If you die, I shall run mad.”
“I shan’t die. I’m sorry I keep scream—”
“Scream all you want.”
“Don’t interrupt.”
He lifted up, gazed down on her, smiled. “There’s my tough girl with her tart tongue.”
She rolled her head from side to side. “You should want to be rid of me.”
Damn her parents, damn Beaumont for making her ever doubt her worth. “I love you so much. You’ve fought so long for this child, Portia. Don’t stop fighting now. Fight for it. Fight for me.”
“I want to, but I can’t seem to find any strength.”
He squeezed her hand. “I’ll stay and lend you mine, shall I? We can do this together, you and I. We can do anything as long as we’re together.”
Nodding, she began gasping.
“I need her to push, m’lord.”
“Push, Portia,” he urged. “Push.”
She not only pushed, but she screamed for another hour. In between her cries, he murmured over and over how much he loved her, how special she was.
When her child—their child—finally came into the world, he’d never known such relief or such joy.
“It’s a girl,” the physician announced.
“I want to see her,” Portia said.
Locke took the squalling infant and placed her in Portia’s arms. Then he ran his fingers over the soft fuzz covering her tiny scalp. “She has red hair.”
“She’s so small.” Portia looked up at him. “Thank you.”
“You did all the work.”
“But you were here.”
“I’ll always be here for you, Portia. Always.”
Locke found his father in the library, sitting before the fire, drink in hand. He went to the side table of decanters and reached for the scotch. “It’s a girl.”
His father released a deep breath. “Good.”
Stilling, Locke slowly looked over at his sire. “You’re not disappointed?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “The next one can be a boy.”
After pouring his drink, Locke dropped into the chair opposite his father’s and studied him, the way he didn’t hold his gaze but kept shifting his attention to the fire. He didn’t want to tell his father anything he might not know, but his reaction was incredibly strange for a man who had been so insistent upon gaining an heir.
“How is Portia faring?” the marquess asked.
