“Did you speak to Mr. Swift?” Lillian demanded as Marcus entered their bedroom. She had dozed off while trying to wait up for him, and was struggling to a sitting position in the bed.

“Oh, I spoke to him,” Marcus replied ruefully, shrugging out of his coat. He laid the well-tailored garment across the arms of a Louis XIV chair.

“I was right, wasn’t I? He’s abominable. Detestable. Tell me what he said.”

Marcus stared at his pregnant wife, who was so beautiful with her long hair unbound and her eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep that it made his heart skip a beat. “Not yet,” he murmured, half-sitting on the bed. “First I want to stare at you for a while.”

Lillian smiled and scrubbed her hands through her wild dark mane. “I look a fright.”

“No.” He moved closer, his voice lowering. “Every part of you is lovely.” His hands slid gently over the abundant curves of her body, soothing rather than arousing. “What can I do for you?” he whispered.

She continued to smile. “One glance at me will reveal that you’ve done quite enough already, my lord.” Encircling him with her slender arms, she let him rest his head against her br**sts. “Westcliff,” she said against his hair, “I could never have anyone’s child but yours.”

“That is reassuring.”

“I feel so overtaken…and bloody uncomfortable. Is it wrong to say I don’t like being pregnant?”

“Of course not,” Marcus returned, his voice muffled in her cle**age. “I wouldn’t like it either.”

That drew a grin from her. Releasing him, she settled back against the pillows. “I want to hear about Mr. Swift. Tell me what was said between you and that odious walking scarecrow.”

“I wouldn’t describe him as a scarecrow, precisely. It appears he has changed since you saw him last.”

“Hmm.” Lillian was obviously displeased by the revelation. “He is ill-favored, nonetheless.”

“Since I rarely dwell on thoughts of male attractiveness,” Marcus said dryly, “I do not qualify as a competent judge. But I think hardly anyone would describe Mr. Swift as being ill-favored.”

“Are you saying he’s attractive?”

“I believe many would claim so, yes.”

Lillian thrust a hand in front of his face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” Marcus said, amused. “My love, what are you doing?”

“Checking your eyesight. I think your vision is failing. Here, follow the movement of my finger—”

“Why don’t you follow the movement of mine?” he suggested, reaching for her bodice.

She grabbed his hand and stared into his sparkling eyes. “Marcus, do be serious. Daisy’s future is at stake!”

Marcus settled back obligingly. “Very well.”

“Tell me what was said,” she prompted.

“I informed Mr. Swift quite sternly that I will not allow anyone to make Daisy unhappy. And I demanded that he give me his word not to marry her.”

“Oh, thank God,” Lillian said with a sigh of relief.

“He refused.”

“He what?” Her mouth fell open in astonishment. “But no one refuses you.”

“Apparently Mr. Swift wasn’t told about that,” he said.

“Marcus, you’re going to do something, aren’t you? You won’t let Daisy be browbeaten and harassed into marrying Swift—”

“Hush, love. I promise, Daisy will not be forced to marry anyone against her will. However…” Marcus hesitated, wondering exactly how much of the truth he should admit. “My opinion of Matthew Swift is somewhat different than yours.”

Her brows lowered. “My opinion is more accurate. I’ve known him longer.”

“You knew him years ago,” Marcus said evenly. “People change, Lillian. And I think much of what your father has claimed about Swift is true.”

“Et tu, Marcus?”

He grinned at Lillian’s theatrical grimace and reached beneath the covers. Fishing out one of her bare feet, he pulled it into his lap and began to knead her aching arch with deep strokes of his thumbs. She sighed and relaxed against the pillows.

Marcus considered what he had learned about Swift so far. He was an intelligent young man, deft and well-mannered. The kind who thought before he spoke. Marcus had always felt comfortable around such men.

On the surface, the pairing of Matthew Swift with Daisy Bowman was wildly incongruous. But Marcus did not entirely agree with Lillian’s belief that Daisy should marry a man who possessed the same romantic and sensitive nature. There would be no equilibrium in such a union. After all, every swift-sailing ship needed an anchor.

“We must send Daisy to London as soon as possible,” Lillian fretted. “It’s the height of the season, and she’s buried in Hampshire away from all the balls and soirees—”

“It was her choice to come here,” Marcus reminded her, reaching for her other foot. “She would never forgive herself if she missed the baby’s birth.”

“Oh, bother that. I would rather Daisy miss the birth and meet eligible men instead of having to wait here with me until her time runs out and she has to marry Matthew Swift and move with him to New York and then I’ll never see her again—”

“I’ve already thought of that,” Marcus said. “Which is why I undertook to invite a number of eligible men to StonyCrossPark for the stag-and-hind hunt.”