Rare and Precious Things (The Blackstone Affair #4)(38)
Author: Raine Miller

…So I will go to live at Stonewell Court and make my life with him, but I am very afraid of what awaits me. How will I ever rise to the standard of what is expected?

…Darius Rourke doesn’t yet understand that I do not deserve to be cherished by any man. I am torn, but alas, I am unable to deny his wishes for me, just as I was unable to deny my beloved Jonathan…

M G

Marianne George, who later became Rourke, upon her marriage to a Mr. Darius Rourke, in the summer of 1837.

The hair on the back of my neck tingled as I looked up from the journal, and out at the picturesque view. The coincidence was unbelievable.

My book of Keats, the first edition of poems, given to me by Ethan on the night he proposed, had belonged to this same Marianne as well. How could I ever forget, For my Marianne. Always your Darius. June 1837, in the elegant ink scrawl of an earlier era, as an inscription? A lover’s gift. I cherished what Darius had written to Marianne. So simple, yet so very pure in the sense of how he saw her. He loved her, and yet, for whatever the reasons, Marianne had felt unworthy of his love. Guilt weighed down on her. As it does for me. As it does for Ethan.

And now we were living in their house? I could hardly believe it. She mentioned Jonathan—the name carved on the mermaid angel statue down in garden, facing soulfully out to sea. I realized now, the statue was a memorial for her lost Jonathan, and not a grave. Because he had no grave. Jonathan had been lost out there in the beautiful and sometimes terrible sea. She loved him…and then he’d drowned. And Marianne felt she was the one accountable for what had happened to him.

She loved him…and then he’d drowned. I understood Marianne’s pain better than most people could. I understood it because, I too, longed for the release of my own guilt. Probably wouldn’t ever happen for me. Some things just have to be accepted even so the outcome will never change. Because the fact remained; I knew what it meant to feel responsible for the loss of someone you loved…and would never see again in this life.

Yes, I sensed him watching over me, but that didn’t take away the enormous loss I felt from missing him. The hole in my heart that his death created was still a cavern. The guilt I wrestled with daily, still feeling it was mostly my fault, remained within me. I missed my dad. I hadn’t realized just how much his love and support had protected me until I experienced the loss of it. I missed his presence. I missed his love. I just missed him.

Dad, I miss you so much…

As if to shake me out of my sad thoughts, I felt a kick and then a nudge. I smiled and rubbed my expanding belly. “Well hello there, butterfly angel.”

My angel poked me in the ribs for an answer, making me laugh at the timing. The movements didn’t feel like butterfly wings anymore at twenty-six weeks, but the name had stuck in my head. “I suppose you’re telling me you want to eat, which means I need to put some food in, right?”

“Brilliant child we have, baby, and I agree wholeheartedly. You do need to eat,” Ethan said behind me, draping his big hands on my shoulders and inhaling deeply. He scraped his beard along my neck as he nuzzled the sensitive spot with kisses. I leaned back into him and tilted my neck for better access, and an inhale of my own—he always smelled so amazing. My man liked to smell me, too. Everywhere. A bit kinky, but it showed how he bared his honesty with me. I liked honest. I needed honest in order to function in our relationship.

“Ahh, you’ve caught me talking to myself again.”

“Not yourself, but little lettuce, and that makes all the difference. I don’t think we need to ship you off to Bethlem Hospital just yet,” he quipped.

“We have a lettuce baby this week?” I shook my head at how funny it was to me that he could memorize every fruit and vegetable on that prenatal website. He was right every single time, too. I was starting to think he might have a photographic memory. Ethan remembered everything, while I was getting “pregnancy brain” and forgetting just about everything I’d ever learned. I felt another jab. “Here, feel. Baby is kicking right now.”

He spun the chair and knelt in front of me, quickly pushing my shirt up and the waistband of my leggings down, to expose my bump. I pointed to the spot where the action was happening and we both watched. It took a minute, but then the slow roll of what was most likely a tiny foot, poked my skin out as clear as day, before retreating back inside the space just as quickly.

“Awww, did you see that?” he asked in wonderment.

“Um yeah,” I nodded, “I felt it, too.”

He kissed over the spot very gently and whispered, “Thanks for looking out for your mum and seeing that she eats on time.” Then he looked up at me with a serious expression—not stern, but not smiling either—just intense and full of emotion.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You are utterly amazing, you know that?”

I brought my hand up to his cheek and held it there. “Why am I?”

“Because of everything you’ve given to me. Of what you can do.” He turned his eyes down again, framing my belly with both of his palms. “Creating life inside here.” He flipped his eyes back up to me. “For loving me as I am.”

My heart hitched in a small stab of pain at the last part he mentioned. Ethan was struggling still, with what he’d revealed to me about Mike’s horrific torture when he was a prisoner. I hated to think about it, but I could only imagine how exponentially more painful it was for Ethan to remember, than it was for me to hear about and imagine. Ethan had lived it. And couldn’t forget, because his subconscious forced him to relive the terror at its whim. But I was working on finding a therapy placement for him through Dr. Roswell—something he felt comfortable with, and could lead him through helpful techniques and methods to ease some of his torment. I refused to accept any other alternative for him. Ethan was going to find some relief, I was bound and determined.

“I don’t want you any other way than how you are. You are just what you are supposed to be.” I leaned down to kiss him on the lips, but he met me first, engulfing me in a deep kiss that left me breathless when he finally pulled away.

“Now, if little lettuce wasn’t insisting upon food right now, I would have to carry you off somewhere, missus, and show you a really good time.” He raised his brows at me saucily before restoring my leggings and shirt back to their original state with determined efficiency. “But, alas, that is not the case.” He stood first, then helped me up by the hand, and then bringing it to his mouth for a soft kiss. “After you, my lady.”