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hand.
    This was all James’s fault. The letter she had been forced to write to him about making a child together had turned her thoughts increasingly toward the subject of sex.
    “Are you all right, my lady?” John paused at the door and regarded her anxiously. “Should I get you some more tea?”
    “No, this is perfectly fine.” She managed to put the pot down without scalding herself and waved him away.
    She added several chips of sugar to her cup and lots of milk before she finally poured in more tea. It was time to get over her shyness. If James didn’t answer her letter soon she would have to start looking for a potential bedmate. Her gaze lifted to the wall of family portraits her mother-in-law had insisted on hanging in her private sitting room.
    Every time she sat here, she felt their quiet expectancy and silent condemnation. If James’s mother mentioned once more that Abigail held the hopes of the Beecham family in her hands, or more importantly in her womb, she would scream until she ran out of breath. How had it ended up being her fault?
    If James found her too repugnant to bed, what was she supposed to do? How was she expected to conceive a child when her husband spent less than a quarter of his year in the countryside with her? She retrieved the book she had stuffed down the side of the chair and put on her spectacles. Doctor Frederick’s journal of intimate female mysteries hadn’t quite lived up to her expectations. In fact, Doctor Frederick’s assumption that women were not designed to enjoy intercourse was beginning to annoy her.
    Abby finished her tea and scanned the remaining pages of the book. In her quest to understand the notion of love and the mechanics of reproduction, she had scoured the library. Unfortunately, there seemed to be little information available that hadn’t been written by men for men. There was certainly nothing in the latest book to alter her original opinion that Doctor Frederick and most men were fools.
    Even though she had never enjoyed coupling with James, she had experienced pleasure by herself. It could not be true that all women simply endured or else marriage as an institution would surely have foundered a long time ago.
    She placed the book on her writing desk and went to find her shawl. Outside the bow window, the rolling lawns of Beecham Hall flowed down toward the ornamental lake. Beds of blue-bells and narcissi added their strident colors to present a picture of pastoral perfection. Spring was in the air, and even Abby felt the sap rising through her veins.
    It would be a beautiful place to bring up a child. James had told her many stories of his younger days before she joined the household at the age of eleven. She pictured herself walking down to the lake, a chubby-faced child clinging to her hand.
    With a sigh she turned away from the enticing view. If James didn’t contact her soon, she would have to devise another plan to give him an heir whether he wanted one or not.
    When she opened the door and walked down the narrow corridor toward the main hall, she heard a dog bark. Her heart gave an excited leap and she picked up her pace. By the time she entered the medieval hall, her husband stood there, handing his cloak and hat to the smiling butler. His dogs milled around his highly polished boots, yapping with excitement.
    She paused and simply stared at his fashionable figure. Of all things, she hadn’t expected to see him in person. She’d anticipated his rejection in a letter and had braced herself for disappointment. If he had decided to leave the delights of the Season merely to come down and speak to her, something must have changed.
    When he swung around and saw her, he smiled and opened his arms.
    “Abby cat.”
    She ran to him and closed her eyes as he locked her in a tight embrace. His familiar cinnamon scent enveloped her, and she leaned into him. Despite everything, it was good to have him home.
     
    The instant Peter stepped into the building,