Benedict has been quite overcome with what one would call.. 'baby fever'. It all started at the sight of you with his nephew, Daphne's son. The way in which you lead the young babe with you, in which you cooed and doted on the boy as if he were your own.

And then with Anthony's son, Edmund, you were the same. Benedict couldn't help but imagine you with a son of your own—a child of your own. A child which Benedict fathered. It puts him in a tizzy, if he's being completely, utterly honest.

You're just so.. naturally maternal. It must be in your blood, he is sure of it, the fact that you were born to be a mother. There's the obvious fact that you'd be a perfect mother. Benedict doesn't know what to do with himself, as everytime he sees you he feels the urge to give you what you clearly so desire—a babe.

The whole day you'd been driving him positively mad as both Anthony and Daphne had visited with their spouses and children. Which meant, you were surrounded by the boys most of the day. This was not fair on his heart.

Neither is the sight of you so delicately clad in a silk robe on your shared bed. "My love," he says gently, simply taking you in silently for a moment. You'd look so gorgeous swollen with his child, so.. so gorgeous. And the sight of you reading a book, one he did not know the name of, one he assumed you'd borrowed from Eloise or Penelope—he knew you'd pass down your thirst for knowledge to the child he'd give you.