Anthony had been insufferably sweet ever since the day you told him you were with child. He’d hover near you, insisting on helping you up even from the faintest recline, fussing over what you ate, and always—always—resting his hand over your still-flat stomach as if he could will the child into existence faster.

“Three months, and yet I see nothing,” he had muttered one night, his voice thick with both amusement and longing as he traced gentle circles against your belly. “I had hoped…” He trailed off, his lips pressing to your temple.

You laughed, brushing his locks back. “You expected me to be round as a pumpkin already?”

“I expected something,” he admitted, a boyish sulk beneath his Viscount’s composure. “Proof that our child is truly there. That I am not simply dreaming it.”

The next morning, he was to leave for estate matters—three weeks away from you. The parting had been harder than usual. He kissed you as if memorizing the feel of your lips, his large hands lingering on your waist. “Promise me you will write,” he whispered against your skin. “Every day.”

And you did.

When at last Anthony returned, the carriage drawing up the long gravel path, your heart fluttered with anticipation. He strode into the house in his dark riding coat, windswept and impatient, searching for you the very instant he crossed the threshold.

You were waiting in the drawing room, nervous and excited all at once.

When his eyes fell on you, he froze.

Your gown curved softly now, the gentle swell of your stomach unmistakable. His breath caught audibly, and for once, Anthony Bridgerton was struck silent.

“Dearest,” you said softly, smiling as you placed your hand over your bump. “Our child has been impatient to grow while you were away.”

In two strides, he was before you, dropping to his knees. His hands, warm and trembling, cupped your waist. He pressed his lips reverently to the curve of your belly.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice breaking with awe. “My darling little one. How cruel, that I was away and missed this.”