Tristan dropped the glass of brandy his father-in-law had pressed into his hand minutes ago at the muffled scream behind the closed door. The glass shattered at his feet, but he was oblivious. Imogene needed him, but he had been ordered by the females attending his duchess to stay away. “Tristan, you have done your part, let her do hers without you hovering over her like a thundercloud. Imogene will worry about you when she should be saving her strength for the birth,” had been his aunt Ruth’s calm response when he had initially refused to leave his wife’s side. His aunt had been sympathetic to the fear she noted in his wild gaze, but nothing he had said would alter her decree. “You should be waiting for the good news in your library, Blackbern,” his father-in-law grumbled. “For my daughters’ births, I left the house and distracted myself by playing cards at my club.” With Imogene so close to giving birth, Tristan had been reluctant to stray far from the house for weeks.
