I sat staring at the wall, a drink in my hand, contemplating everything that had happened in the De Havilland's former stable earlier that day. My gut clenched, and I closed my eyes again at the memory. She'd been pregnant. She'd been pregnant and alone. Yet, all these years, when I thought of Lydia, I had thought of nothing but my own misery, my own damaged pride. "Selfish fucker," I muttered, throwing back the remainder of my drink. I'd come inside her that day, and yet I had never even considered pregnancy because I'd been too caught up in my own suffering. She'd tried to find me—or at least Stuart had been sent to find me. I was gripped by a wave of hatred so fierce I felt like it might knock me to the ground, as I remembered the disgusted look on his face when he'd come to our apartment and the way he'd left without saying a word about Lydia. I might have eventually forgiven him for what happened in the stable after I'd made love to Lydia—maybe.
