Appalled, Lenore stared at the pages of her diary, her mind numb, her fingers trembling.She had woken early, but had lain, listless in her bed, for hours. Finally rising and ringing for Trencher, she had dressed for the day but had shied from facing her husband over the breakfast-table. Instead, she had sat at the little escritoire by the wall near one window and opened her diary to record the events of the previous evening—depressing though they were.No words had come. No light comments to record her swelling misery. In an effort to ease her gloom, she had flipped back through the recent pages, filled with glowing happiness and an unstated hope she now knew to be forlorn.It was then it had struck her.They had been married in late July. It was now mid-September. August had been a blissful month, totally unmarred by the usual occurrence. For one who had been regularly afflicted ever since she was thirteen, the conclusion was inescapable.She was pregnant.With child.Very possibly bearing Jason’s heir.For one very long moment, she considered not telling him.
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