Amelia

But if Amelia became pregnant, it would be with his child. His own flesh and blood.

carrying his child

“Get the doctor,” King said to Alan, his face drawn and very nearly white.

“May I ask a question?” she ventured.

“Of course,” he said huskily. “Anything!”

She hesitated. “Who are you?” she asked softly.

Now, as Alan said, it was a moot point. Because whatever Amelia had felt for him before, she would certainly hate him now.

Now, he was faced with the only true reason she could have had: that she loved him.

He would be honor-bound to marry her in such a case, and it was the last thing he wanted.

He was totally discounting the fact that he might have made Amelia pregnant during that feverish interlude in his bed.

“Alan has no need of a spirited woman,” Brant said, his voice very low. “He is a gentle man. A gentle woman would suit him very well.” His dark eyes narrowed. “You wanted her for yourself.”

Dime novels?” King asked without malice.

“Plato, in the original Greek,” his father replied, shocking him. “French poetry. Latin hymns. Apparently Quinn has been teaching her. They were imprinted with his name. But there were notations in the columns, not in Quinn’s handwriting. She seems to be quite well-read.”