In Which Celina Is Assured

March 16, 1155

Celina, the Duchess of Armion, had just begun to show, and therefore could no longer enjoy her afternoon ride. Instead, she had to content herself by simply gazing out her bedroom window at the countryside beyond the castle walls, imagining all the wondrous places the valley had to offer for her and her horse. When her baby was old enough, perhaps she would take him--or her, she supposed--as well.

Her daydreams were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was probably only her maid, Cassada. "Enter," Celina obliged.

She had been wrong; it was not Cassada, but her husband, Duke Dalston. Clearly, he had just returned from the king's castle in Ambrin-Naroni, where he had been summoned to that morning.

"Good afternoon, Celina," he greeted her, in a rich, handsome voice that matched both his body and manner perfectly.

The duchess felt a slight blush crawl onto her cheeks, as she always did whenever he spoke to her. "Good afternoon, your grace."

Celina was madly in love with her husband--if love was a strong enough word. Ever since that moment she had first laid eyes on him, she had been in perpetual awe of this golden god of a man, this beautiful, angelic creature with his strong arms and beautiful face. And not only was he impossibly handsome, but he was also a man of unyielding goodness, compassion, and strength. In her twenty-two years, Celina had known enough men to know that not all of them meant well, but she knew that Dalston was the one man on earth who would never hurt her.

But all the same, she found herself awkward around him, her irrevocable love for him reduced to a young girl's foolish infatuation with a champion she could never hope to win. He was this perfect creation, a sight almost too fine for mortal eyes, whereas Celina was dull and plain. How she had come to be his was all still such a blur to her.

No one had ever wanted Celina, not since she was three years old. Her father had been the third son of a Dovian count, who had somehow won the heart of the princess, marrying her against the wishes of the king. Celina was the sole product of this union--her mother had died mere minutes after she was born. She had been her father's only comfort over the course of the next three years, she was told, and he had loved her deeply, but then he fell ill and died, leaving Celina to be passed along from relative to relative like a coin constantly changing hands. Finally, she had ended up in the court of her uncle, King Farilon, to be raised with her royal cousins. Her extended family had treated her well, but as much as she loved them and appreciated them, she had never felt as though they had truly wanted her. No, she had never been part of their family--merely a guest who had never really even been invited in the first place.

Once she had turned sixteen, her uncle had begun to search for a husband for her, but had no luck; there were many fairer maidens than she, whose fathers were more important than a count's third son. When she was twenty, he gave up altogether, and started to make arrangements for her to be sent to a convent.

Then, just before Farilon's plans had been finalized, Roderick had been exiled, bringing any arrangements the king had for his niece to a halt. Farilon became fully preoccupied with case of his son, most concerned with providing Roderick with company; a young man of twenty-five needed other men of that age, preferably nobles.

And so the king had approached Dalston, a cousin of his daughter-in-law Geneva's and the second son of a great lord. Dalston had never been particularly fond of Roderick, and had at first been reluctant to consent, so the king had found himself in a tight spot. He had only two things he could give Dalston: his daughter, Princess Holladrin, who was a lovely, but rather sickly girl, and his niece, Celina, nowhere near so enchanting, but in considerably better health. Farilon opted to offer him Celina in exchange for his compliance; surprisingly, Dalston had accepted.

So here Celina was, married to a man far too fine for the likes of her, and noticeably pregnant with his firstborn child. She loved him with every ounce of passion she had, and yet she feared that she would spend her whole life haunted by the knowledge that there was no possible way that someone as flawless as he could ever love a woman such as her, who was neither beautiful nor charming by any stretch of the imagination.

Her thoughts were interrupted as he caught her in a gentle embrace, her flushed cheek brushing against his lightly-stubbled one. "I'm sorry I couldn't be here today," he whispered softly into her ear. "Roderick is quite upset about this priest business and has no idea how to go about it; he was never cut out to be a king if you ask me, and if you don't mind me saying something like that about your cousin," he added hastily as he released her, biting his lip as if--for some strange reason--in fear of her disapproval.

"I don't mind, your grace," she assured him. "I trust you managed to help him."

Dalston shook his head. "I was never cut out to be a king myself, and neither was Octavius. All the priests are back in Dovia, and we cannot think of a single one who would be willing or obliged to come here. And Celina?"

"Yes, your grace?" Celina answered, her hazel eyes fearing to meet his startlingly blue ones.

"None of this 'your grace' nonsense, if you please," he told her. "We've been married for a good four months now, and you've been pregnant for at least three; Lord knows the only women who have seen me naked as many times as you have are my mother and my childhood nurse. You, dear wife, shall call me Dalston."

Celina stared at him in disbelief; he, a duke, had just asked her to call him by his given name! For a moment, she could not speak a word. He continued to look at her expectantly, a slight grin on his face. Finally, she replied, "Of course, your--I mean... Dalston."

His name was honey on her tongue. So many times she had mouthed it, imagined what it would be like to savor that name on her lips, but it was only now that she had tasted it for the very first time; never before had she known a sweeter flavor.

Dalston smiled. "You must have had a lonely day; I shall make it up to you tomorrow, I promise."

Before she could say anything, he had lowered himself to the level of her newly-visible bulge and began to make conversation with their unborn child, silly faces, hand gestures and all.

"Oh, but you kept Mama company, didn't you?" he cooed; she struggled to stifle her giggles. "You're much better than Papa, aren't you? Oh, you know you are! You'll make your mama much happier than I ever could, won't you? Oh, I think so!"

"But you do make me happy, y--Dalston!" objected Celina without thinking.

He looked up at her, one eyebrow raised. "Do I really? Ever since we've settled in here, we've scarcely seen much of each other at all, seeing as I haven't bothered to set aside any time to spend with you. I'm sorry, Lina; I've been a terrible husband."

"Lina?" she repeated slowly, trying to comprehend the fact that he had possibly just given her a pet name.

Dalston's eyes widened slightly. "Celina, I mean. Sorry about that. You see, I've been calling you Lina in my head since we were first betrothed. I never meant for it to slip out; I won't call you that again."

"Oh, but I do like it," she insisted truthfully, "and you're not a terrible husband."

"Oh. Well, thank you," he acknowledged her, taking her hands in his, causing her to jump slightly in surprise. "And Lina it is, then."

Celina felt herself smile slightly. "And Dalston, not 'your grace'."

"Yes."

For a moment, they simply stood there; for some reason, he didn't seem to want to let go of her hands. Then, suddenly, he leaned closer and...

He had kissed her before, of course, but only at their wedding, and then before each time he had made love to her. She didn't know what had brought this on; but whatever it was, she was grateful for it.

"Forgive me, my angel," he addressed her as they parted lips, "but I must go and pay a visit to our tenants. I do hope you will try to rest, for your own sake as well as the baby's. The cook is preparing dinner right now--I'll tell her to send it up with Cassada."

Quickly, he pressed his lips to hers once more, then made his way through the door and into the corridor.

She stared after him for a few minutes, then opened her wardrobe and exchanged her dress for her nightgown. She let down her hair, then settled herself down on the bed, alone with her thoughts and her child once more.

Dalston actually cared about her, he had shown in that brief encounter, and, she could tell, not just because she was carrying his child. He genuinely cared about her, and maybe even--dare she think it?--loved her.

For the first time since the death of her father, someone wanted her. She had a home, someone she belonged with, a bright future...

She gently clasped one hand to her stomach. "Well, my love," she soothed her baby, "I think we're going to be very happy here in Naroni."

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