Evelyn’s POV

A soft drizzle tapped against the wide windows, the sound blending with the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. The air smelled faintly of roasted garlic and thyme from the kitchen downstairs, the maid was probably cooking dinner.

Evelyn sat curled on the couch in the library, a light blanket draped around her shoulders, one hand resting absently on the swell of her stomach. Thirty-seven weeks gone. Every day felt longer, heavier and more intimate.

She had ...