Pregnant With His Royal Twins. Louisa Heaton

had made her feel that way. The way he’d looked at her, his eyes sparkling with inky delight, his full lips curved in a wicked smile. He’d laughed with joy at her anecdotes, had genuinely seemed happy to stay.

      She’d felt warm and wanted again. Desire had filled her the second he’d let go of the stem of his glass and let his fingers trail delicately over the back of her hand. She’d focused on that movement, watched his fingertips on her skin—her very sensitive skin. She’d looked up and met his eyes, and the most extraordinary question had left her lips.

      ‘Are you married?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘With someone?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Do you want to be?’

      She’d startled herself with the sheer audacity of her question. That wasn’t her! Freya MacFadden did not proposition strange men!

      She’d pulled her hand away then, retreating into the shell she was so accustomed to being inside. But then he’d reached for her hand again. Not to stop her from running away. Not to try and possess her or control her. But just to get her to make eye contact with him.

      ‘I’m guessing you didn’t mean to say that?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Then we can both forget it. Don’t worry.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Don’t ever be.’

      He’d been so kind. So understanding. So she hadn’t bolted and neither had he.

      They’d continued to sit with each other and talk about what the other guests were wearing and why the charity they were there to support was so important. They’d laughed and had a good time, enjoying each other’s company.

      He’d offered to walk her out at the end, and she’d let him, intending to say goodbye at the door. To fetch her coat and leave. For ever to remain an enigmatic stranger at a party that he would remember with fondness. Like Cinderella leaving the ball at midnight, only without the glass slipper.

      Freya let out a deep breath. She couldn’t stay here in the bathroom for too long. There was a hand-over from the day shift.

      Freya loved her daytime colleagues, and they her, but she was happy when they went home. Because then she could begin to craft the intimacy that the night shift brought. Lowering the lights. Softening the voices.

      It was time.

      She couldn’t wait any longer.

      It was now or never.

      She looked down.

      And sucked in a breath.

      ‘I’m pregnant.’

      She looked back at her reflection, disbelieving.

      ‘I’m pregnant?’

      She didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or to cry, to gasp or anything else!

      She was pregnant.

      There was no question as to how it had happened. She remembered that night all too well. The father of her child was quite clear in her mind. How could he not be? Even if she didn’t actually know who he was. Or where he came from.

      Their meeting that night had been quite by chance—as sudden and exciting and as passionate as she’d imagined it could be. Scary and exhilarating, and one of the best nights of her life. She’d thrown caution to the wind and felt fully alive again for just a moment. For one desperate moment she had been someone else.

      She had gone to the ball knowing she would be able to hide behind her veil and costume all night. It had been very gothic-looking, high-necked, with lots of black and dark purple, layers and petticoats. And there had been a top hat, embellished with a large swathe of plum ribbon, copper cogs and whatnots, and a veil of amethyst silk covering her nose and mouth like a Bedouin bride, leaving only her eyes visible.

      Her best feature. The only part of her face not scarred or damaged by the acid. She’d been lucky in that respect. Most acid attack victims were blinded.

      Her dashing admirer had tried to remove her veil when he’d leant in to kiss her, but she’d stopped him.

      ‘Don’t, please. It’s better this way.’

      He’d smiled and used his mouth in other ways...

      Now everyone at the hand-over would be waiting for her, and they’d all look at her when she went back through. The longer she left it, the worse it would be.

      She put the cap on the test stick and slipped it into her pocket, then unlocked the bathroom door. Shoulders back, trying to feel relaxed, she headed off to the briefing.

      Okay. I can do this. I’m an expert at pretending everything is fine.

      The staff were all gathered around the hub of the unit. Whenever a new patient was admitted, or whenever family came to visit, they would walk down this one corridor that led to the hub. From there they would be directed down different corridors—to the right for postnatal and discharges, straight ahead for medical assessment and long-stay patients, to the left for labour and delivery, and beyond that, Theatre.

      From the hub, they could see who was trying to buzz through the main doors to gain access to the ward, with the help of a security camera. They could also see the admissions boards, listing who was in which bed and what stage they were at.

      There were usually thank-you cards there, perched on the desk, or stuck to the wall behind them, along with a tin or a box of chocolates kindly donated by a grateful family, and on the walls were some very beautiful black and white photographs of babies, taken by their very skilled photographer Addison.

      Senior midwife Jules was leaning up against the hub, and she smiled when she saw Freya coming. ‘Here she is! Last but not least.’

      Freya sidled in amongst the group, keeping her eyes down and trying desperately to blend in. She could feel all eyes upon her and folded herself down into a chair to make herself smaller. She had kept people waiting when they just wanted to go home.

      She gratefully accepted a copy of the admissions sheet that Mona passed over to her.

      ‘It’s been a busy day today, and it looks like you girls aren’t going to have it easy tonight either. In the labour suite, we’ve got two labouring mums. In Bed One is Andrea Simpson—she’s a gravida one, para zero at term plus two days, currently at three centimetres dilated and comfortable, but she had a spontaneous rupture of membranes at home. She’s currently on the trace machine and will need to come off in about ten minutes. In Bed Two we have Lisa Chambers, she’s a gravida three, para four. Two lots of twins and currently about to deliver her first singleton baby. She’s had two previous elective Caesareans and is trying for a VBAC on this one.’

      Freya nodded, scribbling notes. A VBAC was a vaginal birth after Caesarean—a ‘trial of scar’, as some people put it, to see if the mother could deliver vaginally.

      ‘She’s labouring fast. At six-thirty she was at six centimetres and she’s currently making do on gas and air.’

      Freya sat and listened to the rest of Jules’s assessment. They had in total twenty-one patients: two on the labour ward, seven on Antenatal and twelve on Postnatal, five of whom were post-surgery.

      And the phones would continue to ring. There would also be unexpected walk-ins, and no doubt A&E would send up one or two.

      But she didn’t mind. Her job was her life. Her passion. The only thing that brought her real joy. It was all she’d ever wanted to be, growing up. A midwife and a mum. And, as of ten startling minutes ago, it looked as if she was going to achieve being both of those.

      Freya was excellent at her job, and she truly believed she was only so good at it because it was something she adored doing. Every new baby born was a minor miracle. Every witnessed birth a joy and a privilege.