Sunday dinner at the Estate was a mandatory tradition Alistair had instated, and Victoria had kept. The dining room was warm, filled with the smell of roast lamb and the sound of Malcolm telling a joke.
“And then the Duke says, ‘That’s not my corgi!’” Malcolm finished, laughing loudly. Isabella swatted his arm, giggling.
Malcolm stood up, his face flushed with happiness. He tapped a spoon against his wine glass.
“Alright, alright, attention please,” Malcolm beamed. “Bella and I have some news. We wanted to tell you all together.”
He picked up the bottle of vintage champagne. “We are going to need a bigger nursery in the London townhouse.”
Isabella covered her glass with her hand, grinning. “I can’t drink this, Malcolm. Not for another six months.”
“Twins!” Malcolm shouted, unable to hold it in. “We’re having twins!”
Lady Beatrice clapped her hands, her face lighting up with genuine delight. “Oh, finally! The nursery will be full again!”
William stood up to shake his brother’s hand, offering congratulations. Victoria remained seated for a fraction of a second too long. She watched the unbridled joy on Isabella’s face–the freedom to celebrate, to be open, to be just a mother.
Victoria forced a dazzling smile onto her face. She raised her glass of water, masking the envy and the fear that tightened her chest.
“To the twins,” Victoria toasted, her voice steady. “And to the future of the Dynasty.”
Under the table, her hand rested on her own stomach, guarding the secret that felt less like a blessing and more like a bomb.