Chapter One

            Buffy had laughed at Spike's fussing before they got on the plane, but now she wished she'd given in and let him hire a wheelchair or whatever.  Anya's herbs had only helped a little with the ankle-swelling and Buffy's back ached horribly.  She didn't want to have to walk the massively long distance to baggage reclaim, she didn't want to stand in a queue for hours at passport control, and she didn't want the long, frustratingly late train journey at the other end.

            But Spike sent her to sit down, got her something to drink, and got the bags himself.  He was treating her like glass.  It was rather nice to be pampered.

            And then they walked out into Arrivals, and there was someone holding a placard reading Lord Spellingdon, and Buffy laughed until Spike led her over and said, "Buffy, this is Michael.  He's my chauffeur."

            Buffy gaped.  "You have a chauffeur?"

            "Well, technically he's my dad's, but I didn't fancy driving after all that time."

            "Are we going to your parents' house?  I thought we were going to your place."  Buffy had imagined a smart London apartment.  She hadn't really asked Spike too much about it.

            "No, we're going to my place," Spike said.  "Come on."

            Michael led them out to a limousine, and Buffy laughed out loud at the bizarreness of it all.  Inside it was hugely spacious, there was food, and hot and cold drinks, and a little TV screen.  Spike put a news channel on, turned the sound down, and Buffy fell asleep with her head on his lap.

            He looked down at her, blonde hair spreading across his knees, and touched her swollen stomach with his fingertips.  Last week he'd been a miserable bugger moping around his sister's house, and this week he was engaged to the only woman he'd ever really, really wanted.  Sure, he'd thought he loved Drusilla, but really he'd been mostly excited by her.  With Buffy, he just wanted to take care of her.  Make her smile, watch her sleep, hold her close and smell the scent of her skin, kiss her soft mouth and run his hands over...

            Okay, he had to stop thinking like that or he was going to wake Buffy up.

            Spike concentrated on the news.  He'd missed what was going on at home while he'd been away - American news channels rarely reported anything that happened outside of America.

            By the time Spike had heard Tony Blair's most recent speech to the Commons about six times, they were getting close to his home, and Spike gently shook Buffy awake.

            "Nearly there," he said.  "Nice sleep?"

            "Why is doing nothing so tiring?"

            "Because you were only doing nothing on the plane, and before that you were being quite exhausting."

            Buffy blushed, and Spike grinned.

            "That is pretty damn adorable," he said.  He bent down and kissed her, and Buffy wriggled around so she was sitting up, her arms around him, holding him as close as she could get him.

            "You taste really good," she said.

            "Don't sound so surprised."

            "You usually taste like ashes."

            "Cheers."

            "Not that I didn't get used to quite liking it..."

            "Does that mean I can start smoking after the baby's born?"

            Buffy shook her head vigorously.  "Smoking is damaging to children as well as unborn babies," she said, and Spike made a face.

            "Guess I'll have to find a new addiction," he said, and slid his hand up under her top.

            "Didn't you say we're nearly there?" Buffy asked, not really wanting him to stop, but not really wanting to be half-naked when they pulled up, either.

            Spike hit a button on the centre console.  "Michael, go the long way around."

            "Yes, sir."

            Spike grinned at Buffy.  "Not nearly there at all."

            "Oh, no, what a shame..."

            Buffy wasn't as flexible as she used to be, but Spike didn't mind at all.  It had been a while since he'd had sex in a car and he was looking forward to remembering how it went.  He pulled off Buffy's new oversized shirt and nuzzled her neck.  God, she smelled good.  Her fingers were pushing up his t-shirt, playing with his stomach muscles, and she was kissing his ear, nibbling on it, whispering all sorts of naughty things to him.

            Spike pulled down one of her bra cups and stroked her nipple, and Buffy gasped, because they were so much more sensitive than they'd been before.  He licked and sucked at her breast, and Buffy moaned, her head back, holding him there.  His hand was pushing up her skirt, stroking the back of her knee, her thigh, her buttock, and she reached down to his crotch to free the big hard bulge in his jeans.

            She ran her finger over the tip of his erection, and Spike sucked in a breath, his own fingers kneading the gusset of her knickers.  Buffy writhed against him, and Spike, unable to stand it any more, pulled her onto his lap, her back against him, and shoved her knickers aside.  He slid into her, big and hard, and Buffy moaned so loud that Michael, driving the car up the long main drive to the house, raised his eyebrows and made a wide U-turn over the grass to drive around the village one more time.  Good job the windows were blacked out.

            Spike kept his hand between her legs and stroked Buffy as she moved herself up and down on him.  They'd been apart only six months, but that was six months of sex they'd both been missing.  Spike planned to take Buffy straight to bed when they got home, and not let her out until - well, until she went into labour.  Harmony's husband was a doctor and he'd told Spike there was nothing wrong with having sex while Buffy was pregnant.  Spike took this advice to mean they should have as much sex as possible.  Hell, he was just following doctor's orders.

            He took her earlobe between his teeth and bit down gently.  Buffy cried out, and came, tightening around him, and Spike gave in and came too, exploding inside her, holding her tight, breathing hard against her neck.

            "Never, ever, stop doing that," he said.

            "What did I do?"

            "I dunno.  Just keep on doing it."  He kissed her neck.  "I love you."

            "I kinda like you too," Buffy replied, moving off him and reaching for the box of tissues on the bar in front of them.

            "Just 'like'?"

            "Adore.  Need.  Want."

            "And?"

            "Love.  I love you."  She kissed him, feeling happier than she could ever remember.

            They pulled up at the house five minutes later, after Buffy had frantically cleaned herself up and re-done her make-up and tried to make some sense of the birdnest Spike had turned her hair into.  But as soon as she stepped out of the car, she knew everyone knew what they'd been doing.

            Everyone, that was, who was standing outside the house.  The house that was bigger than Sunnydale High.  No - scrap that, she thought in awe, it was bigger than the whole of Sunnydale.

            "So," she asked nervously, "which bit's yours?"

            Spike laughed.  "All of it, love."

            "Very funny."

            "No, just very expensive.  Viscount Spellingdon doesn't earn that much legitimately, you know."

            "And illegitimately?"

            "He brings home quite a lot.  Come meet the servants."

            Buffy felt like she might faint.  It had been enough to learn that Spike's father was an earl, and then she'd had to try and understand the whole 'courtesy title' idea.  Viscount Spellingdon was really just one of the Earl of Stanchester's minor titles, but Spike, as his eldest and only son, was allowed to use it until he inherited the earldom.  This meant that Buffy would become Lady Spellingdon, a viscountess, and her baby would be known as 'honourable'.

            And then there was this massive house.

            And then the servants.

            "This is Davis, the butler, and Jones, the housekeeper."

            "They don't have first names?" Buffy whispered.

            Spike laughed.  "Our butlers and housekeepers have always been called Davis and Jones," he said.  "It's like the earldom itself.  It's passed on through the family.  My Jones is Dad's Jones's sister, and my Davis is Dad's Davis's cousin.  They've been with us for centuries."

            "I see," Buffy lied.

            "Look, we can do this later," Spike said, looking at the tired confusion in her eyes.  "Do you want something to eat?  Bath, shower?  Bed?"

            "Bed," Buffy said gratefully.

            Spike's eyes gleamed.  "Me too.  Jones, is it all made up?"

            The middle-aged woman nodded.  "All ready for you, sir."

            "Excellent.  My lady, may I show you your bedchamber?"

            "I don't get to sleep in yours?"

            "No," he laughed again, "I was being ironic."

            "I don't understand British humour."

            "Neither do a lot of Britons.  Come on."

            He took her up a huge, very long staircase, and Buffy wondered if a place like this had elevators.  Actually, a place like this should have moving walkways.  Or golf carts.

            "Golf carts?" Spike said.

            "Did I say that out loud?"

            "I think you need some more sleep," he ruffled her hair.

            "I don't usually sleep this much.  Being pregnant is exhausting."

            He pushed open a set of huge double doors and led Buffy through what looked like a living room, filled with antique furniture.  Then he took her up a little flight of stairs to another door, opened it, and Buffy's eyes were filled by the biggest bed she'd ever seen.  It almost looked normal-sized in this room, however, which was bigger than Buffy's whole house in Sunnydale.

            "Seriously?" she said, tearing her eyes away from it and looking up at Spike.

            "Yep.  It's a State Bed.  Queen Elizabeth had it made."

            "The queen slept here?  When?  Did you meet her?"

            Spike looked delighted.  "Not the current one, love.  The first one.  The bed's four and a half centuries old."

            At that, Buffy did start to feel dizzy, and Spike caught her and laid her down on the bed before she hit the floor.  "Buffy?  Buffy, are you alright?"

            "You live in a house big enough for its own zip code and your servants know more about their ancestors than I do about mine and all your furniture is older than America and I'm lying on a bed where Elizabeth the First once slept..."

            Spike nodded as if this was all perfectly normal.  "Buffy's sometimes short for Elizabeth, right?"

            "Sometimes.  Not for me."

            "No.  Not for you.  You're unique."  He stroked back her hair.  "Go to sleep.  I have to talk to the servants anyway."

            Buffy nodded and yawned and closed her eyes, but she didn't sleep.  Her mind was reeling.

            Spike wandered down the huge staircase and met Clements, his estate manager, at the bottom.

            "Nice of you to put in an appearance."

            Spike rolled his eyes.  "I had more important things to do."

            "You brought a pregnant woman home?"

            "Yes, and?"  Spike got out a packet of cigarettes and lit up, rolling his shoulders and inhaling deeply.

            "Is it yours?"

            Spike narrowed his eyes.  "Watch it."

            "Well, you know, they'll tell you anything to get the title.  Remember Drusilla?"  He had to run to keep up with Spike as his boss strode out of the house and into the sunshine.

            "I spend most of my waking moments trying to forget."

            "An American woman... The earl won't like this.  What are you going to do with her?"

            "Oh, I figured I might tie her up in the cellar... I'm going to marry her, Clem, what do you think?"

            "Marry her?"  Clem looked horrified.  "But - but, she's nobody!"

            Spike rounded on him and Clem had his back against the wall before he'd even taken another breath.

            "She is not bloody nobody," Spike hissed, Clem's collar bunched in his fist.  "She is my fiancée and the mother of my child and the woman I love and she is going to be your lady and mistress.  So you're going to be nice to her.  Right?"

            Clem held up his hands in surrender.  "Right.  Of course.  I didn't mean anything by it."

            "Yeah.  Of course you didn't."  Spike stepped away, and Clem tried to relax.  He had a lot of respect for Spike, but with that respect came a lot of unease and sometimes total terror.  It was sometimes easy to forget exactly who his boss was.

            "I'm sure she's a great girl."

            "Got that right.  And she's gonna be a great lady."

            "I still don't think your father-"

            "My bloody father?  He's an arsehole.  I don't give a rat's-"

            "He's coming tomorrow," Clem said, and Spike lit up two more cigarettes.

            In the morning, Buffy woke to the sound of a telephone ringing.  She opened her eyes to see Spike leaning over the far edge of the bed - and with a bed that size, far meant far - and picking up the receiver.

            "Yep?  Er, yeah, lots of it.  Buffy?  You want some coffee?"

            Stunned, she nodded.  Then she shook her head.  "Um, I'm not supposed to..."

            "Right.  No, she'll have tea.  Right, love?  The stuff I gave Jones yesterday.  Yes, it is tea.  Well, bloody find it then," and he put the phone down.

            Buffy was silent for a few minutes as she tried to figure out what to say.

            "They call to offer you coffee?"

            "Beats a speaking tube.  And I sort of got pissed off with them just walking in with a tea tray."

            For Buffy, it was a giant leap to think of anyone making her tea in the morning.  Sure, her mom did it sometimes, but usually she and Dawn had left the house by the time Buffy was awake.  She'd got used to cooking for herself, tidying up, cleaning the bathroom.

            "I suppose you have a cook?"

            Spike shrugged.  "One or two."

            Jesus.

            "And... maids?"

            "They weren't very maidenly last time I checked," Spike grinned, and Buffy rolled her eyes at him.  He rolled back over to her and kissed her neck, then her mouth, then pushed the covers down and started stroking her breasts.  He lowered his head and licked her nipple - and then his head came up like he'd been electrically shocked.

            "What?" Buffy said, alarmed.

            "Er, is it normal for them to be, uh," he looked horribly embarrassed, "leaking?"

            Buffy looked down.  "Yes," she said, smiling although she didn't mean to, "it's normal.  And your fault."

            "What?  What did I do?"

            "Stimulated milk production.  In a couple of months someone else is going to get precedence there."

            Spike made a face.  "Well, that sucks."

            "Pretty much the idea."  She stroked his hair.  "You can still do it, if you want."

            "I dunno.  It's a bit... weird.  Sort of Oedipal."

            Buffy laughed.  "Up to you.  I heard-"  she broke off, listening.  There was a knock at the door, and Spike called out, "Leave it out there."

            He dropped a kiss on her shoulder and climbed out of bed, across the vast surface of sheets and duvet, picking up a silk dressing gown as he went.  Buffy watched him.  This was a different Spike from the one she knew.  Her Spike would never have worn a silk gown.  But then her Spike didn't own a vast palace and have servants with lineages.

            He left the room, then came back with a tray, on which was balanced a coffee pot, tea pot, strainer, teaspoons and dainty china cups with saucers.  He put the tray down on Buffy's side of the bed, then poured her tea for her.

            "Today," he said, watching her drink, "I thought we might go for a ride.  Show you the estate."

            "This place has an estate?"

            "Got to have something the tax man can take away from me."

            "So... When you say ride...?"

            "In a car, love.  Not gonna make you get on a horse."

            "Okay, good, 'cos me and horses are unmixy things."

            "You've never ridden?"

            Buffy's eyes gleamed.  "Well, not for a couple of hours..."

            Spike gave a slow smile.  "A couple of hours too long."

            He kissed her lightly, then moved in closer, tasting her properly.  She was sweet and sour all at once: the taste of herbal tea still lingered on her tongue, and Spike pulled her closer, intoxicated.

            And then the phone rang again.

            "Bloody thing," Spike cursed.  He snatched up the receiver by Buffy's side of the bed and snapped, "What?"

            Buffy watched him, her own breathing fast and heavy.  She hoped whatever it was would go away.  She didn't know if it was hormones or long celibacy or both combined, but she'd just been constantly horny since she got Spike back.  She reached out and stroked his neck and watched his jaw tighten in pleasure.

            "Yeah, we'll be down in a bit," he sighed into the phone, and ended the call.

            "Down where?" Buffy asked playfully.

            "The drawing room, to meet my father."

            Buffy stopped playing.  "Your father?  Is coming here?  Or is he already here?"

            "He's about an hour away.  Maybe less."

            "Oh, God.  I have to - what am I going to wear!  Where's all my stuff?  God, Spike-!"

            He caught her hands.  "Calm down, love.  There's plenty of time.  Your stuff's been put away in your dressing room."

            This perked Buffy up considerably.  "I have a dressing room?"

            "And your own bathroom."

            "Wow.  Cool.  Where?"

            Laughing, Spike pointed to a door on the far wall, and helped Buffy out of bed and into a robe to go and investigate.

            Inside the dressing room she found deep walk-in wardrobes lining the walls, tall mirrors, angled mirrors, even a chaise longue for if the effort of dressing became too much.  Next door was a bathroom, very large and ornate, with a claw-foot bathtub.

            "And this is all mine?  I don't have to share it with anyone?"

            Leaning in the doorway, Spike shook his head.  "Only if you want to."

            Buffy fingered the tie of her robe.  "And if I want to?"

            "Then you just have to ask."

            "I'm asking.  Come and show me how to work the shower."

            Spike showed her, but the water was running cold long before either of them got around to any kind of washing.  Afterwards, Spike dried Buffy off, sat her on his lap and towelled her hair.  She reached up and touched the livid pink scar running down his face.

            "Will it fade?"

            "You don't like it?"

            "No, I - it's kinda sexy.  And," she kissed the burned skin, "I remember how you got it."

            Spike slowed his towelling.  "Not likely to forget."

            Buffy pressed her forehead against his and closed her eyes.  "You saved my life," she said, "and Dawn's."

            "Yeah, well, just repaying a favour.  You got me out of that cellar."

            "I did, didn't I?"  Buffy smiled, pleased with herself.

            "I thought you were dead," Spike said, holding her close.  "He shot you and I thought-"

            "I had a bullet-proof vest on," Buffy reminded him.  "I got bruised, nothing else.  Unlike you..."

            Her hand traced down his body, over one round pink scar on his shoulder to another on his hard, flat stomach.  Scars he'd got helping her, saving her.  To begin with it had been a job - Joyce had been paying him in art, but Spike never collected it.  He'd never been told to protect Dawn, but as soon as she was in trouble he'd rushed off to save her, and that was when Buffy knew she loved him.

            Of course, then there was that ludicrous double-cross where he'd pretended to be against her so he could take out Angel and Drusilla, and Buffy had believed him, believed Spike hated her, had been using her, and it had hurt so damn much...

            Now, she couldn't believe she'd believed him.  Spike loved her, she knew that now.  The beautiful solitaire ring on her finger was proof enough of that, as was the monster baby that had been kicking her black and blue all night.

            "You know," she said, putting her hand on her rather sore stomach, "if this kid kicks as much when it's born as it does now, I'm signing it up for Manchester United.  Even if it is a girl."

            "They have a women's team," Spike said.

            "Famous baby," Buffy smiled, and kissed him on the lips.  "Now come and help me figure out what to wear."

            She still didn't have a lot of clothes, because she really couldn't see the point in buying a whole wardrobe for three months, but Spike had insisted on some beautiful things.  Rich fabrics and lovely colours.

            Buffy didn't know it yet, but Spike was planning on having her wear them a lot more than just three months.  There would be many more babies after this one.

            He helped her dress in a lilac summer dress with a high waist and little daisies on the bodice, then went and put on his usual black jeans and dark t-shirt.  This one was faded blue, though, and it looked damn good on him.

            "If you have so much money," Buffy asked, "then why do you always wear the same thing?"

            "That's why the aristocracy have so much money," Spike told her as he pulled his boots on.  "They never wear anything new.  Darla usually wears Mum's clothes most of the time."

            "Darla?"

            "Older sister.  Same mother as me."

            "How old were you when she died?"

            "Twelve," Spike said after a short pause.  "Darla was seventeen.  Dad got married again within the year.  I think he'd been messing around anyway."

            Buffy was appalled.  "How did your mother die?"

            "Lung cancer."  At her incredulous look, he went on, "Dad's a bastard.  I'll tell you that now, so you're not disappointed.  Meet him now, and hopefully we won't have to see the old bugger until the christening.  When he will not be allowed to hold the baby, because he dropped Harm all the time when she was little."

            No kidding, Buffy thought, but she said, "I meant with the lung cancer thing.  Did it not, maybe, make you think you shouldn't smoke?"

            Spike shrugged.  "Well, something's gonna kill me," he said philosophically.  "Can't avoid smoke all my life."

            "Yes, but sixty a day?"

            "Look, in my line of work I'm far more likely to get killed by a stray - or not so stray - bullet, or a rabid guard dog, or a land mine or - Buffy?"

            She was sitting very still.

            "Shit," Spike said, and came over to kneel before her.  "I didn't mean - look, I'll be more careful now.  No more tomb robbing.  Proper deals.  I'll just stick to nice, safe antiques, right?"

            "And look how that last antique worked out," Buffy sniffed.  "Nearly got you and me - and Dawn all killed."

            "Because it wasn't a proper antique.  Look.  I won't go after anything dangerous.  I've got too much at stake now."

            "Yeah," Buffy said.  "I've just got used to the idea of not being a single parent.  Don't you go and widow me before I'm even married."

            Spike frowned at that, but didn't say anything and kissed her instead.  "You ready to go and meet my horrible family?"

            "They can't all be horrible.  I mean, Harmony's... Well, okay, Harmony's dreadful, but at least her and Darla made you come and see me.  They must be okay."

            "Mostly because they spent as much time away from my father as they could."  Spike watched Buffy fit her damp hair into a loose plait, swipe on some mascara and a little lipgloss, and put her feet into sandals.

                "All set," she said, and took Spike's arm to walk down the corridor and the long staircase, into the lion's den.