“Yes,” she said quickly, almost too quickly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I would like that very much.”
The words had scarcely left her lips when the music drew to its close. The final notes lingered in the air, delicate and fading, and she realized the moment had come to an end. Yet her heart was still pounding, the warmth in her cheeks refusing to subside.
Magnus’s hand loosened from her waist, though his presence still seemed to surround her. He inclined his head, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth, and for the briefest instant, she wondered if he, too, had felt the strange, breathless strain of the moment.
Dorothy and Magnus sat on a shaded alcove where two wrought-iron chairs were half-hidden beneath a trellis of climbing roses. Their petals brushed in the evening breeze, scattering sweetness over the secluded spot.
Dorothy smoothed her gown over her knees, her heart still unsettled from the dance. For a moment, she watched Magnus, her mind heavy with the question that had been troubling her for weeks. It sat at the tip of her tongue—the matter of an heir, the one duty that society whispered endlessly of, the one that shadowed every marriage of their kind.
She wanted to ask, truly she did, but her throat tightened. To say it aloud would mean admitting what it implied, that she thought of their union as more than an arrangement, that she had begun to wonder what it meant to be his wife in every sense. Her fingers knotted in her lap instead.
Magnus leaned back, his gaze sweeping the flowers before settling upon her with a thoughtful softness. For a moment, she thought he might tease her again, but instead, his tone was gentler.
“How is Eugenia faring?” he asked. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. Her speaking. Did she ask for anything? Is there something she longs for but does not say outright?”
Dorothy blinked, surprised by the direction of his concern. She had expected talk of the evening, of the dancing, perhaps even of her own nervousness, but instead, he was thinking of the little girl who had, in so short a time, come to mean so much to her.
“She is doing well,” Dorothy answered softly, folding her hands in her lap. “Truly. She has not asked for much of anything. She is a clever child, Your Grace, very quick to learn and so very eager to please. Sometimes, I think she holds her tongue for fear of being a burden, but she is far more observant than most give her credit for.”
Magnus shifted slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward, gaze intent but softened by an undercurrent of uncertainty. “I do want to be closer to her,” he admitted at last, almost as though the words cost him something. “Eugenia. I reckon you must have noticed that by now. She’s my responsibility, but more than that, I want her to know me, to trust me. I’m not entirely sure how to begin to do that.”
Dorothy felt a tug at her heart, seeing this rare vulnerability in him. For all his commanding presence, for all the way he filled aroom with authority, here was a man who confessed he did not know how to bridge the distance between himself and a child he so dearly wanted to reach.
“You have already begun,” she assured him gently. “You notice her. You have started to actually talk to her. I know that once we get back home, she will have questions lined up for you about the hyacinth and about her painting. She might have even finished her painting and just waiting to show it to you. But if you truly wish to grow closer, I have been considering something.”
His brows lifted slightly, intrigued. “Oh?”
Dorothy’s voice warmed as she leaned toward him. “I was thinking we might set aside a day just for the three of us. A picnic in the garden, perhaps. We could spread a blanket beneath the trees, bring food, and play games—simple ones that would make her laugh. She adores being outdoors, and I believe she would love having your undivided attention.”
Magnus regarded her in silence for a moment, then a small smile curved his lips, almost boyish in its rare openness. He gave a low chuckle. “I cannot recall the last time I played any sort of game.”
“Then it is all the more reason you should,” Dorothy teased softly. “Children do not remember the perfection of the day, but they remember the joy in it. If she sees you willing to play, to laugh with her, that will matter more than anything else you might try.”
Magnus’s gaze lingered on her, the smile fading into something quieter, more searching. “Sometimes I do not recognize the man I am starting to become,” he mumbled, loud enough that she heard him. “It’s remarkable. It doesn’t feel wrong, so I cannot really complain about it. Only a few months ago, I would never even have considered the idea of a picnic.”
Dorothy felt her lips curve faintly. “Sometimes change is good,” she said softly. “I have fought it often enough in my own life. I used to dislike it, despise it even. But I have come to realize that no matter how tightly one holds on, things still shift. Perhaps, if one stops resisting, if one dares to trust the process, change can be for good. That is what I try to hold on to, Your Grace.”
His eyes deepened, his expression sharpening with an intensity that made her insides tremble. “Magnus,” he said. “I think it is high time you stopped calling me YourGrace, Dorothy.After all, we are no longer strangers. We have shared secrets. Call me by my name.”
Dorothy’s breath caught as his words settled between them. She looked at him then, really looked, and for a heartbeat, it felt as though she were glimpsing more than just the Duke of Walford. He seemed pensive, almost adrift in thoughts he had not spoken aloud, and it struck her that he, too, was beginning to notice what she had. The shift in them both.
She had changed. The way she thought, the way she responded to him, the way her heart startled whenever he so much as glanced at her, and as she studied his face in that quiet,shadowed garden, she could not help but wonder if he was changing too.
Her gaze, unbidden, slipped to his mouth. The memory of his hand brushing her lips the other evening flickered to life, and before she could stop herself, the thought rose, and she wondered what it would feel like if she returned the gesture.
Her pulse thudded in her ears, but her hand lifted almost of its own accord. She hesitated only an instant, then her thumb found the curve of his lower lip. The warmth of it startled him, and he stilled, his eyes dropping to her hand in astonishment before returning to her eyes.
What am I doing?
The thought screamed in her mind, yet her fingers refused to obey. She traced the line of his lip again, more deliberate this time, as though the intimacy of the moment had stolen all her restraint. His breath caught, barely perceptible, yet she felt it, and his body gave the faintest shudder beneath her touch.
The world seemed to narrow to the softness of his mouth beneath her thumb, the electric stillness between them, and the dangerous, undeniable truth that all she wanted, more than anything, was to lean forward and kiss him.
She felt him shift, slow and deliberate, and her heart seized as his hand came up to cover hers. His fingers were warm, firm, and with aching care, he lifted her hand from his lips, inch by inch, as though he were unwilling to break the fragile spell. Hisgaze never left hers. It was steady, dark, and searching, as if he meant to uncover every secret thought in her head.
When at last her hand rested in his, he did not release it. Instead, he lowered it gently to his lap, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a gesture that felt far too tender for their supposed strained relationship.
“Dorothy,” he whispered.
