“She is the daughter of a distant cousin who recently passed,” the duke said unflinchingly. “It seemed best that she have a home with family. Lady Rose has already proven herself more than capable with the child.”
“That’s a very… generous arrangement. But the ton will talk, regardless,” her mother said, reaching for the wine.
“They always do,” the duke replied, his voice a steel blade.
“And what will you tell them, Your Grace?” her father huffed impatiently.
“I will say exactly what I told you. My niece was recently orphaned and came into my care. After that, I met Lady Rose at St. Clement’s when I went to seek solitude, pray, and donate. It is a perfectly credible account. And anyone who chooses not to accept it is free to find themselves unwelcome in London.”
Rose’s mother put her glass down so hard it nearly shattered. “You truly believe that people won’t speculate about the child’s parentage?”
“I expect they will, and I am perfectly prepared to handle anyone who dares to do so,” the duke said, his voice so firm that even Rose had to look up. “I would suggest that you prepare yourselves for a wedding within the week.”
Her parents exchanged a glance. Rose could read the silent conversation in their eyes. They straightened their shoulders and adopted an air of solemn congratulations.
“We are grateful, Your Grace,” her father said at last. “And we hope you will forgive our earlier bluntness.”
“Consider it forgotten,” the duke replied. “Shall we toast to new beginnings?”
After dinner, the staff cleared the table with military efficiency. Rose’s parents withdrew to the drawing room, chattering between themselves about the guest list, the suitability of Carden Hall for a proper society wedding, and the prospect of access to the duke’s extensive wine cellars.
Once everyone had retired to their chambers, Rose made her way to the nursery, where the maid was still attempting—without much success—to settle the baby for the night.
Lizzie gave a small, stubborn cry the moment Rose stepped inside.
“Here, let me,” Rose said quietly, already holding out her arms. “You look exhausted. Go and rest.”
The maid hesitated, shifting her weight. “My lady, I really ought to see her settled first. She’s been fretful, and I wouldn’t wish to leave you with?—”
“I’m quite capable,” Rose cut in gently, but firmly. She softened the command with a small nod. “Truly. I only want some time with her.”
The maid glanced from Rose to the baby, then back again, clearly weighing propriety against practicality.
“If you are certain, my lady…”
“I am.”
A brief pause followed, then the maid gave a reluctant curtsy. “Very well. If you should need anything, I will be just down the corridor.”
“Thank you,” Rose said, taking Lizzie carefully into her arms.
The maid lingered a moment longer, as though still unconvinced, before finally retreating with one last curtsy and closing the door softly behind her.
Now alone with the child, Lizzie’s head rested on Rose’s chest. Rose shifted her weight more carefully, adjusting the small bundle against her as Lizzie’s breathing began to even out. The nursery had gone quiet in that deep, suspended way houses did at night, with candles guttering low, the faint scent of lavender and warmed milk clinging to the air.
Softly, under her breath, she began to sing.
The lullaby was simple; one she did not remember being taught so much as absorbed over time from women who had nothing but their voices to soothe the restless. The words were old-fashioned, half-whispered, carried on the rhythm of her steps as she paced the room.
“Hush now, little heart of mine…
The world can wait until the dawn…”
Her voice barely rose above the rustle of fabric and the soft cadence of her movement. Lizzie stirred once and made a faint sound in her throat, then settled more fully against her, small fingers loosening their grip as sleep took her deeper.
Rose continued, turning slowly beneath the low glow of the lamp. Her eyes lowered to the child’s face rather than the room around her.
“Hush now, little one, be still…
