“I find myself doing a great many things I never expected, my duchess.”
Their eyes met. The moment hung there delicately. They had slept together in the same bed, and yet he had not been there when she awoke that morning. His absence had been met with a tangible sense of longing. She had hoped to reconnect with him, but perhaps he had changed his mind.
Their gaze broke when Lizzie made a fist and yanked at a rogue strand of Rose’s hair, wrenching them both back into the orbit of the ordinary. Soon enough, the nursemaid arrived and assumed the job of tidying Lizzie’s curls. Felix and Rose were alone for the span of a few heartbeats.
“Was your own christening here, in the chapel?” she asked.
He nodded. “Well, I was told that I screamed so loudly the priest thought the roof would come down.”
She smiled. “Then we have a precedent.”
When the time came, the family gathered in the entrance hall. Rose descended the staircase in a gown of soft blue, the color of an early morning sky. She looked like something precious and hard-won, and he was suddenly, inexplicably, proud.
Lizzie followed, borne on the hip of her nursemaid like a tiny general reviewing the troops. Her expression was all Greycliff: stubborn, imperious, unwilling to concede an inch. Felix met them at the base of the stairs. For the first time, he let himself be unguarded.
“You both look beautiful,” he said, the words feeling too small for the truth of it.
Rose’s eyes found his, and something passed between them—quiet and strong and, for the moment, safe.
He offered his arm. She took it and allowed him to lead her into the chapel. The air inside was always cool, no matter the season. They stood, a quartet in formal attire, waiting for the guests to come.
First was David, of course, with his customary disregard for protocol. After him trailed Mrs. Sophia March, whose plum-colored ensemble managed to render every other woman’s attire instantly obsolete.
Lord and Lady Whiteridge entered next, Rose’s father posturing with uncharacteristic humility as he escorted his wife down the aisle. He led Rose to follow her family, Lizzie in her arms.
The entire assembly stilled. For a moment, the baby seemed to regard the world with grave suspicion, as if weighing its merits.
Then, Lizzie caught Felix’s eyes and broke into a smile that was all gums and wonder, her arms windmilling in a pantomime of welcome.
Rose hesitated at the first pew, searching Felix’s face for a signal—something to indicate how this was supposed to go. He offered her a smile, as real as any he’d ever managed, and she nodded, drawing breath as if to begin an exceedingly long swim.
The vicar, a stooped man whose vestments looked perpetually too large, positioned himself at the ancient stone font. “The child to be baptized?” he intoned; more question than proclamation.
Felix and Rose approached, one on each side, Lizzie between them. She squirmed, her energy barely contained by Rose’s grip, and for an instant, Felix feared she would shriek and undo the solemnity of the event. Instead, the child fell silent, transfixed by the shimmer of sunlight in the vicar’s silver chalice.
“Name this child,” the vicar said.
Rose answered first: “Elizabeth Julia Greycliff.”
Felix repeated it, his own voice carrying further than he intended. “Elizabeth Julia Greycliff.”
“Child of God, welcome,” the vicar said.
There was a moment when the vicar’s hand hovered above the baby’s head. Felix glanced at Rose, expecting nerves, but she was utterly composed. The sight steadied him.
Next, the vicar dipped his fingers in the water, making the sign of the cross on Lizzie’s forehead. The baby blinked, startled, but did not cry. Instead, she reached out, a chubby hand finding purchase on Felix’s sleeve.
Rose let out a tiny, irrepressible laugh, quickly smothered. Felix caught the sound and treasured it.
As the service came to an end, they filed out, the guests peeling off in small cliques, but the air hummed with shared triumph. In the anteroom, footmen waited with trays of champagne and a confection of pastries. Felix drifted at the edge, content to observe.
David found him first. “You wear domesticity well, Felix. I’m considering a wager on how long it takes you to set up a proper crèche.”
Felix did not dignify it with an answer, but the corners of his mouth rebelled
The luncheon that followed was a bright, chaotic affair. Lizzie, passed from lap to lap, never seemed to tire of the attention. Rose, radiant in her blue gown, laughed more in an hour than Felix had seen in all the months prior.
When the meal wound down and the guests drifted into lazy conversation or dozed in chairs by the fire, Felix drew Rose aside to a quiet alcove.
