“For what?” Bessie asked, her gaze sharp.
“For seeing what needed to be done.”
“Go home, Marcus,” she said gently. “Your boy is waiting. Take the long way back. You look as though the air might help.”
Outside, the sky had brightened, pale light filtering through thin clouds. Marcus drew it into his lungs as though relearning the act. He walked back toward Grosvenor Square at an even pace, though something inside him had not found its balance.
As he reached Number Fifty-Nine, the square was fully awake. Gardeners clipped hedges. A nursemaid guided a pram. A dog barked and quickly hushed.
Marcus climbed the steps to Wolfton Hall.
Jameson opened the door before he touched the knocker. “Welcome home, my lord.”
The words landed harder than he expected.
Home.
Marcus went directly to his study. The shutters stood half-open, coaxing in early light. Fires burned low. Everything had been prepared with quiet care.
The house felt too large for one man and one small boy.
Or perhaps he had grown smaller within it.
He pulled off his gloves.
He should check on Henry. Change his coat. Eat. Sleep—
A knock interrupted him.
“Marcus?” Richard’s voice came from the threshold. “Jameson said you’d just walked in.”
“Come in.”
Richard studied him, then nodded. “You’ve been walking.”
“I went to see Bessie.”
Richard blinked. That told him enough. “Alone?”
“Yes.”
“And did you find what you were looking for?”
Marcus tightened his grip on the gloves. “Not what I expected. But something of worth.”
Richard’s expression eased. “Perhaps today is for difficult conversations. About Henry.”
“And about me,” Marcus said quietly.
“But we’ll start with the boy.”
Marcus swallowed and glanced toward the stairs. Toward Henry’s room.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Today, I need to be his father.”
Chapter Two
The following morning,Henry sat on the edge of the drawing room sofa with his blanket clutched in both hands. The fabric spilled onto the carpet, a small, deliberate tether in a room that still felt too wide, too open.
