“He is seven,” she snapped.
“I am quite aware of my son’s age.”
“Then perhaps you might adjust your expectations accordingly.”
Aaron’s eyes went wide, his gaze darting quickly between the two of them.
Emmeline felt a pang of guilt at the boy’s flinch, but she didn’t pull back. His knuckles were white around that wooden horse, his mouth was pressed into a thin, bloodless line.
Rowan leaned back, but the movement only seemed to expand him. In the amber glow of the carriage lamps, he was a silhouette far too large for the narrow seat. His coat pulled across the breadth of his chest and the hard muscle in his arms. Her skin prickled at the sight.
Emmeline hated that her body betrayed her, hated that being near him was like standing too close to a furnace.
“My expectations,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, vibrating register, “are far from severe.”
“No?” she challenged, her voice a soft rasp.
His eyes narrowed, the gray of them hardening. “You have an objection.”
“I think children are not soldiers, Your Grace.”
His expression hardened. “And I think indulgence does them little service.”
The title sat strangely between them now.Your Grace. She had used it before because he was a duke, because he had been a stranger and propriety had given her nowhere else to stand. But now he washer husband.
The thought moved through her with such force that her breath thinned. She felt the ring on her finger, and the plain truth of it seemed to pulse against her skin for the first time.
Aaron’s boot twitched once more, but he stopped himself this time, his whole body stiffening with the effort of remaining still.
Emmeline looked at him and softened her voice. “Would you like a story?”
The boy’s eyes lifted to hers, cautious at first, then brightening despite himself. “A s-story?”
“Yes. If His Grace does not consider storytelling a dangerous form of indulgence.”
Across from her, the Duke’s stare turned heavy.
Aaron’s mouth twitched. “What kind of story?”
Emmeline glanced out the window, where the fields rolled beneath a pale sky. “A proper traveling story, I think. One with a lost prince, a very clever fox, and a castle that could only be found by someone brave enough to get mud on his boots.”
Aaron sat up, a small spark of defiance lighting his eyes. “I would get mud on my boots.”
“I suspected as much.”
“I have before,” he added, his voice gaining a sliver of ground.
Emmeline leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial hum. “Then you are already better prepared than most princes.”
His smile finally broke through. The tension in his small frame melted, revealing the sweet-natured boy buried under expectations. He tilted toward her, the wooden horse forgotten in his lap, his shoulder brushing hers.
Emmeline kept her focus entirely on the boy.
“There once was a prince,” she began, her voice lowering as though she were sharing a secret. “He lived in a palace made of cold, white marble where the floors were so polished you could see your own worried face in them. Everyone there spoke in whispers. They spent their days saying,‘Don’t touch that,’and‘Don’t walk there,’and‘Mind your sleeves, Your Highness.’”
Aaron’s eyes widened, his own hands loosening their white-knuckled grip on his toy.
“So,” Emmeline continued, her eyes dancing, “one Tuesday, the prince decided he’d had quite enough. He stuffed a crust of bread into his pocket, crept past the sleeping guards in thekitchen, and bolted for the Great Wood.” She used her hands to mimic the trees closing in, her fingers branching out in the dim light of the carriage. “And there, sitting on a mossy stump, he found a fox with one torn ear and a very loud opinion on everything.”
