She pulled her face into a scowl of mock-arrogance, her voice turning raspier and sharper. “‘Princes,’the fox barked,‘are generally useless creatures. Unless, of course, they are properly trained in the art of getting muddy.’”
Aaron let out a sudden, startled giggle. He was leaning so far forward now he was almost off the seat.
“The fox led him deep into the shadows.” Emmeline’s voice became a low, melodic ghost of a sound. She widened her eyes, glancing toward the corners of the carriage as if the Great Wood was inside the carriage. “The branches reached out like long, spindly fingers, whispering the prince’s name.”
Aaron giggled, then slapped one hand over his mouth as if laughter itself might be improper. Emmeline’s chest ached again.
Across from them, the Duke had gone very still. She felt his attention on her skin. It was quieter now, sharper in a different way. When she dared to glance at him, his eyes were on her.
There was no warmth in his face exactly, but something had shifted in the set of his mouth and the slight easing of the hard line between his brows.
Her pulse quickened.
She looked away quickly and continued the tale, though now every word seemed to pass through the awareness of his gaze before reaching Aaron’s ears.
By the time Emmeline described the feast laid out in the great hall, with sugared plums and pies and a cake so high the fox had to climb a ladder to inspect it, the boy’s head dipped against her arm.
She kept her voice low after that, weaving the end softly, one hand hovering awkwardly for a moment before she allowed herself to settle it lightly around his shoulders.
Aaron sank against her. The trust of it made her eyes burn. The carriage had grown quiet except for the steady roll of wheels and the faint creak of leather. Aaron slept with his cheek pressed to her sleeve, his lashes dark against his pale skin, his hand still curled around the wooden horse.
Emmeline did not move, afraid she would wake him.
The Duke was watching Aaron now.
His expression had altered in some small, devastating way. The hard line of his mouth remained, but his eyes had gone fixed and bleak. He looked at his sleeping son as though the boy were something precious and breakable that he did not trust himself to hold.
The sight unsettled her more than his anger had.
Because anger she could answer. Harshness she could challenge. But this quiet, trapped pain in him was harder to resist, because it simply stood there and made her feel it.
“He is not difficult,” she said softly.
The Duke’s gaze rose to hers. “I did not say he was.”
“No,” she replied. “But you brace yourself as though he is.”
His jaw flexed. For a moment she thought he would rebuke her. Instead, he looked back at Aaron, his voice lowering to a whisper.
“He was not always so fearful.”
The admission was so unexpected that Emmeline’s breath caught. She waited, afraid that if she pushed too quickly, he would close again.
The Duke’s eyes remained on his son. “He used to run everywhere. Into rooms. Down stairs. Across lawns. He never entered a place quietly.”
Emmeline looked down at the sleeping child tucked against her side. It was difficult to imagine him noisy and unguarded. The thought made her ache.
“What changed?” she asked.
The Duke’s face closed immediately. “Life.”
The statement was a door shut in her face. A sudden, sharp ache blossomed behind Emmeline’s ribs. He had opened the wound just enough for her to see it, then closed it again before she could understand its shape.
“Children do not become so afraid without reason.” Her voice sharpened before she could soften it.
His eyes returned to hers, cool now. “You have known him for a handful of hours.”
“And in those hours, I have seen him shrink from your displeasure more than once.”
