“But he loves it. Loves me. Loves the chaos I bring to his perfectly ordered world.”
The door opened, and the Duke himself entered, his boots slightly muddy, his hair windswept, looking younger and happier than anyone had ever seen him.
“Lucy,” he greeted with genuine warmth. “Still pretending to embroider?”
“Still pretending to garden?” she shot back.
“I never pretend. I either do or don’t do. There’s no middle ground.”
“How very binary of you.”
“How very observant of you to notice.” He crossed to Celine, his hand immediately going to her stomach. “How are my ladies this morning?”
“Your lady is fine. Your theoretical future child is also fine.”
“Three kicks this morning. I counted.”
“You imagined at least one of them.”
“I have excellent imagination.”
“Since when?”
“Since you taught me the benefits of imagining impossible things.” He leaned down to kiss her, a brief but thorough claiming that made Lucy clear her throat.
“Still here,” she reminded them.
“Still don’t care,” the Duke replied, but he pulled back slightly. “The fountain is installed. Want to see?”
“Is it perfectly centred?”
“Within a quarter inch.”
“You measured?”
“Twice.”
“Of course you did.” But Celine let him lead her outside, Lucy trailing behind with barely concealed amusement.
The fountain was beautiful—a simple design of interlocking circles that somehow managed to be both elegant and mathematical.
“It’s perfect,” Celine said.
“It’s acceptable.”
“From you, that’s the same as perfect.”
“From me, perfect is reserved for very few things.” He pulled her closer. “You. Us. The way you’ve made this house a home.”
“Elias,” she said softly, aware of Lucy watching. “You’re being romantic in daylight. People will talk.”
“Let them talk. They’ve been talking for months. Did you see the latest gossip sheet?”
“The one calling us the most devoted couple in London?”
“The one calling us nauseating in our obvious affection.”
“That too.”
