Page 107 of Duke of Sapphire

“We just came from the gardens,” Ian objected. “Ye said I was as brown as a nut.”

“That is why you may grow even more brown,” she replied. “Variety, Ian.”

Henry stopped again and pinched the bridge of his nose.

This is ridiculous. She is avoiding me. Turning entire routes about simply not to speak to me. I kissed her once, and now she is fleeing down corridors. Well done, Sappherton. You have managed to terrify your own wife.

Ian had twisted around. “Henry, are ye comin’ to the sunshine too?”

Henry lowered his hand. “I have business.”

Ian scowled. “Ye always have business.”

Charlotte kept walking, her grip gentle but firm on the boy’s shoulder. She did not look back.

Henry watched them go, his chest tight.

She disliked it. She must have. Or she would not be pulling Ian about like a pawn on a chessboard to avoid passing me in a hall.

He should not have touched her. He should not have kissed her. And he certainly should not be thinking about that kiss every hour since it happened.

* * *

“Will ye read to me afore bed?” Ian asked.

Dinner had just ended. The candles were still bright. The servants moved quietly along the walls, clearing plates. Henry’s wine sat untouched.

“Of course we will,” Charlotte said. She folded her napkin. “We always do.”

Ian looked at Henry. “Both o’ ye.”

Henry set down his glass. “If you wish it.”

“I do,” Ian said. He slid off his chair. “Come on. If we wait, your nurserymaid, Miss. Holt will say it’s too late.”

Henry rose. Charlotte did the same. Their gazes crossed for a fleeting second.

Do not think of streams. Do not think of kisses. Think of nursery stories. There are dragons. Dragons are safe.

They walked up to the nursery together, Ian in the lead, clutching his toy soldier. Charlotte kept a small distance between herself and Henry, enough to be proper, and enough to make him acutely aware of it.

In Ian’s chamber, the fire burned low. Toys were scattered across the rug in a line only Ian understood. Charlotte went straight to the wardrobe.

“Nightshirt,” she said. “Come here.”

Ian wriggled out of his jacket and raced toward her. “Tell the story about the pirate again.”

“We shall see,” Charlotte replied. She pulled the nightshirt over his head, smoothing it down. “It depends on whether you get into bed without argument.”

“I never argue,” he said, indignant.

Henry stared into the fire.

Do not look at her. There is no need to watch her tie the ribbon on his nightshirt. You have seen nightshirts before. This is nothing new.

He looked anyway when she laughed.

Ian scrambled into bed and burrowed under the covers. “Ye have to get in too,” he said. “One on each side. Like a fort.”