Page 65 of His Duchess to Remember

The boy pouted a little, but as Malcolm carried him up to an apple tree and his small hand reached for one of the glossy fruits, it appeared that all was forgiven.

“I picked one by myself!” Simon cheered, and Octavia’s heart swelled until she thought it might burst.

What would I have done without you? She was not quite sure to whom the question was aimed. Perhaps both.

It might not have seemed like much, but having Malcolm with her through the panic of discovering Simon’s fever was a support she had not known she needed. And when he had held her, she had never felt safer, or more certain that everything would be alright. As if it would all be alright because he had been holding her, imbuing her with his strength.

“You did, my darling! How wonderful!” Octavia clapped her hands together. “But do not eat it, sweetling. It might be sour, and you do not want to cause yourself a stomach upset.”

Malcolm cast his wife an odd gaze, half sympathetic, half despairing. “Lass, it’s fruit. It won’t cause him any harm.” He twisted his head to glance up at his son. “And if it is sour, maybe we can pick a few more and ask the cook to put them into a pie, eh? What do ye think of that, laddie?”

“Apple pie!” the boy howled in delight.

Meanwhile, Octavia felt a small sting in her chest, deflating the swell of her heart somewhat. For almost five years, it had just been her and her son. She was the one who made the rules and guided Simon safely through life, but if Malcolm stayed, he would undoubtedly want to involve himself too.

I do not want him to be as rough as you, Malcolm. I want him to be softer than that.

But was that a mistake? Was what her friends had said true? Was she doing Simon a disservice by being the only one to raise him? They were concerns she had never needed to have before, when it had just been the two of them.

Her eyes widened in alarm as Simon bit down into the apple, though she held her tongue. If she sheltered her son from everything, how would he cope when he was older?

Simon pulled a face. “Sour, Papa.”

“Aye, well then, it’s into the pie for that one,” Malcolm said, with that warm smile that she had missed over the past few days. “How about ye pick a few more and hand them to me. I can toss them to yer mother, and we’ll have us a sweet treat with our dinner.”

He glanced at Octavia with that same stirring smile, and her heart immediately puffed up again, fluttering. How could it not react to him when he looked at her like that, as if she meant something to him?

“I shall have to fetch an apron,” she protested, while Simon reached up to pick another apple.

“Nonsense, lass. Just fold up yer skirt,” Malcolm replied.

She blinked at him. “But… it will get dirty.”

“And there are fine laundry maids here who’ll tend to that for ye,” he said, as Simon dropped the apple and Malcolm caught it deftly. “Ready?”

“Malcolm! Malcolm, no, I—” she tried to argue, but he was performing a charade of throwing the fruit.

Groaning through a laugh, she hitched up her skirt and formed it into a sort of basket. Her face flushed with warmth, realizing the impropriety of standing there with her petticoats on show… but was he not her husband? Did it matter if he accidentally glimpsed her ankle or saw the silhouette of her shins through the thinner white material?

As the apple left his hand, she stumbled forward and opened out the skirt basket. A triumphant cheer left her mouth as it landed safely, her happiness soaring in a way she could not control.

Long ago, when she was a much younger woman, this was all she had dreamed about: to have a husband she cherished, who cherished her in return, raising a family together in a fine house, filled with laughter and merriment. An idyllic dream that her incident with that wretched gentleman in the street had shattered, robbing her of any desire to pursue such a fantasy.

Could it be that such a dream found me anyway?

She was so busy wondering that she almost missed the next apple that sailed in her direction.

“A fine catch!” Malcolm declared. “Simon, yer mother is a natural.”

“You’re a natural, Mama!” Simon agreed, as he strained for the next fruit, his legs secured by the capable grip of his father’s free hand.

Sudden, silly tears prickled at Octavia’s eyes. It was such a simple moment, and yet it meant so much.

May your memories never return, she found herself praying, as an immediate prickle of guilt caught her in the stomach.

Just then, she noticed Malcolm’s gaze slide downward, his eyebrow quirking in a manner that brought an intense heat to her face. Following his gaze, she realized that the hem of her petticoats was somewhat higher than she had anticipated, revealing a glimpse of stocking.

His gaze flitted back up to meet hers, his eyes glittering with something like… remembrance. No, that could not be right; it was more like admiration. Either way, her face must have been as hot as Simon’s fever, especially as there was nothing she could do to lower the hem, not while she was catching apples.