Page 129 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

“I cannot make a present now,” she said. “She is watching me.”

Princess gurgled obliviously.

“She does not know what we are saying,” Hector said drily.

“She knows everything,” Aurora whispered.

That time, even he could not stop the smile.

Poppy crossed nearer. He knew because Princess immediately reached toward her and made a pleading sound.

“Then you know what needs to be done,” Hector said.

Aurora sighed. It was the sigh of a person betrayed by law, kinship, and the poor planning of adults.

“Fine,” she said. “She can have it.”

Princess giggled once.

“But,” Aurora added sharply, “if she eats it, I shall not be blamed.”

“I will bear witness to your warning,” Hector said.

Poppy bent, and Princess’s laughter changed direction, rising toward her. Hector heard the soft brush of Poppy’s hand over the baby’s hair, then the little squeak of delight that followed. Aurora did not retreat at once. Her breathing settled. She remained near him as if his verdict, unfavorable though it had been, had not expelled her from affection.

He turned his head toward Poppy again.

There were papers on the desk. Their edges gave off a dry whisper whenever the draft reached them. He had placed them there earlier with more care than necessary, aligning what he could not clearly see by touch, by the straightness of the stack against the desk’s edge. Official papers. Formal language. Ink and seal.

He looked toward his wife and wanted, with a force that startled him, to see her clearly.

Not as motion. Not as warmth. Not as the pale oval his damaged sight allowed him when the light was kind. He wanted the precise line of her mouth before she smiled, the blue of her eyes when she was holding back tears, the true arrangement of her face when she believed herself unobserved. He wanted a single, unbroken moment to gather her into memory properly.

It was a selfish wish, and he let it pass through him without apology.

How profoundly precious that would be.

Princess tugged again at his fingers, and Aurora leaned against his knee while Poppy stood near enough that he could feel her attention, though she said nothing.

He had been given more than he deserved. That did not prevent him from wanting.

“Mrs. Patterson?” he said.

The housekeeper answered promptly from the side of the room. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Please escort the children to their chambers. I must speak in private with my wife.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Mrs. Patterson moved at once, but Aurora did not move.

“Must we go?” she pouted.

“For a little while,” Hector said.

“Is it about the ribbon?”

“No.”