Page 133 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

“That is dangerous territory.”

“Receiving a gift?”

“Receiving without cause.”

She smiled, though her heart beat with unreasonable force. “There is a cause.”

He waited.

She crossed to the chair and lifted the parcel. It was not large. She had wrapped it herself with more care than skill, running her fingers over the edges again and again until Mrs. Patterson had gently taken the string from her and retied it properly. Poppy carried it back to him and placed it on the desk.

“Sit,” she said.

One brow rose. “You are issuing commands now?”

“I am entrusted with operations.”

“Of Saint Catherine’s Haven, not of me.”

“I consider your cooperation essential to the institution.”

He gave a low sound that almost became laughter. “A formidable appointment indeed.”

But he sat.

Poppy moved the chair nearer, then guided his hand to the parcel. His fingers touched the paper, then the string. He explored the shape without opening it, and that restraint nearly undid her.

“You are trying to determine what it is,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It is not a book.”

“No.”

“Not gloves.”

“No.”

“Not papers, unless you have wrapped bureaucracy as revenge.”

“Tempting, but no.”

His mouth softened. “Then I am at your mercy.”

She sat beside him. “Open it.”

He untied the string carefully. Hector did most things carefully when he believed no one was watching. It was one of the first truths she had discovered about him. His reputation spoke of command, severity, and pride. His hands revealed patience. Even now, when he might have torn through the wrapping to satisfy curiosity, he loosened the knot by touch, set the string aside, and unfolded the paper in clean motions.

When his fingers reached the contents, he stopped.

Poppy held her breath.

He touched the first item, then the next. His fingertips moved slowly over the shapes: the smooth lengths, the bundled tools, the small containers fitted snugly together. His face did not change in any obvious way. That frightened her more than if it had.

“They are art supplies,” she said, because the silence had grown too large. “I did not know exactly what you would prefer, and I may have chosen poorly. Mrs. Patterson helped a little, though she insisted I should choose what I thought you would like, and I⁠—”