Page 135 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

She swallowed. “If you make a crooked line, I shall keep it. If you make a wash of color that means nothing to anyone else, I shall keep it. If you paint one shelf, one wall, one scrap of paper, I shall know you chose it freely for a little while. That will make it worth keeping.”

Hector remained silent as he drank in every word.

Poppy looked down at the supplies, suddenly shy before the simplicity. “I did not give them to you because I expect brilliance. I gave them because I have seen how much of yourself you lock away for the sake of everyone else.”

The brush slipped slightly in his hand, but he caught it.

“I do not know how to receive this,” he finally said.

“Then you need not do or say anything grand.”

Hector let out a shaky breath. “This may be beyond me.”

She smiled through the sting in her eyes. “For once?”

His hand reached across the small space between them. She gave him hers at once. He held it with such care as if she were fragile.

“No one has ever given me a gift such as this,” he admitted.

Poppy brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “You deserve this and so much more.”

At that, he bowed his head. For a moment he looked less like the Duke of Sterling than a man who had reached the end of a long road and found a lamp left burning for him. When he raised his face again, his eyes glistened.

Poppy did not pretend not to notice. She would not make a loneliness of his gratitude by looking away from it.

He set the brush down with reverence, then rose. His cane remained leaning against the chair. Without it, he moved only one step, but it was toward her, and she rose to meet him. His hands found her waist, then her back, drawing her close with a restraint that lasted only until she touched his face. Then restraint failed, and his mouth came to hers.

The kiss was warm, searching, and unguarded. Poppy closed her hands in the front of his coat and held on, feeling the tremor pass through him only because she was near enough to receive it. He kissed her as though gratitude had become a vow, as though all the words he had distrusted had found a language neither of them needed to defend.

When he drew back, he did not release her. His forehead rested against hers, and their breaths mingled.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Sight or no sight. I will paint for you, cherish you, and adore you for the rest of my life. No matter what.”

Poppy’s eyes burned, but she smiled because joy, too, could ache.

Poppy kept her hands against Hector’s chest. Beneath her palms, his heart beat strong and unhidden.

“I love you too,” she said. “All I want is happiness for you and our girls.”

His arms tightened around her. “Then stay with me while I learn it.”

“Always,” she whispered. “And when your hand forgets the way, I will place mine over it, and we will make something beautiful together.”

Epilogue

Six Months Later

“My dearest love,” Hector murmured, his voice groggy as he awoke from a deep sleep.

The sea breeze drifted through the open windows of their Brighton lodgings, and he watched the slender shape of his wife as she moved gracefully around the room.

“Come sit beside me a moment. I want to have you near whilst the girls are yet occupied with their ribbons and laughter.”

Poppy’s soft footsteps crossed the carpet, and the familiar rustle of her skirts announced her before her hand found his. He lifted his fingers at once to the curve of her cheek, tracing the beloved line of her jaw with a reverence that never lessened, no matter how many times he performed the sacred rite.

Ah, there you are, his heart whispered. My Poppy. My light. My very breath.

Six months had passed since the last great turning of their fortunes, and now the family had come to Brighton to celebrate Princess’s birthday and her new name.