Page 45 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

“No.”

Her pause was brief. “Is anyone ill?”

“No.” He almost smiled. “Send someone to the duchess. Aurora wants her. At once. And Mrs. Patterson.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Where is the baby?”

“In the small sitting room adjoining the nursery and their chamber. She has been fed and is nearly asleep, though she appears undecided on the matter.” Mrs. Patterson’s eyes lit up like a proud mother’s.

Hector understood that state. “Is the duchess with her?”

“Not at present, Your Grace.” She raised a concerned brow but did not ask any questions.

“Take me to the baby,” he ordered.

Mrs. Patterson turned, and he followed the sound of her steps as the cane marked the corridor in quiet intervals. The house had become less predictable since the children arrived. A stool left where none had been. A shawl dropped over a chair. There were small signs of life interrupting the order in his house. He should have found it irritating, as he often did, but it felt right.

“Thank you, Mrs. Patterson.”

His housekeeper curtsied and walked toward the crib. The baby was in a cradle when he entered, making small experimental sounds as she began to fall asleep. Mrs. Patterson moved with practiced efficiency, and the soft creak told him she had bent over the cradle.

“Would Your Grace like⁠—”

“Yes,” Hector said before she finished.

She lifted the baby and placed her small, fragile body into his waiting arms. Hector had held her twice before. The first time she had been thrust toward him while the nuns adjusted Aurora’s torn ribbon in her hair. The second time Mrs. Patterson had asked whether he wished to learn how to support the child’s head when they had first arrived, and he had heard too much knowledge in the question to refuse.

Now he held her because he wanted to.

She weighed almost nothing and yet altered the balance of his whole body. He stood very still until Mrs. Patterson said, “The chair is to your left, Your Grace.”

He found it with the back of his leg and sat carefully, cane hooked against the arm. The baby shifted, her head turning toward his chest. Her tiny body held warmth with astonishing determination. He could not make out her features beyond soft roundness and pale movement. Her hand opened and closed against his coat.

Mrs. Patterson’s mouth curved. “She has not cried.”

“No. I have chosen to regard that as affection.” He lifted a finger that was held tightly by the baby, as if to prove his point.

“That is a sensible interpretation, Your Grace,” Mrs. Patterson let out a soft laugh.

The baby’s fist bumped his waistcoat, then slid away. He adjusted his arm as Mrs. Patterson had taught him, supporting her small head with care. He had held fragile things before, but this was different. This child had no awareness of his strength. No fear of his name. No judgment for his failures. She merely existed against him, warm and nameless, wrapped in an innocent trust in him. He thought of Jasper’s question.

“What do they call her?”

The baby blinked up at him, and Hector held back the wave of emotions that washed over him as he saw the color of her eyes. Green. Soft and trusting.

“I can see it in your eyes that you are not impressed by me,” he murmured.

The baby waved one hand.

“No? I am a duke. Some people find that sufficient.”

Another tiny sound.

“Yes, I agree. A poor misjudgment on their side.”

Mrs. Patterson walked toward the door but remained there. Hector knew she was the only one who had noticed these stolen minutes. He suspected she understood that he came here because the baby demanded nothing from him and therefore made it possible to give.