Page 60 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

Hector went still.

Jonathan turned his head at once, and the duchess’s chair scraped softly as she shifted. For one suspended second, no one spoke. Then Hector looked toward his footman.

“Jonathan. Open the closet.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said, already on his way to the closet.

Her Grace’s voice was low. “Not again.”

Hector rose. His cane tapped against the floor as he and the duchess approached the closet. The route from desk to wall was familiar, but urgency altered the distance. He crossed carefully, listening. There was a faint rustle from inside, then nothing. No frightened cry. No movement of an intruder. Only the soft, congested breath of a sleeping child.

Her Grace had followed closely. He sensed her behind him. Jonathan found the handle and opened the closet. The hinges, as promised, made no sound. At first, he saw only darkness within darkness. Then the lamplight reached enough to shape the small form curled on the floor. Aurora had tucked herself into the corner, knees drawn in, one cheek resting on her arm, and her hair had loosened. A faint shiver passed through her, or perhaps it was only the remnant of the sneeze.

Hector’s breath left him slowly.

“Aurora,” Her Grace whispered.

The child did not wake.

Hector lowered himself with care. He set the cane within reach and extended a hand, confirming the rise and fall of her breathing. Then he brushed his fingers lightly over her sleeve. She was not cold, but neither was she warm enough for his liking.

“How long has she been here?” she asked.

Her voice had thinned with concern.

“I do not know.”

Jonathan stepped closer. “Shall I fetch her nurse, Your Grace?”

“In a moment.” He held a hand up in protest.

Aurora stirred. Her lashes fluttered, but she remained caught in sleep. Hector looked at her small face, peaceful in the place made for her pleasure, and felt the sharp edge that often accompanied love when it arrived too late to be useful as innocence.

He had not considered that a child might prefer refuge to bed.

“I am pleased she loves it,” he said quietly. “But troubled that she is here at this hour.”

Her Grace kneeled beside him. The movement brought her shoulder near his. “Did you not know?”

“Know what?” he frowned.

She took a deep breath in before she continued, “Aurora has been sleeping poorly ever since she arrived here.”

He turned toward her, but she kept her eyes on Aurora. In the lamplight, her face was softened by fatigue, and yet she still looked beautiful. “I thought it might pass. She wakes early. Sometimes she asks whether the closet is still there. Sometimes she wants to see it before anyone else is awake.”

Hector absorbed this without speaking.

The words should have pleased him. The gift had succeeded beyond expectations. Aurora loved it. She found comfort in it. Yet beneath that lay another fact: comfort had become something she needed to confirm repeatedly, as though it might vanish if unobserved.

The duchess reached in and adjusted the fold of Aurora’s skirt with a tenderness so practiced it seemed unconscious. Hector watched her hands. He knew then, with alarming clarity, that his regard for her had already moved beyond admiration.

Aurora sneezed again, shorter this time, and blinked awake. For a moment she stared at them without understanding. Then her eyes widened.

“I was hiding,” she murmured.

“At midnight?” Hector asked.

She considered him sleepily. “Very hiding.”