Page 61 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

Her Grace pressed her lips together, but concern overcame amusement. “Oh, darling.”

Aurora turned her face toward the sound. “Poppy?”

“Yes, I am here.”

“I was waiting for morning.”

“In the closet?”

Aurora nodded, then seemed to realize the weakness of her position. “It is my new closet.”

“So it is,” Hector said. “But your bed remains available.”

“I wanted to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

She rubbed one eye with her fist. “That it did not go away.”

No one spoke at once.

Hector looked down at the child and felt the quiet accusation of what she had not meant to accuse.

“It will not go away,” he assured her.

Aurora looked at him. “Promise?”

He had made vows before judges, bishops, creditors, tenants, and men who cared more for seals than souls. None had felt as exacting as this.

“I promise.”

She accepted it with the solemn exhaustion of four years. Her head drooped, and Her Grace moved to lift her, but Hector spoke first.

“I will carry her.”

She hesitated. “Your Grace⁠—”

“I can carry my niece.”

The words came more sharply than intended. The duchess did not flinch, but she heard the edge, and he regretted it at once.

“I did not mean you could not,” she said quietly.

He nodded once. “I know.”

And he did. That was the difficulty. Her Grace’s concern did not diminish him. It asked only how best to help. He was unused to distinguishing the two.

Jonathan came forward without being summoned and placed the cane where Hector could take it after lifting the child.

Hector bent and gathered Aurora from the closet. She was warm now against his chest, heavier in sleep than waking, all loosened limbs and trust. Her head fell onto his shoulder. One small hand caught in his coat and remained there.

He stood carefully.

Her Grace watched, close enough to assist.

Aurora sighed. “My closet,” she murmured.

“Yes,” Hector said. “Your closet.”