Page 68 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

The last answer still held. “Near” was a flexible word in a house this size. She closed the door quietly and stood in the corridor with one hand still resting against the wood. The house had changed again. Afternoon’s riot had been folded away, and the servants moved in subdued patterns. Somewhere below, a door closed with the careful restraint of a household trained not to disturb its master. The silence made her aware of her own heartbeat.

Poppy had known all evening that she would have to go to him, so she prepared herself and told herself there was nothing to fear. His Grace could be severe, but severity was not cruelty. He had not raised his voice at Aurora. He had softened it. His touch, as well, was surprisingly soft.

She lifted the same hand to knock on the study door and hesitated as she flushed with the memory of the duke’s warm grip around her wrist.

“Come in.” His voice was level, and it gave nothing away, yet it still seemed to make her skin react.

Poppy entered the study, and the room felt different from the rest of the house. It was a room arranged for privacy, for control, and for decisions made without interruption. His Grace stood near the desk, tall and still, the line of his shoulders unmistakable against the darker mass of the room. His cane was in his hand. In the dimness, his pale gray eyes caught what little light there was, making them look like the icy depths of a frozen pond.

Poppy closed the door behind her, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

His Grace turned his head slightly in her direction, listening to every sound of her steps. “Aurora is asleep?”

“Yes,” Poppy spoke quietly, afraid that her voice might quiver and give her thoughts away.

He frowned as if he were deep in thought. “Was she distressed?”

The question held hidden compassion, but Poppy sensed it.

“She asked whether you were angry with her.”

A troubled expression moved across his face, but it was gone before she could name it.

“Did you inform her that I was not?”

She shook her head once. “I told her so.”

The duke’s mouth tightened. “And did she believe you?”

Poppy did not want to answer him, but silence would give it away too.

He looked away, and she prayed he understood.

“Aurora cannot be permitted to run wild in the house. It is dangerous and unladylike.”

The abruptness of his words and his clipped tone caused her spine to stiffen. “Children ought to play.”

“The children—or nieces—of a duke have to be trained properly.”

“And that would exclude laughter and happiness?” Poppy’s anger was beginning to rise.

“Noise is not proof of happiness.” He countered.

“Not for you,” she said simply. “But in Aurora’s case, it is often a sign of comfort.”

He absorbed that in silence, which irritated her more than an interruption would have. Silence from His Grace did not feel empty. It felt like judgment waiting behind a closed door.

“She is easily overwhelmed,” Poppy continued. “So is any child who has had too little certainty and too many changes in such a short amount of time. She needs gentleness before she can bear any instructions.”

His cane shifted once against the floor. “You speak as if I intend to harm her.”

“You may not harm her, but you do frighten her…”

Poppy watched his stung expression as he processed her words. She wished she had spoken differently and knew at once that gentler words might have been less honest but no less true. She briefly wanted to confess about the room makeover she had planned for Aurora, but it did not feel like the right moment to do so. The duke remained still, and his shoulders tensed. Poppy had the sudden urge to reach for him, but that was absurd, so she clasped her hands together in front of her.

“I only want what is best for my nieces, Poppy.” She shivered at the sound of her name on his lips. She did not believe that she would get used to that.

“Raising them up the right way should be a priority.” He continued.