Page 60 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

He exhaled sharply, and turned every iota of that emotion back on Baron Lorthey.

The man stopped in his tracks. Andrew saw his nostrils flare as he inhaled.

And then, slowly, the baron turned on his heels and strode away again.

Jessamine’s grip on his elbow. “How did you do that?”

“A little something I learned at war,” he said, and shook his head.

Even the mention of the war was too much. Jessamine knew a little of his wounds, especially those pertaining to Rebecca, but she didn’t—couldn’t—know everything. Especially the war. If he could keep her from that knowledge, he would.

Not everything had been training in small English towns, dancing and drinking and playing cards with the locals. Some of it had been terrible.

She frowned up at him, bringing her hand to cup his cheek. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” He took her hand and, without thinking, kissed her fingers.

They curled a little in his grasp, and he realized what he had done. The intimacy of the act. This was not a mere greeting, but a demonstration of affection.

A public demonstration of affection.

And so he did the only thing he could under those circumstances. “Dance with me again.”

She didn’t take her eyes off his as she said, “Yes.”

They did not spend an overly long time at the ball. Andrew might have; Jessamine wasn’t sure, but as the hour grew later, so did her anxiety about William.

At first, it had been easy to shut all those feelings away, but it hadn’t been easy for a while. Now, she rubbed her eyes and gripped her skirts as she hurried through the house to William’s nursery. Andrew followed on her heels with a little more decorum.

Just as she reached the door, she slowed and rapped her knuckles very softly against the wood. A few seconds later, Lucy opened the door.

“Welcome back, Your Graces,” she whispered, putting a finger to her lips and closing the door behind her. “Master William is asleep.”

“Has he been all right?” she whispered.

“Calm as anything. I’ve had no troubles.”

Although that had been the reality for the past several nights, Jessamine still pressed a hand to her pounding heart. If she spent too long away from him, she thought of Percy, and the fruitless, terrible thought that if she had just been able to hold onto him, he might have clung to life. But she had relinquished him, and he had died.

She had held him, and he had died.

“I must see him,” she said. Andrew grazed her back with his fingers. “I will go to bed,” he said. “I trust William is doing well. I don’t want to risk waking him.”

Jessamine shook her head. If she woke him, she would soothe him back to sleep—what was exhaustion, anyway?—but she needed to see he was well.

And so, she opened the door, creeping into the darkened room. Sure enough, his breathing sounded quietly from his cradle, and Jessamine paused by the side of his bed, releasing a sigh of relief.

He was all right. Lucy had said so, and there could have been no way she would lie, but now Jessamine knew it to be true herself. She had verified the fact.

She exhaled slowly, pressing another hand to her chest. Why did her heart insist on beating so loudly whenever she was apart from him?

“Goodnight,” she breathed, seeing no need to disturb him, and crept quietly from the room.

That night, Jessamine dreamed she was sinking in a pool of blood. Every time she opened her eyes, blinking away the stickiness, a child was placed in her arms. Percy. Almost immediately, he started to choke, to stiffen and jerk, and hands took him from her.

“No!” Jessamine cried, reaching for him. “Bring him back!”

But nothing worked.