Page 71 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

“I’m flattered.” She looked directly ahead. “You know, I never aspired to win a duke’s hand. That was never my goal, and I was not as grateful for your offer as I ought to have been. But…” She bit her lower lip. “There are some benefits to being a duchess.”

“Oh?”

“Well, for one thing, I have a duke for a husband, which naturally makes me the envy of every other lady I see. And it transpires I am shallow and petty, because that brings me far too much joy. And then there is the fact that you are a young and handsome duke, which adds to their envy. Do you know how few young and handsome dukes exist in London?”

Andrew did his best to keep his laughter from his face. Of the two of them, George was always considered the more attractive; he had that open charm that Andrew had never mastered. Andrew had always been considered stern and forbidding.

“I like a scowl,” she said, squeezing his arm. “There is something remarkably charming about it.”

“Charming?”

“Not every man can scowl with such distinction. And you have such forbidding eyebrows! It truly is a masterful expression.”

“How fortunate you must feel, then, to see it with such regularity.”

“Oh, but you do not scowl half as much at me anymore.” She beamed up at him. “And that, you know, is proof that we are getting along better than we ever have before, don’t you think?”

He opened his mouth to agree, just as the Duchess of Setton stopped before them. “Jessamine,” she said, the affection obvious in her voice.

Andrew had no strong feelings toward her except for the way she so clearly loved Jessamine.

Over the course of this entire situation, he had contrived a hatred of their father, the Earl of Debley. Both for abandoning Jessamine and for seducing Rebecca, a woman who should have had any number of ways to escape. The fact she had not was a testament to the lasting control of both Andrew’s father and her own.

Yet there was no denying that his daughters had found family with one another. And although he hated Lord Debley, he could not hate the Duchess of Setton.

“You must come for dinner,” the Duchess was saying, taking Jessamine’s hand in both of hers. “And you, Your Grace. I would be delighted to have both of you with us.”

Jessamine looked at him, and he could already sense the hope in her gaze.

This was something she wanted. And perhaps he could want it too, doing things that made her happy. He would lose nothing from an evening spent with fellow peers—albeit ones with a far greater claim to the titles they held—and Jessamine would thrive.

The duchess leaned over the pram and touched William’s downy hair with her finger. “He’s so tiny and so sweet,” she said in awe.

Jessamine hooked her arm through her sister’s and grinned, the sort of secret grin that made Andrew wonder what he had missed. They gave each other a long look, their expressions saying more than their words had.

William woke under the burden of this affection, and his tiny face screwed up into a cry. Andrew had still not mastered his inherent discomfort at the sound; it made every muscle in his body tighten the way it did when there was a foe to be fought. Something to defeat.

But the only thing to defeat here was the needs of a fragile baby, and so often he felt utterly out of his depth. If it were down to him, he would give the boy a similar treatment to the one he had received as a boy: one of discipline and rigid conformity.

But Jessamine had opened his eyes to something new.

“Oh, my darling,” she cooed, swooping down and scooping him up into her arms.

Everyone who passed stared. Very few ladies of the ton treated their babies with such overt affection in public, and certainly none who were rumored to have inherited their husband’s bastard child.

Andrew felt a rush of affection. This would do more to combat the rumors than any practiced pose they could strike together, and she had no idea she was doing it.

William stopped crying as he stared, mesmerized, at Jessamine. Andrew came closer, unable to help himself, and rested a hand on the small of Jessamine’s back. Her weight shifted, and she leaned against him slightly.

Every tiny gesture they exchanged pushed them closer to the point of no return, and although he was still determined not to sire a child with her—not yet, at least—he found himself fearing the intimacy less and less.

Then, to Andrew’s delight, William’s mouth curved. The motion looked awkward, almost, as though he wasn’t sure precisely how to achieve the effect of a smile. First one corner twisted up, then the other. Gums peeked through between his lips.

A toothless, carefree smile, aimed straight at Jessamine.

For all intents and purposes, his mother.

Jessamine let out a little gasp, and Andrew slid his arm around her more firmly, holding her against him. He placed his other hand under the one supporting William’s head.