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“Frances, come along, will you?”
She looked up to see her husband standing in the doorway, his eyes fastened on her suckling son. She gave him her special smile, and Sophia quickly rose.
“Why do you not keep her company, Hawk, and I shall entertain the gentlemen downstairs.”
“Well, Frances? How much are you going to feed that hungry little beggar?” He sat down beside her on the sofa.
“He is as you are, my lord,” she said primly. “As Sophia said, a male, no matter his size, doesn’t change. He simply becomes more so.”
“Well, perhaps a bit more so, but his, er, preferences do shift,” Hawk said. “Incidentally, Lyonel is here to pay his respects to the heir. His Great-Aunt Lucia is with him.”
“No wonder you escaped up here!”
“You are right about that,” he said fervently. “She was readying to turn her cannon on me, and Lyonel—blast him—was egging her on.”
Charles sent a blurry look toward his father and burped.
“That is one thing he excels in,” Frances said, lifting him over her shoulder.
“The major thing I excel in is denied me,” Hawk said on a mournful sigh.
“You are a randy goat, my lord!”
“Frances,” her husband said in a wounded voice, “your mind travels most improper roads. I was thinking about riding with you, of course.”
“Riding?” she asked, a brow arched.
“That too,” Hawk said, and kissed her laughing mouth.
