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“As if we haven’t other things to do. I adore my cu—children, but Freya forbid Ben take it into his head to repopulate our sle—family ourselves.”
“But… ” Beatrice blushed. “It is the woman’s failure if there are no offspring.”
“So say the human doctors. Ha! This is not our belief.” Charlotte opened another letter with rather more force than was needed. “I reckon when human ways meet Shifter ways, there will be no doubt as to who prevails. No, dear sister, you will have a child as your Alpha deems it so. Unless you come to a compromise, as Ben and I have. We decided as one, which is the way it should be in this enlightened era.”
“Therefore…” If what Charlotte said was true…
“Therefore were I you, I’d have a word with Arthur about keeping his powder dry. There’s no rush for the wee ones, you’ll be run off your feet putting this house in order as it is, you needn’t be chasing after children the livelong day.”
“You are all that is illuminating. Please excuse me.” Beatrice rose and left the room.
***
Madam waslookingat him.
At the beginning of their acquaintance, she’d avoided meeting his eyes most days and subtly, or not so subtly, turned a shoulder away from him when she spoke.
Not so this evening. Throughout the cursory sherries in the footstool room, which was under consideration as a parlor, and during the meal, she’d gazed at him. He’d catch her at it, and she’d not so much as blink.
Arthur drank his wine down in one gulp. He saw she was still regarding him, unblinking, with calculation. Not cold calculation, there was a softness to it—a heat?
A wondering. A thoughtfulness.
The children had eaten and were preparing for bed with Morag. They adored her apparent inability to be impressed, which led them to do everything in their power to dazzle her with their wit and imagination.
The footstool room did not meet with Madam’s approval for use after the meal, and she sailed past it with nary a glance in its direction. She led them up to the family parlor; he hesitated before entering, but the balance between what was familiar and new was well struck. The vase, the draughts board brought with them bittersweet images: of Arthur and Ben with their father, learning the game, of mum arranging blooms she’d gathered from the rose arcade. The rug was a new addition as well as several pieces they’d come across in the attic.
“I see you have distributed the furniture.”
Madam looked up from the tea service Ben had brought up. “To your approbation, I do hope. For example, these sofas will be more use here than in the footstool room.” He barked a laugh. So they were agreed on that, albeit not openly.
They waited for him to bring them in on the joke. He chose not to do so. Madam tilted her head at the mirror. “I also believe the glass is better suited here than tucked away abovestairs.”
“Despite the interesting memories attached to it,” Arthur said and then wished he had bitten his tongue in half rather than be treated to Charlotte’s smirk.
“Making interesting memories so soon?” Charlotte shared out Ciara’s latest creations onto plates and passed one to Ben. She fluttered her lashes at Madam. “Do tell.”
“Do not, unless you desire half the nation apprised by morning.” Arthur snaffled another slice of lemon cake, his favorite combination of tart and sweet.
“I suspect you are second only to your sister-in-law when it comes to knowing what there is to know about society,” Madam retorted. “What was it you were saying about Baron Cuddy?”
Charlotte choked on her tea. “Is he still at it, then?”
“The last I heard,” Arthur leaned in, “he moved himself and his drove to the Isle of Wight, where apparently—”
The children rushed into the room, freshly scrubbed and dressed for bed. Well, Tarben and Bernadette rushed; Ursella roamed the perimeter, touched the vase and the draughts board before she stood next to her aunt and, as was the child’s wont, clutched at her skirt. Madam hesitated and then reached out and ran a hand down one of her plaits.
“Did Morag do this for you?” Ursella nodded and leaned her head against Madam’s side. “They are very pretty.”
“It is time for our bedtime story,” Bernadette announced.
“We want Aunt Beezy to tell it,” Tarben added.
Madam blinked rapidly and stiffened. “I am honored,” she said, “but it is not my strong suit.”
“Everyone knows stories,” Tarben insisted.
“They may know them and yet be poor at relating them,” she said. Her eyes landed on Arthur again. “I suspect your uncle is far better at it than I.”
