Margaret stopped and wiped a tear from her cheek. Amanda had insisted it was a sign from the late duke.
Strong arms wrapped around her, startling her from her thoughts, surrounding Margaret with warmth and love. She smiled, sinking into the familiar scent of leather, soap and the wind. A palm fell possessively over her stomach.
“How was your ride, Your Grace?” Her eyes fluttered open.
“Splendid. I had a heated conversation with my father.”
Tony had gotten into the habit of visiting the late duke’s grave. Always alone. Phaedra had ridden by one day and heard her older brother yelling at the headstone as if arguing with their dead father. Margaret supposed it was Tony’s way of dealing with his father’s death. After he visited the gravesite, he was often calmer. More at peace.
A ripple shot across her stomach, followed by a tiny kick.
His arms tightened around her. “He’s hungry, my love. It’s nearly time for tea.”
“Will there be scones?”
A dark rumble of laughter erupted at her back. “Dozens.” His fingers threaded through hers. “Pray don’t eat them all. I’m hungry as well.”
“Would you care to play a duet before tea?” Margaret gave him a saucy look.
Another chuckle escaped him. “Are you making an improper request? Madam, I’d no idea you were so wicked.”
Margaret elbowed him.
Tony looked down at her and brushed her lips with his. “Whatever our souls are made of,” he said softly.
Margaret cupped his cheek and whispered back, “his and mine are the same.”
* * *
