She did not curtsey first.
She did not greet a duke or a marchioness or any distinguished guest awaiting her.
She walked straight to her father.
“Papa,” she whispered, joy trembling in her voice as she embraced him.
William closed his eyes and held her, letting the moment settle deep into his bones.
When she drew back, her soft grey-blue eyes—so like his—held his gaze with quiet adoration.
“Do I make you proud, Papa?” she asked, chin lifting in a way that reminded him achingly of Violet at the same age.
He touched her cheek, unable to hide the emotion in his expression.
“More than I could ever tell you.”
A quiet clearing of a throat sounded nearby—a tall, earnest-looking young man, Viscount Harland’s son, clearly enamored already.
Lily blushed—soft and pink—the way Violet once had, and William felt a wholly unreasonable urge to escort the boy straight out of the townhouse and bar the door.
Violet laughed softly at his side.
“William,” she teased, “let the child breathe.”
“She’s still my little girl,” he muttered.
“She’s nearly eighteen.”
“All the more reason to supervise.”
She nudged him gently. “You’ve done well, my love.”
He exhaled, slow and full.
Yes.
He had.
Their other children were already making themselves at home in the ballroom.
Rose, sixteen and lovely in lilac silk, stood beside her grandmother, Edith, the two of them deep in warm conversation.
James, thirteen, kept smoothing the front of his first tailcoat, trying—and failing—not to look nervous.
And Arthur, ten, lingered at the refreshment table with his grandfather, he and Thomas trading matching, conspiratorial looks toward the cakes they fully intended to sample.
Their family.
Busy.
Joyful.
Overflowing.
And somewhere beyond the celebration, the memory of his mother lingered—softened now, gentler than it had ever been in life.
She had passed a year after his wedding. Peacefully, in the home she had chosen for herself, far from the life that had stifled her.
