The warmth inside her grew.
“I would like that very much.”
* * *
Charlotte wasin love with her new companion. The child’s nursemaid Croydon, however, had been distinctly unimpressed.
“It shall soil the carpets,” had been her first observation.
“It smells,” had been her second.
The woman was a joyless, relentless tyrant, and Roland had endured quite enough of her. The need to speak to Pippa concerning a replacement took on a stronger importance by the day.
Roland had solved the farm odor problem by giving the newly christened pup—Puppy, was Charlotte’s choice—a bath himself. With Pippa’s help, they managed to get Puppy settled in a room where the potential for damage seemed the least. A lesser sitting room which had been a favorite of his father’s, as it happened. Roland did not give a damn if the newest member of their family chose to attack the former Duke of Northwich’s prized rosewood table with his sharp little teeth.
He and Pippa left Puppy with a footman for accompaniment, a bowl of fresh water and another filled with meat scraps. Within a few minutes, the pup had tucked into his afternoon meal with a zeal that had not failed to wring a laugh from both Roland and Pippa.
“Charlotte is most pleased with you and her darling Puppy,” his wife observed as they made their way to the room his mother had favored for working on her art whenever she had been in residence at Wylde Park.
“I will not lie,” he returned, smiling as he thought of Charlotte’s reaction, “making her happy makes me happy.”
“You shall spoil her terribly.”
“Not terribly.” He cast a glance in Pippa’s direction as they made their way to the third floor. “I promise to only spoil her as much as you allow.”
And perhaps just a bit more. Char-char had twisted him about her pinky finger from the moment he had first met her. He had not realized how fulfilling he would find a relationship with Pippa’s daughter.
“Croydon disapproves of spoiling children,” Pippa said, providing him with the opening he needed to discuss the nursemaid.
“I disapprove of Croydon,” he countered. “I know I am the newest part of your lives, Pippa. It is not my wish to be overbearing with my opinions. However, I cannot help but to note the manner in which Charlotte’s nurse suppresses all excitement, joy, and happiness.”
“She is harsh,” Pippa agreed. “I will own I have been wondering whether or not I ought to seek a suitable replacement. Croydon was George’s choice.”
“All the more reason to be rid of her,” he grumbled, before realizing how he must sound. “The decision is yours, of course. I merely find the woman rather…vexing, to say the least.”
Also cheerless. And otherwise horrid and bereft of personality. Far too heavy on discipline and correction.
“I do agree that she is more severe than what I would wish for Charlotte,” Pippa said at his side. “Thank you for bringing your concern to my attention and for not wanting to merely make all the decisions on my behalf.”
“Did Shaw do that?” he queried, curious in spite of himself.
He could not deny that he possessed a certain curiosity where his predecessor was concerned. The way she had phrased the last made him wonder what manner of husband Shaw had been. Aside from his criminal enterprises, of which Pippa had been ignorant, how had he treated her? Understanding that could help him to understandher, he thought.
“Yes, he did. I did not realize it until recently, but his personality was…overwhelming.”
He regretted bringing Shaw into their conversation, and yet, it was necessary. They could not pretend that her marriage to the man had never existed. It was a part of her story, a part of them. Those years of her life had shaped her, turning her into the woman she was now. And Shaw would always be Charlotte’s father, even if Roland hoped, given time, Pippa’s daughter might one day consider him a father to her as well.
Indeed, he would be more than honored.
“I am not him,” he said softly, perhaps needlessly.
Of course Pippa could tell the difference between the man she had married first and him. Still, he wanted to impress upon her that he would never treat her in the same fashion. He respected her opinion. He admired her intelligence. He would always listen to her voice.
“I know you are not, Roland.”
He stopped them outside the closed door. He had not been inside Mama’s studio since her death. The notion of entering the chamber, knowing it would be filled with all her art supplies, her projects half-finished, and others just begun, had been too painful for him. He had merely asked the servants to keep the room preserved as it was, knowing that one day he would return.
This day felt, at long last, right. As did having the woman at his side.
