Together, they climbed the stairs and then entered her apartment. She told him to wait while she collected Annis.
She thanked the other mother and, with a happy sigh, cuddled her baby close.
In the corridor, she pressed her face to the little blond head of curls. Annis smelled of soap and baby and the freshness of new life. “I’ve someone I’d like you to meet, my love. Do you think you’d like to meet him, too?”
Annis simply blinked.
When they entered, he was standing at the mantle, hands clasped behind his back. His gaze softened. Hera beckoned him to come forward and he approached cautiously.
“Hello, little one,” he cooed.
Annis glanced at the duke, then to Hera and back again. She clutched a strand of her mother’s hair tightly in her little fist.
“Gentle,” he said softly. “That’s one of my favorite things about your mother, too.”
Annis replied in unintelligible babble.
His brow wrinkled. “Is that so?”
Happier, more insistent babble followed.
“Well! I hadn’t considered that particular perspective.”
Annis hiccupped.
“Indeed?” he replied. “If you think so, then I must agree. I promise to think through things more clearly next time.”
He held out his hand. After a moment, Annis transferred her grip from Hera’s hair to his finger.
“I thought as much!” He winked at Hera. “I’m irresistible, you know.” He turned his attention back to the child. “May I hold you, Miss Annis?”
Annis swung toward him and then she reached out to him as if she’d known him all her life. Something in Hera grew whole that hadn’t been whole before.
“Well Miss Annis...” Which wasn’t entirely correct. “What say you? Do I have permission to wed your mama?”
Annis reached up and grabbed a fistful of his hair. Then, she yelped.
“I think we can take that as a yes,” Hera replied.
“Then, it’s settled.”
The baby gurgled and rested her head on his shoulder as he placed a light kiss on her mother’s brow.
* * *
Not long thereafter, the Chancery Court approved Hurtheven’s guardianship of one Miss Annis Montrose.
On that same, bright summer morning the Duke of Hurtheven wed his duchess in the hall of his friend Ashbey’s London townhome. The wedding was presided over by a slightly scandalized vicar—who internally vowed never to admit toanyonethat the bride and groom had not, in his opinion, dressed for the solemnity of the occasion.
The groom’s cravat looked as if the fine silk had been piteously and mercilessly crushed by some sort of rabid creature. The bride’s bonnet, while fetching, had what appeared to have teeth marks on the rim. To top things off, for reasons he did not inquire, the groom insisted on holding a young, very vocal child throughout the ceremony, a child whom he had introduced simply as Miss Annis.
But who was he to argue?
The vicar would always hold the distinction of having conducted a wedding withthreedukes present, two duchesses and a duchess-to-be, one handsome heir on the verge of manhood, another heir with young eyes full of mischief, and one little lady who ordered everyone about and refused to answer to any honorific but the rather undignifiedFee.
When the ceremony concluded, the vicar gratefully took his leave, blessing the sweet, sweet sound of silence once happily ensconced in his own home.
Meanwhile, the remaining guests made merry.
