“Yes, I see your objection,” he sighed. “You disagree.”
He paused, then lowered his voice further. “I am not your enemy.”
The baby’s cries wavered.
“There,” he murmured. “That is better. You may protest, but you need not panic.”
A small whimper replaced the scream.
“Good,” he said. “We are making progress.”
He exhaled slowly. “If it is constancy you require, then constancy you shall have.”
His voice settled into a low, even cadence. “This is the sound of things continuing. Nothing is ending. Nothing is wrong.”
Silence.
“Excellent,” Richard whispered. “A most reasonable outcome.”
Gradually, the cries diminished.
Encouraged, he spoke. “If you are determined to remain awake,” he murmured, his voice gentler than he remembered it ever being, “then we may as well make use of the time. Let us discuss Alexander of Macedon.”
To his astonishment, the baby quieted completely.
She stared at him.
Her tiny fingers reached out and curled around his thumb.
Richard stopped walking.
The world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact. Something deep within him, something armored and long neglected, gave way. He stared at her hand, at the trust implicit in the gesture, and felt a crack spread through his carefully constructed restraint.
He continued speaking, his voice low and steady, until her eyelids fluttered closed.
When at last he placed her in the cradle, he lingered, watching her chest rise and fall. He had not known it was possible to feel so … altered by something so small.
He straightened, gathering himself, donning once more the mantle of the duke.
When he turned, Victoria stood in the doorway.
She was smiling.
“You listened,” he said accusingly, though the warmth creeping up his neck betrayed him.
“I did,” she replied simply.
Her gaze lingered on him, not amused now, but open. Unarmored. There was gratitude there, and something softer still, something he did not know how to receive without breaking it.
“You were very good with her,” she remarked, entering the room.
“It was merely sound structure,” he said at once, as if he might lecture his way out of the moment. “Consistency. The human mind, even at that age, responds to pattern.”
She moved closer, a step at a time, her smile deepening. “Naturally. Infants thrive on Hellenistic history.”
Despite himself, his mouth curved. He looked away, briefly, as though he might regain control by doing so.
“I only wanted you to eat,” he said, his voice quieter now. Stripped of its edge. “You looked—” He stopped himself. Rephrased. “You were not well.”
