“Mind the lemonade,” she instructed a footman. “If it spills, the biscuits will go soggy.”
“Yes, my lady,” he said gravely.
I caught his eye and smiled. He looked relieved when she turned her attention elsewhere.
The house felt lighter than it had in weeks. Laughter echoed down the corridors. Children darted through the ballroom underonly nominal supervision. Even the servants moved with an ease that had been absent of late.
Joy, I thought, was contagious when given half a chance.
“Rosie!” Petunia seized my hand and tugged me down to her level. “You’re not to disappear today. This is very important.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I assured her.
She studied my face with unsettling seriousness. “You look better.”
“And you look beautiful,” I said, lowering my voice conspiratorially, “and very grown up.”
That had long been a point of contention with her. With Cosmos the eldest at eight-and-twenty and varied ages in between, Petunia would always be the baby of the family—until Cosmos produced one. Certainly, I wouldn’t.
She nodded, satisfied, and released me at once.
Steele arrived precisely on time.
He paused just inside the door, as though the chaos had struck him bodily. Children swarmed. Streamers drooped. Someone shrieked with laughter nearby. It was, I suspected, a scene he had never encountered. He had no children and neither did his brothers. I doubted he had ever been invited to a child’s birthday party.
Well. He was about to experience one that might send him fleeing back to the solitude of Steele House.
Petunia spotted him before anyone else, of course. She never missed any of his entrances.
“Duke!” she exclaimed. “You came.” She marched up to him and executed a flawless curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Happy birthday, Lady Petunia,” he said.
“I’m eight,” she informed him. “Which is very grown.”
“I can see that.”
She eyed the parcel in his hand. “Is that for me?”
“It is.”
“Good.” She handed it to a footman without ceremony. “You may stay.”
I laughed, and Steele’s gaze lifted to mine—amusement and something softer flickering there.
Petunia led him—quite literally—by the hand into the ballroom, assigning him a chair beside the table. “You sit here. Do not wander off. We’ll open presents after cake.”
“Of course,” he said gravely. “Wouldn’t dream of disobeying.”
I watched him then, surrounded by children, his usual reserve stripped away by sheer necessity. He listened. He answered questions. He allowed himself to be instructed. And when Petunia climbed onto the chair beside him to supervise the cutting of the cake, he steadied her plate without being asked.
Something in my chest loosened.
How could I not love this man?
Later, when the candles had been blown out and crumbs scattered across every available surface, Petunia clapped her hands with sudden authority.
“Present time!”
