“Arthur! No!” Imogen cried.
The boy pulled away instantly, a mischievous glint in his eye, and sprinted back to Imogen’s side. Julia stood frozen, her face a mask of shock and disgust as she brushed at her skirts as if touched by a plague.
A moment later, a blood-curdling shriek erupted behind them.
“AH! GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF ME! WHAT IN THE DEVIL IS WRONG WITH YOU FIENDS?” Julia howled.
Imogen heard the frantic rustle of silk and the gasps of onlookers. She did not turn around. She kept her eyes fixed on the path ahead, though her heart was racing for an entirely different reason now.
Julia will have to fend for herself this time.
Arthur was grinning broadly, leaning in to whisper as they hurried toward the park gates.
“I found a very large, very angry spider in the ferns,” he murmured. “I slipped it right up her sleeve when I hugged her.”
Imogen stopped in the shadow of a large oak tree. She looked down at Arthur, seeing the pride in his face. She didn’t smile, though a small part of her felt grim satisfaction.
“Lord Arthur,” she said, her voice serious yet not reaching her eyes. “I understand why you did that. She was very unkind to you and your family. But you must understand, playing such pranks will only achieve results temporarily. Words can hurt much longer than a bug in a sleeve. Both actions have consequences we must be prepared to face.”
Philip, who had been quiet, looked up at her with wide, worried eyes. “Miss Lewis… was she right? Are we… what she said?”
The question broke Imogen’s heart. She knelt on the grass, ignoring the dampness, and pulled both boys into a fierce embrace.
“Listen to me, my sweet boys,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You are Lockharts. You are the sons of two beautiful people who loved you very much and were lost far too soon. You are smart, brave, and you are kind. You are worthy of respect and love. Do you hear me? Never let anyone tell you otherwise. Least of all Lady Presholm.”
If only I could have taken my own advice.
The twins squeezed her back, and for a moment, the cold tension of the past few days vanished. As they held her, Imogen felt a deep, radiating warmth spread through her chest. She was overwhelmed by a sense of belonging she hadn’t felt since her own world had fallen apart.
These boys give me purpose.
Later that afternoon at the townhouse, the heavy silence of the study was broken only by the rhythmic scratching of a quill and the dry, precise voice of Mr. Telford, Ambrose’s longtime estate solicitor.
Ambrose sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Maps of the Welton estates in Yorkshire were spread between them, dotted with ink-stiffened notes on crop yields and tenant repairs.
For two hours, they had navigated the minutiae of the ducal holdings, a task Ambrose usually found grounding but knew was necessary. Unfortunately, his mind kept drifting toward the door, wondering if a certain pair of boys and their governess were back from the park.
“The drainage in the lower meadow is settled, then, Your Grace,” the solicitor said, peering over his spectacles as he folded a ledger. “Which brings us to a more… delicate matter of the long-term, Your Grace, before we conclude our meeting.”
“And what is that, Telford?
“The Welton succession.”
Ambrose’s posture went from relaxed to iron-rod stiff in a second. “The succession is perfectly clear, Telford. We have discussed the entailments before.”
“We have discussed the legality of them, most certainly,” Telford replied, his voice cautious. “But you are barely three-and-thirty. The line of succession currently rests on your brother’s sons. While the boys are thriving… Well…”
“Well, what, Telford?”
“A direct heir, a son of your own, would provide the kind of stability the tenants look for in a leader. To keep peace, prosperity, and order. It is the expectation of theton, and frankly, of the land itself.”
“There will be no direct heir,” Ambrose said, his voice dropping into a cold, flat register that usually ended conversations.
“Please excuse me, Your Grace… but?—”
“I have no plans to marry, and I certainly have no plans to father any children. Philip is the eldest twin. He will be the next Duke of Welton, and Arthur will be provided for as the spare heir. That is final.”
Telford blinked, clearly surprised by the sheer finality in the Duke’s harsh tone. Ambrose knew he was a man in the prime of his life, possessing a formidable constitution, not to mention a fortune that could buy half of London.
