He looked utterly ridiculous.
He looked almost happy.
Maribel could not look away. Could not stop watching this glimpse of who Thaddeus might be if he permitted himself such freedom—if he allowed joy rather than constantly guarding against it. His hair had come entirely loose from its careful arrangement. His immaculate coat bore grass stains. His cravat had gone askew.
And he was smiling. Truly, genuinely smiling in a manner that transformed his entire countenance, softening harsh lines into something approaching the handsomeness she had always suspected lurked beneath rigid control.
Their gazes met across the lawn.
For one suspended moment, whilst Oliver and Thomas danced victory celebrations around their conquered dragon, whilst Julian and Eleanor observed with knowing expressions, whilstthe November sun painted everything golden—their eyes locked and held.
Maribel felt her breath catch. Felt heat flood her cheeks despite the autumn chill. Felt her heart perform some acrobatic manoeuvre within her chest that had no business occurring simply because a man had looked at her.
But this was not simply any man, was it? This was her husband, whom she was falling for despite every sensible instinct warning her against such foolishness. This was Thaddeus, who had just sacrificed dignity for a child’s joy. Who had crawled through grass and roared like a dragon and looked at her now with such intensity that she could scarcely draw proper breath.
Then dignity reasserted itself.
She watched it happen—watched him remember propriety, remember the audience observing them, remember all the reasons why this moment of abandon must be carefully contained. He rose with careful precision, brushing grass from his ruined coat, his expression smoothing into neutrality even as colour remained high upon his cheeks.
But she had seen.
She had witnessed who he could be if he permitted himself. And the knowledge felt simultaneously like gift and torment—proof that transformation remained possible, yet a painful reminder of how rarely he allowed such glimpses.
The afternoon proceeded with surprising ease. Tea was served. Cake appeared—chocolate, Oliver’s expressed preference—and was consumed with appropriate enthusiasm. Thomas overcame his initial shyness sufficiently to speak with Lady Eleanor about gardening, displaying knowledge that clearly impressed her.
As the celebration wound toward its conclusion and Thomas prepared for departure, Oliver flung his arms around both his aunt and Thaddeus with equal fervour.
“This has been the most bestest birthday ever,” he declared with absolute certainty. “Thank you. Thank you both.”
Maribel’s throat tightened watching Thaddeus receive that embrace—watching him stiffen momentarily before his arms came up to return it with awkward gentleness.
“Come along, Master Oliver.” Mrs. Allen said as she appeared in the doorway, her expression fond despite the firmness in her voice. “You’ve had quite enough excitement for one day, I think.”
“I’m not tired,” Oliver protested, even as he swayed slightly on his feet, stifling a yawn. A smudge of chocolate marked his chin, and his eyes held the particular brightness of a child running on pure enthusiasm rather than actual energy.
“Nevertheless.” Mrs. Allen extended her hand. “Bed.”
Oliver looked to Maribel with pleading eyes, but she only smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Mrs. Allen is quite right.You’ve had a splendid birthday, but even splendid days must end.”
“Will Thomas come again?” Oliver asked, his hand slipping into Mrs. Allen’s. “His Grace said he might, but I want to be certain?—”
“We shall discuss it tomorrow,” Thaddeus said from where he stood near the terrace doors. “After you have rested.”
Oliver’s face split into a grin and he allowed Mrs. Allen to lead him toward the house without further protest.
Julian rose from his chair, brushing cake crumbs from his waistcoat. “I believe that is my cue to depart as well. Eleanor, might I offer you escort? The roads grow dark earlier these days.”
“How kind of you, Lord Westcott.” Lady Eleanor gathered her reticule, but her eyes held a knowing glint as they met Maribel’s. “Though I suspect your kindness serves a dual purpose.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Julian’s expression was perfectly innocent. Too innocent.
“You mean to lecture Thaddeus about his emotional deficiencies the moment I leave,” Eleanor said tartly. “I see you, Julian Westcott. You’ve been watching him all afternoon with that particular expression you wear when you’re preparing an intervention.”
Julian had the grace to look slightly abashed. “I merely thought to share some observations?—”
“Save your observations for another day.” Eleanor moved toward the door, then paused to look back at Thaddeus. “You’ve done well today, Your Grace. Better than you credit yourself. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
She swept from the room with Julian following, his expression caught between amusement and exasperation. Their voices drifted back through the open door:
