“Hush,” Eleanor whispered.
Bramble responded by sneezing in outraged disbelief.
From behind her came the slow, controlled exhale of a man who had once been trained to wake at the slightest disturbance, and who now, through sheer stubborn practice, allowed himself the luxury of sleep.
Graham’s arm tightened around her waist, drawing her back against him. “Tell your guard dog,” he murmured, voice rough with warmth, “that I do not accept his authority.”
Eleanor smiled into the pillow. “He accepts yours. He simply prefers mine.”
Bramble thumped his tail again, as if in agreement.
A small voice—high, indignant, and entirely unafraid—came from the doorway. “Mama, Bramble is stealing my slipper.”
Eleanor opened one eye.
Amelia stood in her nightgown, hair a riot of curls that refused every ribbon ever produced. She looked both affronted and delighted.
Bramble turned his head toward her with the solemn dignity of a creature who understood the value of a good negotiation, a small white slipper dangling from his mouth.
Amelia pointed. “He took it on purpose.”
“He does everything on purpose,” Graham said, still without opening his eyes.
Amelia’s gaze snapped to him. “Papa, you’re awake.”
“I am,” Graham admitted, and finally opened his eyes.
Amelia marched to the bed, climbed with determined limbs, and planted herself between her parents as though she were the rightful owner of the space.
Eleanor sat up and smoothed her daughter’s curls. “Good morning, dear heart.”
“It is morning,” Amelia declared, as if she had personally summoned it. Then, in the same breath, “Bramble says we have to go to the garden.”
“Bramble cannot speak,” Eleanor reminded her.
“He speaks to me,” Amelia said, with confidence.
Graham reached out and with practiced ease and liberated the slipper from Bramble’s mouth. The dog released it at once, tail wagging hard enough to wiggle his entire body.
Amelia accepted it as if accepting tribute.
“There,” Graham said. “A diplomatic resolution. No dog was harmed.”
Eleanor arched a brow.
His mouth curved, lazy and entirely unrepentant. “Ten years of marriage has done terrible things to my reputation.”
Amelia leaned forward, studying her father’s face with intense concentration. “Papa,” she said, “You are not dangerous.”
“I am dangerous,” he said gravely, “to biscuits.”
Amelia giggled.
“And,” he added, gaze lifting to Eleanor, “to anyone who tries to make your mother sad before she’s had tea.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened in the way it did when love arrived too suddenly, too cleanly.
Amelia beamed, satisfied. “Good.”
