He stared at the chubby cheeks, the soft skin, the white cap and swaddling. “No.”
“Go on,” she said. “Lady Gwendolyn shan’t bite. You are her uncle, you know.”
Christ, he supposed he was. As he stared at the miniature person still being offered, something unexpected slid through him.
Emotion?
Tenderness?
“Uncle,” he said stupidly.
The child looked delicate. He was a rough man. His hands were only accustomed to gentleness when skimming the lush curves of a woman’s body. Did not Lady Aylesford realize he could drop the thing?
“Yes, Uncle Blade,” said his spoony half sister, smiling at him. “Hold her, if you please. Though you must tell me your real Christian name. No one is called Blade.”
“I am.” He made no move to accept the child, but he had to admit Lady Gwendolyn was rather…sweet-looking. She cooed and made a sound of contentment, then stuffed her fist into her little mouth and sucked on it.
“I refuse to believe it,” Lady Aylesford continued if he had not spoken. “Do hold out your arms, you silly man. Settle yourself on the settee like so. Excellent.”
Blade found himself seated on the furniture in question, arms positioned to welcome the babe. Suddenly, his niece—half niece—was a soft, warm weight in his arms.
It was…astonishing.
Her blue eyes blinked up at him, and she grinned.
“Uncle Blade shall do fine.”
“Oh, she is in love with you already,” Lady Aylesford said, smiling. “You need not have fretted so about holding her. William?”
He realized she was attempting to guess his Christian name. “Blade.”
“Peter?”
“Blade.”
Her nose wrinkled. “John?”
He sighed. Little Lady Gwendolyn grabbed his coat in her fist and tugged. “Blade, Lady Aylesford.”
“Oh, do cease being formal with me,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You must call me Grace.”
The woman was stubborn; he admired that. When Genevieve arrived, he had no doubt the two of them would get on quite well.
“Grace,” he allowed. Damn him if these Winter half siblings were not nearly as bad as he had supposed them to be.
He liked them, in fact.
Strange, that.
The babe in his arms added a loud sound as if she were agreeing with him. He smiled at her, thinking children were better than cats.
“Would you mind holding her?” Grace asked. “I will return in but a moment.”
“Here now,” he grumbled. “I am not the child’s nurse.”
“Of course you are not. But uncles must hold their nieces.”
They must? Since when?
