“Only a little.” She smiled gently. “A walk to the orchard. A proper inspection of that pear-tree fortress you promised me.”
Aaron looked toward the distant trees, then down at Biscuit, then back to the trees again. Emmeline kept her hand where it was, open between them, and made herself wait. He did not take it at once. His fingers curled at his side, then loosened, then curled again.
At last, he stepped closer and slipped his small, warm hand into hers.
“All right,” he said, very quietly. “But Biscuit m-must come.”
Emmeline glanced down as the puppy woke, yawned, and stumbled after them. “Then Biscuit shall lead the expedition.”
And together, they walked toward the trees.
“What in God’s name are you doing?”
Rowan stopped at the edge of the rear lawn, his riding gloves crushed in one hand. His jaw had not unclenched since he left the stables.
For three days, he had managed the puppy’s presence with remarkable discipline. He had left the house early, returned late, taken his meals with rigid punctuality and spoken to his wife only when propriety required it.
Distance was wisdom.
Emmeline was settling in well with Aaron. Aaron smiled more. The dog had survived his first bath and had not yet destroyed anything of value. The house had gained some peculiar warmth Rowan did not know what to do with, so he had buried himselfin tenants, ledgers, correspondence, and any occupation that did not require him to look at his wife for too long.
Now he came home to find his son and his duchess on their hands and knees in the grass, barking.
Emmeline turned toward him at once. The sight was so startlingly unguarded that his irritation faltered before he could harden it properly. Her sandy blonde hair had loosened in the breeze, several curls slipping free near her temples, and there was a streak of grass upon one sleeve of her pale walking dress. Her cheeks were flushed, her honey eyes bright with laughter she was clearly trying to restrain, and the softness of her mouth did something vicious to his control.
Beside her, Aaron froze with his lips still parted around what had clearly been another bark.
Biscuit, the disgraceful creature responsible for most of this disorder, sat between them and barked once at Rowan, as though answering his question.
Rowan stared at the dog. Then at his son. Then at his wife.
“I shall ask again,” he said slowly. “What are you doing?”
Aaron’s face reddened at once, and his gaze dropped to the grass.
Emmeline saw it before Rowan had even finished speaking. She saw everything when it came to the boy, every small retreat, every flinch, every silence before it became visible to anyone else. That was part of the problem. She noticed too much.
“We are training Biscuit,” she said, brushing her hands lightly over her skirts as she rose. “Or rather, Biscuit is training us. The balance of authority remains uncertain.”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “By barking at him?”
“It is an exercise.”
“It is a humiliation.”
Her lashes lowered for the smallest second, and when she lifted them again, the softness had gone still upon her face. Her mouth remained gentle, but it had firmed at the corners, and her chin rose just enough to make the line of her throat lengthen above the modest edge of her gown.
A sudden, heated pull started low in his body before he had any chance to stop it. His grip tightened around the gloves.
Aaron shifted beside the puppy. “It h-helps.”
Rowan looked down at him.
The boy swallowed. Biscuit leaned against his boot, and Aaron’s fingers dipped into the puppy’s fur, clutching there as though it steadied him.
“It helps?” Rowan repeated.
Aaron nodded, then drew in a careful breath. “When I g-get stuck on a w-word, I… I b-bark.”
