“Racket?” I gasped, shook free of the countess’s hold, then ducked under the guard’s arm. Sliding across the marble tiles, beneath the shadow of the grand chandelier, I was in the middle of a camp. The hall was a sea of tents—flat white, bell-shaped tan, and flags backed all the way up to the stone gods, the three warrior statues near the stairs. The duke’s army had made camp on my floor.
Lionel shrieked again.
“Wait, Mrs. LaCroy,” the countess said. “Have some patience, please.”
I couldn’t.
Not with my baby crying.
I hiked my skirt and sped up the stairs to the second story. Lionel sounded as if he were on this level, not the third floor with the nursery.
“Come down, woman. Stop!”
Soldiers were coming for me. Jemina blocked one, fluttering in front of him with her dark gray skirts.
I spun to the left and then to the right. Which way to my child?
Lionel started again, though softer now, he was indeed on the second floor, in one of the bedrooms. The master’s bedchamber?
People were running after me, pounding up the stairs.
They’d drag me out.
Not again. I turned the corner and pushed into the room where my boy’s sobs seemed the loudest.
I closed the door, then froze.
Lionel, my baby was here . . . in the arms of a man rocking him . . . in my bed. Through the sheer silver curtains of the canopy, I saw a masculine figure hovering over Lionel. His thick arm half-covered in a billowing burgundy robe swallowed all but my baby’s big head.
“You’re not wet again, are you, lad? I’m running out of shirts. Come on now, little soldier, milk will be here soon.”
My panicked spirit eased. This man was trying to appease Lionel, not punish him.
I took another step into the room, staring at the man, my baby, and the bland white walls surrounding them all. It was one of the only rooms I hadn’t redecorated to make it seem warmer, loved. Paint couldn’t cover lies.
“Come on, my boy. We were getting along.”
That voice. Deep and rich.
The shadows and outline of this fellow half-hidden in the bedclothes was large and overpowering.
And familiar.
It had to be the duke from last night.
I squinted through the curtains to be sure.
Yes, it was him and the memory of him—his heavy arm draped across my shoulders; the hammered muscles of his chest splayed into my cheek—left my mouth dry.
The baby calmed, grabbed at the velvety robe falling from the duke’s bared shoulder, one with scars. The man was rugged and masculine with brown hair streaked with blond, making me wonder if, like velvet, it changed colors when my fingers swept through it.
“Easy with my cuff in your mouth. Well, until your milk arrives, I suppose that will do. But my valet’s not going to be happy. Let’s see. One of my dear lady friends said poetry is soothing to babies.”
The duke scrubbed his chin. “ ‘There was an old woman from . . .’ No, that rhyme might not be appropriate.”
I wanted to laugh, but my heart felt too cheated. It should be Colin in my bed, holding our son, giving me wrong thoughts—of curling up onto a bared shoulder and listening to his sweet deep voice sort of singing.
Very wrong thoughts, but it was such a dear picture.
