“Well, we’d all be foreigners in Spain.”
“This is not funny. You’ll have to wait for a land invasion to reach Hamlin to show off your fancy strategies. Or you could return the boy to his mother. She could make sure that the baby is unharmed.”
“Now you’re talking crazy, LaCroy. I can’t trust Lionel with a woman who ran off. Mothers leave, and it’s never for a noble reason.”
I couldn’t stand hearing his low opinion of me or bear to think of him going to war. I wanted to confess, box his ears, and hold on to him to keep him from harm.
Instead, I slapped my forehead.
This was me feeling too much, too soon. I couldn’t let my heart do this to me again. As fast as I could, I moved toward the door.
“LaCroy, stop! Where are you going?”
“To go check supplies for the land invasion. If you’re called back to duty, you can be assured Hamlin is running well without you. Be assured, nannies don’t leave, not without their charge.”
“Stay, Mrs. LaCroy.”
“Why? Because you haven’t asked me to withdraw?”
“I haven’t, but I want you to stay. I want to reassure you that I’m not reckless and that I take Lionel’s concerns and that of his outspoken nanny very seriously. Come back. Sit. Let’s pretend I said nothing of this. Let’s review Lionel’s schedule for next week.”
His smile was tentative. Those dimples seemed sincere, not a tool to twist my emotions even more.
My feet were slow, but I came back, slipped into my chair, took the paper he offered.
Repington’s lips lifted. Dimples definitely showed. A dimple was dangerous on a handsome man.
I looked at the schedule and gasped. Ten o’clock, eleven, one, and more. “An hourly schedule? Sir, you’re serious? A baby sleeps and eats and then relieves himself, and then he does this all again, but with loving hugs and reading to him and brushing his hair and smoothing his little face with lavender. None of these things are on this page. They matter.”
“That’s what you are to do in between these more formal tasks.”
“Raising a baby doesn’t need to be this formal, R-Repington, it needs to be a work of the heart with all the passion a mother can muster.”
His eyes went wide, and he bit at his lip.
I bit mine.
I didn’t mean to call him by his titled name as if we were equals. Or had I? We should be equals when it came to Lionel.
“True, Mrs. LaCroy, butmybaby needs all those things and a schedule.”
His? Lionel wasn’t his. He wasn’t. The duke didn’t birth him, didn’t spend months with him in his belly talking to him about seashells and coconuts and dreams, good dreams.
“You have a problem with a direct order, madam?” He handed me the list again. “You can add those mothering things, too, but I thought if I set a time for hugs it would seem a little heavy-handed.”
“No, we wouldn’t want you to seem that way.”
“This is what I want for my Lionel.”
His again? Lionel wasn’t his. I glanced up, ready to tell him what to do with his schedule but stilled.
His face.
The pride in the duke’s face, pride for my Lionel, stopped me, gluing my hands to the seat.
That was the sentiment he’d expressed in the nursery the first day, and it made my eyes sting.
Swallowing lumps and my own pride, I put the list upon my knees. “I’m at a loss for words. You’ve gone above my expectations.”
