With his handkerchief readied, he knelt in front of Amelia and wiped green paint from her palms. “She is my Lady Gantry.”
Amelia frowned. Her poked-out lips then covered her small face. “Why can’t I call her mama? She stays with us and is fun and cares for us like what mamas do.”
“That’s not all they do.” Agatha’s sharp voice boomed. “You don’t remember anything. You’re such a baby.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Not.”
Amelia took the handkerchief and tossed it toward her sister, but Felton caught it. “Sweetheart, you two were getting along so well.”
“Agatha doesn’t even like her. How can she have a say?”
“I do like her,” his oldest said as she waggled her hands behind her ears. “I just don’t show it like Grandfather.”
“Grandpa shows he likes Mrs. Cecilia,” Amelia said. “He brings her flowers and new brushes. He even stops her from crying when others say mean things.”
Until last night, Cecilia had never cried in front of Felton, not even when he told her of her father’s passing. What had he done to make her hide so much of herself?
The joy Felton had felt at discovering Cecilia’s talent disappeared. That sick feeling returned and stewed in his gut. “Girls, have you seen Lady Gantry?”
“With Grampa.” His daughters’ high-pitched voices blended.
He backed from the room and knocked into Watson, his man-of-all-work. The flexible fellow caught a falling glass while balancing a bottle of port. “Sir, did you need something?”
“Yes, Watson. I’m looking for Tramel and Lady Gantry. Have you seen them?”
His man said nothing. He merely moved the bottle on the silver tray.
It would be wrong to grab Watson by the collar and jerk him off his feet, but that was exactly what he did. The tray tottered and fell, but Watson caught the bottle and Felton the glass.
“Well, your reactions are still good for a retired department man,” Watson said, chuckling.
“Where are they?”
The fellow’s deep bronze face glowed, but whether in a military uniform or a dark mantle, he was the same—even and cheeky. He took his time and pointed. “The smallish garden. It’s beginning to snow, so take care.”
Felton smoothed Watson’s uniform, offered asorryand took off to the patio. He launched through the door and stumbled onto the garden’s stones, sliding in the fresh dust of snow.
Cecilia sobbed, wrapped in Tramel’s arms. His father looked at him, offering a triumphant grin.
CHAPTER13
FELTON—WORSTDADDY
Standing on his patio, Felton didn’t feel the cold anymore.
Snow fluttered and stung his face, but he didn’t see it.
It wasn’t quite a blinding rage, but Felton thought he had achieved it, his vision becoming pitch-black as he witnessed the loving embrace between Cecilia and Tramel.
His father smoothed her back and with his eyes dead on Felton, kissed her cheek, then her brow.
When his shock cleared, he could somewhat think straight, and jumped in between them separating the two. “What’s the meaning of this?”
The duke whacked with his cane. “I know you to be of small mind, Gantry, but why do you keep hurting this dove?”
