Page 43 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

Damon expected a sharp rebuff from the lad, but his son slumped to the walkway, his glaring stare focused beyond Damon to the shops at his back.

“Do calm yourself,” Damon chuckled. “There is a bookstore two shops over with an entire shelf dedicated to wartime battles.”

Abram did his best to keep his frown in place, but Damon knew the boy’s interest had been piqued.

“Madame DelFortaine is expecting you.” Damon gestured to the modiste’s shop. “Abram and I will be at Oliver’s Bookseller. You can send Rigby for us when your shopping is complete.”

“My lord, I cannot accept—”

Damon had suspected she’d turn down his offer of a new gown, but he’d prepared for the argument. “Joy and Abram ruined your dress the other morning. The gown is not from me, but a way for the children to make amends for their troublesome behavior. Isn’t that correct?”

Joy had the sense to at least appear sheepish while Abram’s frown turned to a scowl.

“Very well, we will see the pair of you as soon as you are finished.” Damon set his hand on Abram’s shoulder and guided him down the walk to Oliver’s.

He could not remember the last time he’d been afforded any time alone with Abram that did not include a scolding for misbehaving. Any other time, Joy was present, and the pair seemed far more connected to one another, as if Damon were the outsider in their trio.

“I’ve visited Oliver’s Bookseller since I was a child, no older than you,” Damon said, pushing through the door as a bell rang overhead to alert Oliver that a customer had arrived. “The shop owner is a collector of rare volumes, and every time I come in, I find myself stumbling upon a new book—or subject.”

Abram pulled from his father’s side, stumbling to a halt as his head swiveled from side to side, taking in row after row of books.

Regret pooled within Damon. It was his fault his son hadn’t experienced the excitement of a bookshop before today. It was Damon’s fault that now, a moment his son might remember always, he could think of nothing to say.

“Can I have a look around?” Abram whispered.

“Of course.” Damon spotted Oliver, the bookseller, behind his counter. “Mr. Oliver, this is my son, Abram.”

“Master Abram!” the bespectacled proprietor called, hurrying around the desk to greet them. “It is lovely to have you in my shop.”

“Where are the books on great battles, specifically the Ottoman Empire’s rise and fall?” Abram asked breathlessly.

Oliver glanced at Damon with a grin. “Your boy doesn’t waste any time, my lord.”

“No, he does not.” Damon clasped Abram on his shoulder. When the boy took a step away from him, Damon’s hand fell back to his side. “Please, Oliver, show him around. Books and knowledge, a boy can never have too much of either.”

“Very good, Lord Ashford.” The man’s chin bobbed up and down at the prospect of a large sale.

With the pair disappearing into the stacks, Damon was free to wander the shop and find a volume of his own. Unfortunately, it wasn’t books that interested him at the moment. After she’d fled inside the townhouse the previous evening, Miss Samuels had been distant with him. She was attentive and jovial with the children but refrained from any interactions with him that were not completely necessary. Bringing her to Madame DelFortaine’s hadn’t only been to replace her ruined gown but to repair the damage he’d caused when he followed her to 10 Mill Street.

Bloody hell, he wasn’t sorry he’d loitered outside and made sure she returned home safely. He would never apologize for that. It was being caught he regretted. She was correct. She was in his employ, and Damon had no right to insert himself into her personal affairs. What was far more puzzling, was why he cared. Yet again, he knew why her safety, the safety of everyone in his household, was so important to him.

Soon enough, Damon pushed from the bookshop and ambled two shops down to the modiste’s. Inside, he could see Miss Samuels looking through a mountain of fabrics while a seamstress measured Joy. His daughter seemed happy, her smile stretching from ear to ear, much as it had when they saw the monkeys in the menagerie. Her face was alight with wonder at the workings in the shop as the seamstress and her assistants hurried to and fro. He’d witnessed Joy smiling more in the last several hours than in the last few years.

Contrary to Joy’s exuberant nature, her governess looked perplexed. Her forehead was scrunched as she shook her head and laid a bolt of muslin aside to pick up another.

Miss Samuels’ lips pulled back into a smile, and she held a yellow silk high, gesturing for Joy to come and see it. His daughter hurried over, and both ran their hands along the fine fabric. The child had only been a toddler when she lost her mother. However, Damon couldn’t help but imagine what the last few years would have been like for her had her mother not passed away. Would she always be the precocious child he’d witnessed today? Happy, carefree, and quick to offer a kind word?

What of Abram? Soon enough, he would need to learn all there was about running the Ashford Barony: the estate landholdings, business ventures, managing the account ledgers, meeting with his stewards and man of business. There was much Damon would need teach his son if the estate were to thrive and provide for future generations.

Beyond the glass, Joy nodded vigorously, and Miss Samuels handed the bolt of silk to the modiste and returned to the table of fabrics. Would Joy have relished shopping outings with her mother, if she were still with them?

Damon shook his head and turned back toward Oliver’s Bookseller. The question didn’t merit further thought. Miss Samuels would go the way every other governess had. She would tire of the position and move on, leaving Damon and the children alone once more. Perhaps he should have remarried long ago, taken another wife for the reassurance that his children would have someone permanent to care for them. He couldn’t imagine another woman beside Miss Samuels holding Joy close while she cried, rocking her to sleep, and tucking her into bed. There had been no other who’d treated his children with the care they needed and deserved: stern when their antics grew out of hand, yet compassionate when their sorrow overtook them. Even Flora, his dear sister, hadn’t found any special place in her life—or her heart—for Joy and Abram.

“Father, Father!” Joy skidded out of the dress shop, her half boots clicking on the walkway as she ran to him. “Payton found the most perfect yellow for my new dress.”

“Payton?” His brow pulled low. He should have known it was her given name as he’d briefly reviewed her reference before having Mrs. Brown contact them. Yet acknowledging her name meant a familiarity he hadn’t been comfortable with at the time.

In his mind, governesses came and went. This one would be no different.