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Chapter Ten

Helena remained motionless in the doorway, her mind struggling to reconcile the stoic man who ruled Cavendish Manor with the tender figure standing before her in the morning light. "Your Grace?"

George slowly turned his head toward the doorway, his deep blue eyes fixing upon her and sending a sudden flutter through her chest. "I thought you would be here."

Helena stepped into the room, George's humming now clear in her ears as she gathered her scattered composure under his steady gaze. She looked at the peaceful form of Oliver, then met George's eyes once more. "It took a while to get out of bed, Your Grace."

Helena had opened her eyes far earlier than usual, with her pulse racing against her ribs. As she pulled herself out of bed, her mind was clouded with a single thought.

She had traced her fingers along her lips, remembering the taste of George against her. She could feel his touch and still smell his scent from that night.

I must suppress this foolishness at once, she thought while she stared at the pale plaster ceiling. It is a dangerous impulse to dwell upon a moment that ought never to have transpired in the first place.

She had squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head and forced the sensation to be banished from her memory. Yet, no matter how sternly she had admonished herself, her mind had relentlessly revisited every second of the embrace.

It was merely a moment of weakness. Nothing more.

Forcing herself out of the room and dressed in a high-collared morning gown of soft lavender muslin, she hurried to the nursery, upset that she had pushed Oliver's wellbeing to the recesses of her mind. It was at the nursery doorway that she was greeted with the sight of George cuddling his nephew to his chest while rocking the boy slowly.

He was careful. He was clumsy. But he was doing it right. One of George's large hands supported the baby's small head while his broad arm cradled the tiny torso securely against his heart.

Silence stretched between them as Helena watched George with rapt attention. His humming voice travelled from one corner of the room to the other, and she had to admit that it sounded lovely. Gentle and reassuring and all the things he never showed to her.

"What are you doing with him, Your Grace?" Helena asked, her brow furrowing slightly in genuine perplexity.

George looked down at the tiny face resting against his chest, adjusting the edge of the woolen blanket before he looked up at Helena with a faintly arched eyebrow. "Apparently, I am holding my nephew."

Helena paused, her lips pressing together. "Your Grace, I can see that. I must confess that I was not expecting such a sudden show of affection. It's quite fascinating."

George's dark eyes gleamed with a flash of amusement as he parried her retort without missing a single beat. "Fascinating? I do not quite understand. But if you can fully interpret what I am doing right now, why ask?"

Helena bit the inside of her cheek. It was astounding how effortlessly George could engage her in their verbal sparring, even while holding a sleeping Oliver. The tension that had held her heart in a vice loosened slightly, replaced by the familiar rhythm of their - exchanges.

"I ask, Your Grace, because days ago you treated Oliver as though he were a stranger to you or a great burden," Helena said, her tone laced with teasing warmth. "Yet here you stand, humming tunes like a seasoned nursemaid while Mrs. Halloway is nowhere to be seen. You must forgive my utter astonishment at such a dramatic transformation."

"Mrs. Halloway, the wet nurse? She was called down to inspect the new linen and sheets," George replied smoothly, shifting Oliver slightly so that he rested against his shoulder. "The boy began to stir and utter those small squeaks that precede a tempest of crying. I simply stepped inside to prevent the entire east wing from being awoken by his displeasure. It required no great heroism on my part, I assure you."

"And the humming, Your Grace?" Helena queried, her dark eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. "Is that also part of your ducal duties, or have you secretly been practicing lullabies in the privacy of your study after midnight?"

George let out a gravelly sound that landed remarkably close to a chuckle. "I shall have you know that this particular melody was utilized by my own mother when Edward and I were little. The child ceased his complaining the moment I commenced. Apparently he possesses a refined taste in music."

He looked down at Oliver's peaceful, round face that had softened into a gentle slumber. "He is remarkably light for an heir to such a vast estate. Does he not eat well? Does Mrs. Halloway consider her job of little importance?"

Helena remarked softly, "He is but an infant, Your Grace, and exceptionally well fed. He will grow incredibly well with proper care and warmth. Though I must admit, he seems remarkably content in your custody. You have developed quite a deft touch, Your Grace."

"Necessity is a rigorous teacher," George murmured, his thumb absentmindedly tracing a gentle circle over the soft flannel of Oliver's blanket. "Besides, if I am to ensure he grows into a man capable of managing Cavendish, I suppose I ought to familiarize myself with his existence before he reaches an age where he can argue with me."

"Oh, I have no doubt he will argue with you, Your Grace," Helena replied with a soft laugh that echoed melodiously against the nursery walls. "He possesses your family's stubborn jaw and Lord Edward's persistent spirit. You shall have your hands exceedingly full in a few short years."

"Then I shall rely upon your formidable authority to keep both him and myself in proper order," George countered, his deep voice carrying a subtle weight that caused Helena's breath to hitch in her throat.

"You speak as though I am to remain your permanent nursery supervisor, Your Grace," she said, attempting to steer the conversation back toward safer ground, though her pulse continued to race. "I assure you, once Mrs. Halloway returns, she will reclaim her position with great efficiency."

"Mrs. Halloway may hold sway over the nursery, but she does not command the master of the house," George noted, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Though I admit, her stern glare is remarkably effective. I considered retreating the moment she stepped out, but Oliver proved surprisingly persuasive in his desire to remain accompanied."

"He is a Cavendish, after all," Helena observed quietly, her eyes softening as she looked at the babe. "Commanding others appears to be a hereditary trait."

"A trait that comes with far more burdens than privileges," George said softly. "I would prefer he learn grace and compassion before he ever learns command. The world has had quite enough of ruthless leaders."