Page 19

"Announcing the Duke and Duchess of Glastonbury, and the Marquess of Berkley," Mr. Gibbs declared.

Caspian entered, dressed impeccably in a fine dark blue evening coat and white breeches, his face illuminated by a broad smile. Tucked securely against his side was his wife, Arabella, looking radiantly beautiful in a high-waisted evening gown of pale cream silk that accommodated her heavily pregnant stomach with elegance. Trotting eagerly beside them was their young son, Timothy, clad in a miniature dark tailcoat, his inquisitive eyes scanning the manor with childish wonder.

The moment George laid eyes upon Caspian, a genuine smile broke across his face. He extended a hand for a brief handshake, but Caspian pulled him into a powerful brotherly embrace, clapping him soundly on the shoulder.

"Caspian, you old scoundrel," George greeted him warmly. "You look remarkably well for a man who claims the road from the valley is insufferable."

"It is insufferable, George," Caspian retorted with a hearty laugh. "Your estate bailiffs have left the lower turnpike in absolute ruin with their timber wagons! But I would navigate a sea of mud to enjoy your chef's roasted pheasant and sample your private cellar's finest claret."

George turned to Arabella and bowed his head slightly, taking her gloved hand and brushing a light kiss against her knuckles. "Arabella, you grow more radiant with every passing week. I trust the journey was not overly taxing in your delicate condition?"

"Not in the least, Your Grace," Arabella replied with a warm smile, resting a hand over her rounded belly. "The Duke ordered the coachman to drive at a tortoise's pace out of sheer terror that a single bump might bring the baby into the world on the high road. I am simply delighted to be out of the house and in your magnificent company."

"You look breathtaking, Your Grace," Helena chimed in, stepping forward to embrace her warmly.

"Please, call me Arabella. We are all friends here," Arabella replied with a chuckle as she broke the brief hug.

While the adults exchanged their formal inquiries and warm pleasantries, Timothy, guided by uninhibited curiosity, wandered across the marble foyer and halted before Mrs. Halloway. His bright eyes widened as he spotted the tiny, swaddled bundle resting peacefully in the nursemaid's arms.

George noticed the boy's movement out of the corner of his eye and immediately felt a sudden surge of anxiety. Fearing the energetic young lad might poke or startle Oliver, George awkwardly maneuvered his way between Timothy and the baby.

"Is he awake, Sir?" Timothy asked, tilting his head back to look up at George with earnest eyes as he pointed a finger toward Oliver's blanket.

George looked down at the small boy, adjusting his waistcoat nervously. "No."

Timothy squinched his nose, looking at Oliver and then back up to George. "How do you know, Uncle George?"

George cleared his throat, slight laughter following after as he pointed at Oliver's eyes. "Because his eyes are closed, young one."

Timothy crossed his small arms over his chest, his brow furrowing with doubt. "Perhaps he is pretending, Uncle."

Caspian burst into laughter that echoed loudly off the walls, stepping up beside George and clapping a heavy hand onto his friend's shoulder. "I believe my boy has already inherited my suspicious nature."

George turned his head slowly, giving Caspian a look that only served to increase his obvious delight. "Your boy possesses an overactive imagination, Caspian. He had best not wake the child, or I shall force you to walk the nursery floor until dawn."

"Oh, do not threaten him with a good time, George," Arabella teased gently, stepping up to take Timothy's hand. "Caspian has been practicing his lullabies for our own upcoming arrival, though I must confess his singing is more likely to frighten a child than soothe one."

"My singing is impeccably refined, my dear," Caspian protested with mock indignation.

They laughed with George and Helena guiding them into the grand drawing room, where a roaring fire burned within the hearth. Servants glided through the room offering silver trays laden with flutes of chilled champagne and delicate aperitifs.

Helena and Arabella seated themselves comfortably near the fire. Arabella regaled his wife with a lively explanation of local gossip and, upcoming seasonal balls. Helena hesitated, no doubt remembering the cruelties local gossip had inflicted on her, but Arabella's bright eyes and kind voice slowly drew her into friendly conversation.

Caspian stood near the mantelpiece, swirling a glass of brandy while discussing the regional agricultural markets and Parliamentary debates with George.

Caspian's opinions were insufferable. Uninformed, sentimental, and absolutely begging for the kind of extended argument the two of them generally enjoyed. Yet, as the minutes ticked by, George found himself incapable of mustering a counterargument or even keeping his focus on Caspian's political insights. Instead, his eyes repeatedly drifted away to settle upon Helena. He watched the way the flickering golden firelight danced across her rose-colored silk gown, the delicate way her gloved fingers held her crystal glass, and the captivating warmth of her genuine laughter.

Every time she shifted her posture, every time her soft voice carried across the room, George caught himself tracking her movements with an intense scrutiny.

This did not go unnoticed. Caspian paused mid-sentence, his sharp eyes darting from George to Helena and then back to George with a knowing glint of amusement. Across the hearth, Arabella offered Helena a knowing smile. Helena herself caught George's gaze on three separate occasions; each time their eyes met across the room, tension charged the air between them, yet neither of them chose to acknowledge the burning air just beneath the surface.

Caspian cleared his throat loudly as he leaned closer to George, a sly grin playing at his lips. He kept his voice low so that only George could hear. "You seem remarkably distracted tonight, George."

George snapped his gaze back to Caspian as he took a stiff drink from his glass. "You misunderstand, Caspian. I am merely ensuring my guests are adequately entertained and comfortable in my house. Pray, continue with your assessment of the wheat tariffs."

"Of course," Caspian murmured, his grin widening. "Host duties, naturally. A most dedicated master of the house."

"Your Graces," Mr. Gibbs announced formally, interrupting the conversations and stopping his lord from making any more defensive comments. "Dinner is served."