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"Hold your hand steady, Caspian, or the colt will think you are offering him a weapon rather than an apple," George instructed as he adjusted Oliver's small frame against his chest.

Caspian scoffed lightly, though he carefully flattened his palm to allow the thoroughbred colt to pick the sliced fruit from his hand. "I assure you, George, my equestrian manners are entirely irreproachable. It is your sudden transformation into a doting patriarch that continues to throw the entire county into disarray."

George shifted Oliver comfortably to his other arm. "A duke is allowed to prioritize his family's enjoyment, Caspian. Or have you forgotten the fundamental duties of hospitality?"

Caspian brimmed with amusement. "You know, watching you fuss so meticulously over cravats, nursery schedules, and garden walks brings a very specific conversation to mind."

George narrowed his eyes. "I strongly advise you to choose your next words with extreme caution, Caspian."

Caspian folded his arms. "Three rules, was it?"

George shot his oldest friend a cold glare. It was less than effective. "Not another word."

Caspian threw back his head and laughed. "You abandoned all three."

The man takes far too much pleasure in my total surrender.

George's gaze drifted toward the conservatory. Through the panes, he caught sight of Helena. He raised Oliver's tiny hand, waving it toward the conservatory window.

"Some rules deserve to be broken. Or in my case, overwhelmed by an even stronger rule."

Caspian patted onto George's shoulder. "Then I am exceedingly glad you proved to be such a terrible lawgiver, my friend."

George responded softly, a proud smile on his face as he turned back to the main house. "She is the very heart of my existence. Now, if you will excuse us, Caspian, Oliver is growing sleepy, and I have no intention of keeping my wife waiting."

Epilogue

ONE YEAR LATER

"Isuspected I'd find my wife trying to escape her own anniversary celebrations," George called out as he closed the distance between them, his shoulders shielding her from the sudden gust that swept off the hills.

"I merely wished to admire the leaves falling. Winter is coming too soon," Helena replied, turning her head to look at him, her eyes glittering with happiness.

George stepped to her side, leaning his hip against the stone railing as his hand reached out to capture hers. Their fingers interlaced effortlessly, now a familiar and sacred gesture.

"Winter may bring its frosts to the valley, my sweet love," George whispered, his thumb stroking her wrist, "but there shall never be another winter inside the walls of Cavendish Manor. Not while I have you to keep the hearth fires burning."

Below the stone terrace, upon the lawn that stretched toward the glade, the wedding breakfast was in full swing. Long tables draped in crisp damask linen were laden with silver platters of roasted venison, hot cider, decanters of fine claret, and tiered towers of frosted almond cakes. The air was filled with the clinking of flutes, the cheerful hum of conversation, and the melodious sound of children's laughter.

In the center of the lawn, Oliver demonstrated his newly discovered ability to walk. The tiny boy wobbled forward, his arms outstretched for balance as he let out delighted squeals with every step he took across the fallen leaves.

Behind him marched Timothy, brandishing a wooden toy sword. "Halt, Oliver!" Timothy declared playfully as he grandly lowered his wooden weapon. "You are entering the realm of the dragon, and I must guard your steps!"

Before Oliver could lose his balance from laughter, Caspian came bounding across the grass in pursuit. He shouted merrily, scooping Timothy up while making booming monster noises that had the children shrieking with delight. "Have no fear, Oliver! The brave Duke's garrison is here to assist you!"

Theodora darted forward, kneeling on the grass just in time to catch Oliver before his knees gave out. Theodora laughed warmly, gathering the boy into her arms and tossing him gently into the air. "Careful, my little conqueror!"

Beneath the canopy of a copper beech tree, Arabella sat in a cushioned wicker armchair, a thick cashmere shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She cradled her infant daughter against her breast, rocking her with ease while shaking her head in amusement at her husband's unbridled antics.

"Caspian, if you ruin your finest riding boots tumbling in the mud like an untrained spaniel, I shall force you to sleep in the stables!" Arabella called out with a mocking laugh, though her eyes softened as Caspian looked up, grinning playfully while tossing a handful of golden oak leaves over his own head.

"He has your determination, you know," Helena remarked softly, leaning her shoulder affectionately against George's arm. "Whenever he falls, he refuses to stay down. He simply picks himself up and marches forward again."

"He possesses his mother's spirit," George replied, turning his head to look down at her.

Helena dropped her eyes. "I will always miss dear Charlotte."

"As will I. But you, my Duchess, are the only mother he knows. The only one he truly needs." Just then, the doors opened, and Mr. Gibbs stepped out onto the terrace, carrying a heavy silver salver before him. Resting on it was a small, oblong box, its surface weathered by time and lined with faded crimson velvet.