Leopold froze.

“I shall walk her at two o’clock in the morning. All the way out to the little summerhouse at the end of the gardens…and back.”

“Ah,” he said, and for just one moment pulled her hard against his body. Then he backed up and bowed. When her mother entered, he was kissing the very tips of her fingers.

“Why, Duke,” the duchess called gaily. “May I see your betrothal gift? I confess I am all agog.”

“Certainly, Duchess,” he said, bowing to her as well. “Here it is.”

Truly, his manners are beyond reproach, the duchess thought happily—until she turned her eyes in the direction of the duke’s pointing finger.

At the little dog, squatting on the Aubusson rug.

It was fortunate for the duchess’s heart that she didn’t happen to glance out of her bedchamber window in the middle of the night. If she had added to the horror of seeing her beloved rug serving, once again, as an impromptu chamber pot, the anguish of seeing her eldest daughter dash stark naked out of the summerhouse, chased by her oh-so-proper fiancé (in a similar state of undress), well…it might have been too much for her.

But as it was, the household slumbered peacefully, while the two happiest people in it danced in the rain until Leo managed to catch his wife-to-be and hold her still long enough to kiss her…and kiss her…and kiss her again.

Epilogue

Seven years later

It was the Duchess of Villiers’s birthday.

When Eleanor was growing up, her mother had, by all indications, no birthday. When one makes the decision not to age, birthdays are a necessary sacrifice. When Leopold was growing up, for all he knew his mother might well have celebrated all night long, but she had certainly never invited her children to participate.

Eleanor’s thirtieth birthday was of a different sort. The South Parlor of the Duke of Villiers’s country house in Essex—as opposed to his houses in Norfolk, Wiltshire, and Devon, not to mention Castle Cary, which had presumably tumbled into an elegant heap—was exploding with excitement. Tobias was in one corner, doing last minute work on the parts for their game of charades, an annual tradition since 1785.

A knot of dogs was frolicking in another corner. A naughty puppy named Muffin was being watched over by his mother. “Yap!” she warned him as he tugged on the curtains. “Yap, Yap!” Muffin shook his head back and forth, pretending he couldn’t hear her. “Woof,” his father added, waking up, and Muffin let go of the curtain altogether. His father went back to sleep while his mother launched into a loving, high-pitched diatribe that covered everything from curtains to grooming. Not that Muffin paid much attention.

In a third corner, the duchess was sitting on a snug sofa, nursing a baby. In her delightfully full, chaotic, and joyful seven years of marriage, no babies had joined the household until Theodore came along.

Which explained why Phoebe (who used to be called Phyllinda) and Lucinda (who liked her name just fine) were sitting closely on either side of their mother. Not that the girls had generally been far from their mother’s vicinity in the last year. At age twelve, they could sense the slight chill wind that signaled the end of childhood. This last month in particular they had hardly stirred from Eleanor’s side, so fascinated by gummy smiles and plump toes that the twins, who never fought, found themselves squabbling over the privilege of holding their brother.

“May I hold Theodore now?” Lucinda asked. “Please? It looks like he’s finally done eating. I never thought anyone could drink milk for so long! I don’t even like milk.”

“It’s different for babies,” Eleanor said, lifting roly-poly Theo over her shoulder. He let out a satisfied burp.

“But it’s my turn,” Phoebe said, intervening in her quiet way.

“No, it’s my turn,” her father said, scooping the baby off his wife’s shoulder and swinging him into the air.

Theodore burst into a storm of giggles. He was adorable in the way that deeply loved babies are: bald, fat, and altogether scrumptious.

“You girls need to start planning for charades,” the duke said, looking down at his daughters. “Tobias has finished writing all of the parts and he’s handing them out.”

“Last year he made me be Lucifer, from Paradise Lost,” Lucinda said resentfully.

“Your fault,” Phoebe said, laughing. “You shouldn’t have played that trick on him when he came home from Oxford for the summer. You know he’s particular about his clothing.”

“I just wish he’d let me pick out parts some time,” Lucinda said. “I’d make him play an old beggar woman. Or Puss in Boots! He would have to put on paper ears and a tail, or he would never win. Can you imagine? Tobias would rather die than be so undignified!”

“Come on,” Phoebe said, grabbing her hand. “Let’s go, because if we get a wish from Mama for winning, we can say that we want Theo all tomorrow afternoon.”

Lucinda’s eyes brightened and they trotted off.

The duke slipped into the place next to his wife, holding Theo’s hands so the bowlegged babe could practice sitting upright in his lap.

“He’s the best birthday present you ever gave me,” Eleanor said, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“It’s true that he’s three months old,” Leopold said, grinning at Theodore. “But I think of him more as your present to me.”

“Oh no,” Eleanor said. “I have very, very clear memories of my birthday last year. And naturally, I expect that you plan to top your performance. Practice,” she said demurely, “makes perfect.”

Her husband shot her a wicked glance, full of laughter—and desire. “After the charades or before?”

“Before,” she whispered, leaning over and brushing a kiss on his jaw.

“Tobias!” Leo shouted, leaping to his feet.

His eldest son, a sleek, brilliant version of himself, strolled over.

“Take this scrap,” Leo said, dumping Theo unceremoniously into Tobias’s arms. “Whatever you do, don’t let Phoebe and Lucinda start fighting over him.”

Theodore reached up and grabbed at his big brother’s chin, giving him his best toothless smile.

“Did he burp?” Tobias asked sternly. He had quickly learned that sartorial standards can be severely threatened by leaky babies.

“Yes,” Eleanor said, taking her husband’s hand. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“The charades begin in one hour,” Tobias said, not letting on with even the tiniest smile that he might have some idea what his beautiful stepmother and adoring father meant to do in the interim.

“We should be fine with that,” Leo said, grinning down at Eleanor. Unlike his son, he’d lost his ability to appear emotionless.

But he did wait until he was out of the parlor to pick up the duchess in his arms and carry her up the stairs.