Page 107 of The Viscount's Victory
The major was gone, thank goodness. Gone from London, gone from England, along with his sister. The divorce had been granted almost a year after the proceedings began. Her aunt and Lord Arnon had been married two weeks later, in the little village church near Woodhaven.
A shadow had been lifted from the Thornes.
On her and Sebastian’s honeymoon, they’d travelled north, staying at his Shropshire home for a few weeks before continuing to Scotland. He’d found the homecoming bittersweet.
One day, they’d walked to the church and visited his mother’s grave. That afternoon, he’d ordered the servants to remove all the paintings of his stepmother and restore the ones that had once been there. She’d seen a very fine portrait of a tall, square-shouldered man, a beautiful woman with dark hair and dark eyes, and, half hiding behind the lady’s skirts, was a small boy of two or three.
He’d stood by her side for a moment, looking at it, saying nothing.
“She was very beautiful,” she’d told him.
“I ought to say that I wish you’d been able to meet her. But I scarcely remember her myself.”
She’d squeezed his arm, and they’d walked on, the servants busy all around them, putting the house back to how it had once been. Much easier with things than with people. And sometimes there were no right words to say.
Now, as she reached the landing, she heard voices. Men’s laughter, then Lord Arnon stepped out of his room, grinning. He caught sight of her.
“How do I look?”
“Perfection itself.”
“And you, Nye?” He chucked the baby under its chin. “How’s your old grandfather? Ready for battle, eh?”
Nye blew a dribbly raspberry, which made them both laugh.
“Quite right, my boy!” said Lord Arnon. “And I will tell them so myself if they try to shoot this bill down.”
He continued past her and down the stairs, keen to present himself to his wife for her final approval. Madelaine stayedwhere she was, smiling at Sebastian as he came to join her. He took Nye from her, holding his son easily in one arm as he opened the door to his own room and ushered her inside.
“You have to go,” she protested—very lamely. “And Nye is dribbling on your coat.”
“No one will be looking at me.”
She arched a brow. “Neither of us believe that for a moment.”
“A patch of drool on my coat sleeve is not going to affect the passage of this bill one iota.”
“Oh, you’ve changed your tune.”
He smiled and stepped closer, using his free hand to tip her chin up toward him. “Doyoucare, my love?”
“Of course not.” In fact, the more baby mauled he was, the more she liked it. A little disreputable scruffiness quite suited him.
“Then that’s all that matters.”
He kissed her, a press of lips that became quite promising when he lingered, breathing deep. But Nye squirmed and groused, and, from below, a servant called that the coach was ready.
She gave a small sigh when he pulled away. He grinned, shifting the wriggling baby.
“But it’s all your fault, my goddess, for getting me involved in this society of yours. Otherwise I could pass this tiresome infant to the nurse”—he pressed a kiss to thetiresome infant’sdowny head—“and have you all to myself. All afternoon.”
“Duty,” she grumbled to herself as they left the room. “Sacrifice.”
He followed close behind her. His voice was a hot whisper against her neck. “We’ll just have to wait until tonight.”
Then he stepped past her with a grin, laughing at her expression, and headed on down the stairs. Her son looked backat her over her husband’s shoulder. Aneurin laughed. And she was happy.
