Page 74 of A Duke to Reclaim Her
Rose sipped her lemonade, letting the sourness settle on her tongue. The tartness matched the sweet ache of what she saw: her husband, a powerful duke, ceding all dignity to entertain a child not even of his own blood. It undid her in ways she had not predicted.
Felix straightened, dusted off his knees, and looked toward Rose, as if to see if she’d been caught out in her surveillance. He cocked a brow. “Are you proud of yourself, Duchess?” he asked and then set Lizzie on the grass beside him.
“Shall we introduce her to the botanical hierarchy, or do you prefer she remain an anarchist?” Felix called towards her again, his voice carrying with the bright ring of laughter, unthinkable a year ago.
“I prefer she learn the edible from the poisonous,” Rose replied, voice level but with the edges soft. “And I’d rather she not repeat your observations on the peerage.”
Felix gave a little bow, then crouched at Lizzie’s side, pointing out a cluster of primroses that had just begun to bloom. He lifted one, careful as if it might burst into flame, and pressed it gently to Lizzie’s nose. The child squealed and smacked the blossom, then snatched it from his hand and attempted to eat it.
“She’s a Greycliff,” Felix said, and there was more pride than exasperation in it. He wiped a smear of petal from Lizzie’s mouth and looked to Rose for a verdict.
“She’s a survivor,” Rose replied, and realized with a jolt that she was as well.
The next half hour passed in the kind of lazy, fractured bliss that always seemed on the verge of ending. Felix and Lizzie traipsed along the flagstones, collecting dandelions, bits of lichen, and a feather or two. Rose lay back on the blanket and watched the sky, the clouds slowly rolling from the southwest in massive, gentle herds. She let her mind drift, as she rarely permitted herself, and thought of the years to come: Lizzie running, falling, getting up; herself, watching, worrying, holding, and letting go in infinite sequence. It was not the life she had planned, but it was a life she could want.
A flash of white on the lawn caught her eye—Lizzie had wriggled from Felix’s grasp and was crawling with predatory intent toward a patch of violets. Felix caught up in a few long strides, knelt to her level, and attempted negotiation.
“Lizzie, if you prefer the violets, we can reach an accommodation,” he said.
The child ignored him, her eyes locked on the fluttering of a cabbage butterfly that hovered, careless, over the flowers. Felix followed her gaze, then sat back on his heels to watch the chase. Rose propped herself up on her elbows, unwilling to miss a moment.
Lizzie lunged for the butterfly. It flittered away and landed on Felix’s sleeve. The baby gurgled in delight, then crawled up to him and grabbed for his arm.
And then, Lizzie pushed herself upright, clutching at Felix’s trouser leg for balance. She wobbled; two fists knotted in the fabric. Felix froze, as if any sudden movement might collapse the magic. His mouth hung open in a caricature of surprise. Then, slowly, he reached down and steadied Lizzie by the ribs.
“Rose,” he called, voice strangled with disbelief. “Come see.”
But Rose was already on her feet, rushing over the damp grass, dress snaring at her ankles. She knelt beside them, hands to her mouth, and watched as Lizzie, still holding fast to Felix’s leg, bounced a little, then a little more, then let go with one hand and grinned at her mother, all gums and wild eyes.
“She’s standing,” Rose said, not daring to believe.
“She’s standing,” Felix echoed, then looked at Rose with something like awe. “Is this—? Have you ever?—?”
“No,” Rose whispered, and realized she was crying, fat, hot tears running down her face and dripping onto the grass.
Lizzie made a noise of triumph, a full-throated bellow, then toppled backward onto her bottom. She seemed more astonished than upset, and after a heartbeat of silence, she began to clap for herself, palms slapping together in noisy celebration.
Felix laughed and scooped Lizzie up, spun her high over his head, and the child shrieked with joy. Sunlight caught her hair, and for a moment it looked as if she wore a crown of gold.
Rose sat back, breathing in uneven bursts, and watched as Felix cradled the baby against his chest, one hand splayed protectively across her back.
“I told you,” Rose said, wiping her tears. “She’s a survivor.”
Felix looked at her, and the fierceness in his expression was almost frightening. “So are you, Rose.”
The three of them sat there, tangled in grass and wildflowers and the aftermath of astonishment, until the shadows grew long and the clouds shifted pink.
Lizzie dozed on Felix’s shoulder; her mouth pressed against his collar. He stroked her back, slow and gentle, as if he feared she might dissolve in his hands.
Rose leaned against Felix’s side, her own head drooping with fatigue. She breathed in the scent of his shirt, the musk of garden air, and the sweet, sour, impossible hope of it all.
In the fading light, she looked at the two of them and thought: This is what it means to be saved, and to save in return.
And for the first time in her life, she let herself believe it could last.
The world had gone quiet, the garden saturated with the mellow haze of late afternoon. Lizzie slept in a nest of blankets, curled among fallen camellias and the detritus of her own earlier triumphs: a crushed primrose, the feather now limp with drool, a sticky half-mashed dandelion. For once, she looked innocent, the wildness sanded down to a cherub’s repose. A nursemaid, summoned by Rose, sat with the baby so that she could speak to her husband alone.
Felix lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, gazing at the sky as if he expected it to offer an answer.
