The Duke and His Duchess - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,7
aldermen, then stop by the vicarage and be regaled about the sorry state of the roof over the choir. When that task is complete, I’m expected to call on Rothgreb and catch him up on the Town gossip, which will be interesting, because I haven’t any. My afternoon will commence with an inspection of—”
Two little faces regarded him with impatient consternation.
“Right.” Percival folded himself down onto the rug, crossed his legs, and tucked a child close on each side. “First things first.”
He embarked on a tale about a princess—didn’t all fairy tales involve princesses?—and the brave hero who had to do great deeds to win her hand.
“Except,” Percival summarized, “the blighted woman fell into an enchanted sleep.”
“Then what happened?” Bart asked, budging closer.
“He…” According to the story, the fellow swived her silly—“got her with child,” rather—which was what any brave hero would do after a rousing adventure. “He kissed her.”
“Mama fell asleep.”
That from Gayle, who wasn’t the budging sort. The little fellow’s brows were drawn down, the same sign his mother evidenced when she was anxious.
“Keeping up with you lot would have anybody stealing naps,” Percival said.
“Not a nap.” Gayle sprang to his feet and went to the middle of the carpet like an actor assuming center stage. “She faded.”
He collapsed to the rug with a dramatic thump, lying unmoving, with his eyes closed for a few instants before scrambling to his feet. “Old Thomas says the ladies do that when they’re breeding. Bart wondered if we should bury her at sea.”
“I did not. I said if she died, then we should bury her. She wasn’t dead. She woke right up.”
Gayle put his hands on his skinny hips. “You did too, and then she took a nap right there on the ship.”
The ship being the picnic blanket, Percival supposed. “You saw her fall like that, both of you?”
Two solemn nods, which suggested this development was of more import to them than their inchoate argument. Percival set the book aside and held out one arm to Gayle while wrapping the other around Bart.
“Old Thomas is right.” He tucked both boys close, as much for his own comfort as theirs. “Ladies sometimes fall asleep like that when they’re peckish or their stays are too snug or they’re breeding.” Though Esther wore jumps, not stays, and never laced them too tightly.
“Mama breeds a lot,” Bart observed.
“Your mother has fulfilled her obligation to the succession admirably.”
“That means she does,” Gayle translated. “She napped a lot too, when I wanted to fly my birds.”
“Your birds are stupid,” Bart observed.
Percival squeezed the ducal heir tightly and kissed the top of his head. “Rotten boy. Your little brothers will gang up on you if you keep that up. They’ll leave Valentine’s nappies under your bed.”
Gayle smiled a diabolically innocent smile at this suggestion.
“Your mother likely needed to catch up on her rest, and she knew you two could be counted on to protect her while she did. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to join you.”
And he was sorrier still that by this time next week, he’d likely be in London, miles and miles away from his children, unless…
“Percival?”
Esther stood in the doorway, tall, slim, and elegant in a chemise gown of soft green and gold. The morning sun gave her a luminous quality, and with her standing above them, Percival was reminded that his wife was a beautiful woman.
Also quite pale.
“You’ve caught me out. I chased off the nursery maid to cadge a few moments with my first and second lieutenants. Won’t you join us?”
Bart scooted free, and Gayle followed suit. “Good morning, Mama!” They pelted up to her, each boy taking her by the hand, Gayle waiting silently while Bart chattered on. “Papa was reading us a story, but he didn’t finish. He said we can shoot down Gayle’s stupid birds on our next outing.”
When Percival expected Gayle to enter the verbal melee with a ferocious contradiction, Gayle’s gaze strayed to the door, behind which baby Valentine, King of the Dirty Nappies, held court.
Esther moved into the room, a boy on each side. “I’m sure your father said no such thing. I thought we might work on drawing tigers this morning though, and tigers might try to catch the birds as they flew away.”
“Tigers!”
Why did Bart shout everything, and why did nobody correct him for it?
Percival unfolded himself from the floor. “You’d make a very poor tiger indeed if you can’t be any quieter than that. Why don’t you creep down to the library and have