He could not help but wonder how different his life would have been if he had never been sent away, if he had been born first and inherited Eastmore Hall.
Miss Barrett’s words interrupted his thoughts. “Lucy loves the outdoors.”
“She comes by that honestly.” Graham bent to sit next to his daughter and then stretched out his legs. “I prefer to be out of doors any day.”
Lucy crawled from Miss Barrett’s lap and attempted to wiggle over Graham’s boot to reach the adorning tassel, apparently forgetting any qualms she’d had about him just moments ago.
“Where are you going, little miss?” he asked, drawing Lucy into his arms. She giggled when he crossed his eyes at her, then rewarded him with a lopsided grin. Her tiny legs punched him in the stomach as she inched back down to the quilt. He picked some grass and spread it before her. She squealed and reached for the treasure with her fists. He stopped her just before she put the grass in her mouth.
Just days ago thoughts of a child had intimidated him. But with every moment spent in her presence, he desired more. Lucy squirmed and yawned, and he scooped her up and kissed her plump cheek.
Miss Barrett stood and brushed grass from her skirt. “I think Lucy may need a blanket. There is a chill in the air. I’ll return shortly.”
Her footsteps crunched on the dry leaves as she walked away. The soft call of the warbler mingled with a nightingale’s song, and a red squirrel scurried to the tree line. The sounds conjured memories of a forgotten childhood, of long afternoons spent surveying the moors and cavorting amidst the purple heather and rocky terrain.
“Do you hear that sound, Lucy?” Graham said, recognizing a sound he’d not heard since his youth. “That’s a sparrow’s song.” The child, now worn out from her bout of play, drooped sleepily. Her eyelids gradually shut, displaying her long, pale eyelashes against her fair cheeks. He drew her close and tucked her head under his chin, enjoying the gentle rhythm of her breathing and the soft lavender scent of her hair.
What sounds of childhood would his daughter remember? Would it be the whistle of the wind over open spaces and the swish of the cotton grass beneath her feet? Or would it be of noisy carriages clamoring over cobbled city streets? He surveyed the main house, the lawns. The majesty of the grand estate was humbling, its beauty even surpassing that of Eastmore Hall. Miss Barrett’s strange proposal came to mind. If he accepted it, his daughter’s memories would be of this beautiful place. She could live here all her days, if she so desired. The place would belong to him, to Lucy, if he accepted Miss Barrett’s offer.
“Shall I take the child, sir?”
Graham looked up at the sound of a strong Irish brogue.
“I’m Mrs. Dunne, nurse to young Miss Lucy.” The plump woman, white cap over dark hair, stood ready to take the child. He’d lost track of how long he’d sat with his daughter. Miss Barrett had said she would return right away. Where was she? Careful not to wake the sleeping cherub, he stood and gently handed the child to her nurse.
“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll take good care of this one, I will.”
He smiled as she laid the child in a wheeled baby carriage, then started along the path toward the house. As he watched, he thought he heard rising voices carried by the wind. He furrowed his brow and listened.
Graham scanned the surroundings. William and George Barrett were still on the far side of the lawn outside the stables, apparently having forgotten about their port. Helena Barrett and her mother, whom he recognized from the dinner, sat at the table, sipping tea. It wasn’t them. Then he spotted a flash of yellow. It swirled out from behind the terrace wall and then vanished from sight.
Curious, he walked back to the terrace steps. As each silent footfall brought him closer, the muffled voices grew in intensity.
Littleton’s deep voice reached his ears first. “I will not have this discussion again. I think I have made myself very clear regarding my expectations on this matter. As my wife, you will comply.”
Miss Barrett’s response was immediate. “I am not yet your wife. How can you presume so? Do not think I—”
Littleton’s words crushed her protest. “I’ll hear not another word about it. You heard what I said, and you know what I meant.”
“Or what?” Her voice held a