A hand touched hers, and she blinked in confusion, glancing down to find her brother had shifted closer and covered her palm with his own. “I know it isn’t easy to confront that someone for whom you possessed fond childhood memories isn’t the person you believed him to be, Lettie. But it’s true.” He squeezed lightly. “Now, let the matter of Granville rest.”

Ultimately, the choice was taken from her.

Her nephew raced headlong into the room. “Papa!” Benjamin cried. Charging forward, the child flung himself at Rhys.

Rhys caught his son and lifted him high in the air, and the sight of father and son caused a tightening in her chest. She stared on, unable to look away, as a strong longing filled her. A longing she’d never known she possessed. Not truly.

Oh, there were plenty of times when she thought about what it would be like to have a family of her own.

Unbidden, an image came of Anthony with a dark-haired, little son. He’d be as affectionate a father as Rhys, devoted and loving, and that longing squeezed all the harder at her lungs, making it hard to draw breath.

“Hullo, Aunt Lettie.”

She started, jerking back to the moment. “Scamp!” she greeted, ruffling his blond curls. “How goes the plan to take over the world since the last time we met?”

“Shh!” her nephew whispered, clamping his palms over his father’s ears. “He does not yet know about my plans to be the next Bonaparte.”

Lettie offered a solemn nod and then drew a line across her lips to indicate her silence.

“Papaaaa!”

“Papaaaa!”

Two other little figures came barreling into the parlor, five-year-old Charlotte and six-year-old Charles.

As the children collectively swarmed their father, Lettie looked on, staring at the bucolic tableau. As affectionate and loving as he was, Rhys with his children proved so very much like their brother, Miles, father to two adopted daughters, Faith and Violet, but he was also entirely different than their own stodgy, aloof father.

“Look what I’ve learned, Papa!” Charlotte cried happily. Rushing to a place in the parlor that had greater space, she proceeded to jump over a rope. “It is a skipping rope! Cousin Faith found it for me!”

Watching them play, Lettie had new wonderings that sprouted and grew, questions about the Marquess of Exmoor. If she wed him—because her prospects were…well, he was her only prospect—what kind of husband would he be? What kind of parent would he be?

An image slid in of Anthony traipsing through puddles to retrieve her hat when he could have so easily sent a servant. In her mind, she saw him running and jumping through puddles with a child, a son like him—

With a gasp, Lettie jumped up.

Her brother and his children instantly looked to her.

“Aunt Lettie!” Charlotte cried out, as if only just seeing her.