Sammy had been hopping up and down the staircase between the ground and first floors. But that had stopped a few seconds ago when he located a tall stack of woks.

“Don’t even think about it, son.” Harry clamped his hand on Sammy’s shoulder. “That stack of woks is not a giant Jenga game.”

Sammy gazed up at his father with round, innocent eyes.

Apparently, Harry didn’t buy his act for one second. “You forget, I was your age once. I know exactly what you’re thinking. Are you ready for supper?”

The cowlick bobbed with Sammy’s nod.

“What sounds good?” Harry’s hand never left his son’s shoulder.

“Fish and chips!” Sammy fairly shouted.

“What did I tell you?” Harry whispered into Elise’s ear as they headed out the door. “Fried everything.”

Harry’s breath sent shivers down her torso.

Elise expelled a shaky lungful of air. “There’s a small bistro around the corner. They serve pizza and hot paninis.”

“Sounds good to me.”

They started up the hill, three-abreast, with Harry in the middle. Sammy chattered and bounced on the far side, reminding Elise of a humanized Tigger.

Harry’s hand brushed against hers twice before he twined his fingers with hers. Shivers thrummed up Elise’s arm and exploded inside her chest. It had been years since anyone had affected her like this.

Not since . . . Harry.

Chapter 18

Last-minute preparations for tomorrow's Ball were in full swing when Elise came downstairs. Though early in the day, the castle was alive with activity. Even her father, Lord Roxbury, did not escape recruitment. He bustled past Elise, making for the great door, loaded with boxes.

“What have you got there, Dad?” Elise asked, faintly amused at her father’s harried expression.

“Fairy lights. I’ve been commissioned to string them around the entrance urns.” Roxbury looked about, then whispered, “Your mother should have joined the Royal Marines. Her talents are utterly wasted here.”

“I heard that, Armistead,” Mother’s voice sang out from her office, a room Elise and her siblings had long ago dubbed the “command center.”

Father rolled his eyes with good humor and left Elise to deal with her mother.

Elise glanced down at her workout clothes and sighed. No hope for a run on the treadmill, not when Mother’s party plans had launched into a full-on engagement with all hands on deck.

Elise stepped into the command center and folded her arms.

Mother bent over a table and squinted at her notes. Catching sight of Elise, she straightened. “Elise, would you mind dreadfully taking this box of tartan runners to Mrs. Sinclair? She’s doing up the dining room.”

“Of course.”

Elise picked up the box and marched down the hall, waiting for her hips to complain. But they didn’t. Oh, they let her know they were still there—a vague discomfort. But the months of bone-wearying pain had gone.