Mrs. Tippet was standing beside Hadrian, watching as Leo sat down to assemble the pieces of a wooden puzzle with Flora’s assistance. “Ah, it’s good to have a child at Clayton House again. It’s been far too long since you were a little tyke.” She shook her finger at Hadrian. “This nursery would be full of youngsters, if Your Grace would only do his duty.”

Hadrian chuckled. “Never fear, I’ll oblige you soon enough.”

His enigmatic gaze flicked to Natalie. Even though she knew he must be referring to Lady Ellen, a shiver stirred over her skin, coursing through her bosom and down to her depths. She resisted the errant sensation with ruthless resolve. Their arrival at his London house had only underscored the fundamental differences in their worlds. It would serve no purpose to indulge such longing when nothing could ever come of it.

“Tippy, I trust you’ll watch over Leo while I show Miss Fanshawe to her rooms.”

“’Twill be a pleasure, Your Grace. Rest assured, me and Flora will keep the mite safe and happy.”

That prediction was confirmed by Leo himself. He scarcely even looked up from his puzzle when Natalie told him she’d return in a little while. On her way out the door, she caught a glimpse of his towheaded form bent over the table, swinging his legs and giggling at something Flora said to him.

Hadrian’s hand came to rest at the small of Natalie’s back as he guided her down a nearby staircase. “Leo is a very adaptable lad. And you won’t be too far from him, I promise.”

Realizing that he must have seen a trace of worry on her face, she confessed, “He’s been my sole responsibility for so many months that it’s difficult to leave him in the care of someone else.”

“It’ll be good for him. You’ll see.”

Natalie hoped so. She reminded herself it would be cruel to keep the boy dependent on her, making their eventual parting all the more difficult. But she didn’t want to think about that now. Not with Hadrian so close to her.

The light pressure of his palm felt unbearably intimate, its warmth penetrating her gown like a lover’s touch. A tingling desire flowed through her veins and wreaked havoc with her equilibrium. If she fretted about anything, it ought to be her desire for a man who could have no place in her future.

At the bottom of the staircase, he ushered her through a nearby doorway and into a large bedchamber done in a pleasing décor of pastel blues and yellows. She gazed in delight at the dainty French furniture, the glass-fronted bookcase, the elegant writing desk. Gauzy curtains on the windows rippled in the breeze and cast a filtered sunlight over a seating area with a sofa and gilt chairs.

To one side stood the loveliest canopied bed she had ever seen. Swaths of silk in robin’s-egg blue with lemon-yellow trim draped the four posts. The white coverlet was embroidered with the daffodils that gave the room its name.