“Well, I am,” James said under his breath.

He was growing up faster than Maggie would like. Indeed, the happier she was, the more quickly time seemed to pass. It felt like a lifetime ago that she’d sat inside the house in her mourning blacks, frail and restless and longing to be out from under the oppressive control of the Burton-Smythes.

Sir Roderick had passed away after an episode of apoplexy during the winter of 1820. And Fred—now Sir Fred—had married a sturdy village girl of eighteen, someone who properly adored him, and who had promptly given him a son.

Fred avoided Maggie’s family for the most part, as much as was possible with them being neighbors. And on those rare occasions they happened to meet, in the village or on the border of their respective estates, he and St. Clare managed to refrain from coming to blows.

As for Maggie, years of fresh air and moderate exercise had strengthened her lungs and improved her health. St. Clare had been at her side the entire time, helping and encouraging her. She’d not been married to him three months before she was back on a horse, the two of them riding over the grounds of Beasley Park, just as they’d done when they were young.

He was still the love of her life. Her best friend and soul mate. The children they’d had together had only strengthened the already unbreakable bond they shared.

“A fine day, isn’t it?” His thumb moved over the back of Maggie’s hand in an absent caress.

“It’s a perfect day,” she said. “We should have had Nurse bring Ivo and Jack out for a picnic.”

“We still can. The day isn’t over yet.”

James’s lower lip crept out in the barest threat of a pout. “Not the babies.”

“Come,” St. Clare said. “None of that. Your little brothers look to you as an example.”

“But Papa—”

“Ride back and tell Nurse that we’re picnicking on the banks of the stream, and that she’s to bring Ivo and Jack along directly.”

“You may stop by the kitchens afterward for a cream cake,” Maggie added encouragingly. If that wasn’t an incentive, she didn’t know what was. “And don’t forget to mention that we’ll need a hamper. Cook can have Salter bring it down.”

James heaved a world-weary sigh. “Yes, Mama.” And turning his pony, he trotted away down the hill where a groom waited to accompany him.

St. Clare’s mouth hitched in a smile. “Sometimes, I think he’s more Honeywell than Beresford.”

“You wouldn’t know it by looking at him.”

James had his father’s looks, as did their three-year-old son, Ivo, and their one-year-old baby, Jack. Each of them blond and gray eyed and handsome.