Emm’s maid, Milly, opened the door. “Hush, she’s asleep,” she whispered.

“I won’t wake her. I just want to see the baby,” George whispered back.

Milly nodded, and George tiptoed in. Emm was sleeping peacefully in the big bed she shared with Cal. Beside her stood a high cradle made of carved and turned rosewood. In it lay a small white bundle.

George peered in. She’d never had much to do with babies, never seen one so young as this close up.

Bertrand Calbourne George Rutherford, Lord Bertrand, heir to the Earl of Ashendon. Such a big name for a little creature. More of him was visible this time. He was as ugly as a new-hatched baby bird, bald, with a fluff of dark hair sticking up like a crest. His face was red, crumpled and squashed looking, his eyes a dark blue. They stared at her fuzzily, as if trying to focus, to make sense of the big, strange creature looking down at him.

“Hello, baby,” she whispered. “Baby Bertie. I’m your cousin, George.” A cousin. She’d never had a cousin before, and the idea caught at her throat. And he was named partly after her. This strange little baby bird was family.

A tiny pink fist emerged from the white wrappings and waved aimlessly around. George stared at it fascinated. Five miniature pink perfect fingernails. The baby opened his fist and waved a fat little starfish hand at her.

“You should stay tucked in,” she whispered, and with some vague idea that babies needed to be warmly wrapped all the time, she tucked his waving hand back in. Her hand looked so big against the tiny perfect hand.

“Ohh.” A soft little hand closed around a finger and held on tight.

She couldn’t move. She stood staring down at him, this tiny bundle of humanity, so new and fragile, clinging to her finger with such determination and strength. A swell of emotion rose in her, and for a moment she thought she might cry.

A movement behind her caused her to look around. It was Emm, sleepily sitting up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake—” George began.

“I was only dozing,” Emm assured her. She looked into the cradle and her face softened.

“He’s holding on to my finger,” George said, which was a stupid thing to say because it was obvious. “I went to tuck his little hand back in.”

Emm laughed softly. “I’ll have to learn to swaddle him better, because every time I do it, he always manages to wriggle at least one hand out.” The two of them gazed in silence at the little bundle of determination.

“Well, what do you think of my son?” Emm said at last.

George looked down at the ugly little baby bird so firmly attached to her finger and nodded. “He’s beautiful,” she said. And she meant it.