Ophelia believed him, because the look in Hugo’s eyes wasn’t one she’d seen before, but her soul instantly welcomed it. “I’ve never felt . . . said anything like that before,” she said, stumbling into an explanation that she suspected he didn’t need.

“Lucky me,” he whispered. “I suspect you know this, but I’m in love with you, Phee. And I’ve never used that sentence before either. Dukes don’t swear.”

“In love?” she said, wonderingly. “I didn’t . . .”

“I am.”

“Me too,” she offered. “I love you too. I’m in love with you too. I will, I do.”

“I do, I will.”

Chapter Eighteen

At five in the morning, Lady Astley’s snug little house was silent. Hugo had the idea that he woke up simply due to the lack of noise. His townhouse was rarely silent; it was too full of children for that.

The castle was too old: It groaned and talked to itself; wind scoured across Lindow Moss, the bog that lay to the east of the castle, and then whistled through its turrets.

A moment later he realized that it wasn’t silence that had woken him but the patter of small feet. The door silently pushed open and a small creature dressed in a white nightie ran directly to the bedside.

He glanced over at Ophelia. Thankfully, after the third time they made love, he had donned the nightshirt provided by the butler, and Ophelia had pulled her nightgown back on, after which they had made the short journey from the guest bedchamber to Ophelia’s bedchamber next door.

For good reason, it seemed.

Viola stopped at the side of the bed and looked up at him. Soft brown curls made a halo for a sweet face, with hazel eyes and luxurious eyelashes.

You, his soul said.

You too.

It was the same feeling he had had after each newborn child was presented to him: the moment in which the world adjusted so that his heart could recognize one of his tribe. One of his beloveds.

He put a finger to his lips. “Mama is sleeping,” he whispered.

Her bottom lip quivered. “Mama?”

“She’s right here.”

Viola nodded. “Go, snow, cake.” She held up her arms.

Hugo wasn’t certain of the etiquette of inviting small females to one’s bed, albeit future family members. He turned and dropped a kiss on Ophelia’s cheek.

“No,” she murmured. “Later, Viola.”

“Viola is here now,” he observed. “I don’t think she wants to wait until later.” Indeed, by the time he turned back, Viola had dragged a small set of steps from under the bed, climbed up, and was crawling across the coverlet toward her mother.

“Mama!” she cried joyously.

Ophelia turned over and pushed herself up on her pillow, shoving back a curtain of tangled silken strands of hair. “Sweetie,” she said sleepily.