Quimbey took the time to make sure Cecily was signing freely and voluntarily and that she understood what she was signing—a nice touch that, but then Quimbey had acquired his title before he’d gone to university, and was a genuinely good friend.
The deed was quickly fait accompli, and with thanks all around in the mews, Percival mounted his charger and prepared to report to his commanding officer that the enemy had been thoroughly, absolutely, and permanently routed.
“Maggie will help me civilize them,” Esther said as they closed the nursery door. “She’s had to think for herself from a young age, and lot of cosseted boys will not slow her down one bit.”
Beside her, Percival studied the closed door. “You consider Devlin to have been cosseted?” He hoped it was so. Distracted by his siblings, Devlin seemed to be fitting in easily, but Percival saw worry in the boy’s eyes.
Time to go shopping for some ponies.
Esther slipped her arm through his and walked with him toward the stairs, probably to prevent him from suggesting they read the children just one more story.
“You must not fret, Husband. In some ways, Devlin has been cosseted the most. His mother could not provide lavishly for him, but he had her love all to himself, no siblings to compete with, no father to distract Mama from her darling son. He’ll be fine, Percival. We’ll all be fine.”
Because Esther believed that, Percival could believe it too. Kathleen St. Just had taken ship for Ireland, where a second cousin was willing to marry her. Cecily O’Donnell was reported to be taking a repairing lease at Bath. In some ways, the Yule season that approached would be the happiest of their marriage so far.
Esther leaned a little closer. “What did Tony have to say?”
Tony had said surprisingly little, and all of it encouraging. “Anthony could barely spare me the time of day, so anxious was he to return to his bride.” Percival opened the door of their private sitting room. “He did say Peter seems to be doing much better for trying the foxglove tincture.”
“Arabella writes to the same effect. Are we returning to Morelands for the holidays?”
For all the upheaval in the past few days, and for all the honesty and closeness it had brought between Percival and his lady, he still could not tell if she was asking to go home or asking not to.
He closed the door behind them and drew his wife into his arms the better to communicate with her. “His Grace’s spirits are also reported to be much improved.”
They were all in better spirits, and who would have thought such a contretemps might yield that result? Against his shoulder, Esther yawned.
“Surely, that your father’s situation might admit of any improvement qualifies as a miracle.”
“Peter conceived the notion to provide Papa with a young, buxom nurse. Arabella found some village girl with a kindly disposition toward ‘the old dear,’ and His Grace is reported to be pinching the maids and threatening to appoint himself Lord of Misrule.” Percival rested his chin against Esther’s temple. “Will you do the same for me, Esther, when I’m old and crotchety?”
The idea that they’d grow old and crotchety together loomed like the greatest gift a man might aspire to— though Esther hadn’t a crotchety bone in her lovely body.
“Of course, Percival. You shall have all the buxom nurses and giggling maids you desire, because I know you’ll not begrudge me my handsome footmen and flirting porters, hmm? And my doctors will be the most attentive and doting, too.”
She patted his chest, while love for her expanded to every corner of his heart. A month ago, she would not have teased him thus. A month ago, she would given him a look he could not read, and gone about taking her hair down as they exchanged careful small talk.
“I love you, Esther Windham. I will always love you.”
“I love you too, Husband.” She yawned again but made no move to leave his embrace; nor was he about to let her go.
A thought popped into Percival’s tired, happy mind. A thought that might have terrified him only a few short weeks ago. “You took a nap yesterday, Esther, and again today.”
“All by myself, which was a sorry waste of a large bed.”
“We shall put that bed to mutual use presently, but tell me: Are you carrying?” She sighed softly, and that was not a no. “Esther?”
“You adore your daughter, Percival. You study her as if she were some treasure unearthed from exotic antiquity, and you delight in the way she manages the boys.”
Percival inhaled through his nose, the better to catch Esther’s rosy scent, and it hit him: an undernote of nutmeg graced her fragrance. “I love all my children, and I love my wife, and if my wife is carrying yet another child, I will love that child too. And you’re right, I am fascinated by little Maggie and her way with her brothers. I am fascinated with all of them, but mostly, I am in love with my wife.”
He waited for her tell him she was carrying. Instead, she kissed him, and because he was her husband and he did love her to distraction, that was answer enough.
The door to Esther’s bedroom cracked open as the baby stirred in her arms.
“Quiet now, you lot,” came a whispered admonition. “If the baby’s sleeping, we mustn’t disturb her, or your mama will be wroth with us.”
Percival Windham, His Grace the Duke of Moreland, had rounded up his lieutenants to make a raid on Esther’s peace.
“Mama’s always wroth with us,” Gayle observed.
“She’s not wroth with
Percival pushed the door open another few inches and peeked around it. “Hush. The next man who speaks will be court-martialed for conduct unbecoming.”
“No pudding,” little Victor piped. “No pudding.”
Victor was very particular about his pudding, much like his father and his late grandfather.
“Come in,” Esther said, pushing up against her pillows and cuddling her newest daughter close. “I’ve been telling Louisa to expect some callers.”
Percival held Louisa’s older sister Sophie in his arms, and Devlin walked at his side, while Bart charged ahead, Victor clutched a fold of his father’s coat, and Gayle kept Valentine by the hand. Maggie, as always, hung back, though she was smiling, as was her father.
Another healthy girl child safely delivered was an excellent reason to smile.
“Can I see the baby?” Victor asked.
As small as he was, he could not see his mother in her great bed, much less the new baby. Percival tucked Sophie in against Esther’s side and hoisted the children onto the bed one by one. They arranged themselves across the foot of the bed, never quite holding still, but demonstrating as much decorum as they were capable of.
“There, you shall all have a look,” Percival said when he’d positioned his troops. “But no shouting or bouncing around lest you rouse your baby sister Louisa.”
“She’ll mess her nappies,” Gayle observed. “You named her for Uncle Peter, because his real name was Peter Louis Hannibal Windham.”
“We did,” Esther said, though she shared a smile with Percival over the scatological preoccupations of the young male mind.
Not to be outdone, Bart gave his next-youngest brother a push. “You named Sophie for Grandpapa, and that’s why she’s Sophie George Windham.”
“Sophie Georgina,” Gayle said, shoving back.
Percival scooped up wee Sophie and settled with her, his back to the bedpost. “The next fellow who shoves, pushes, or interrupts his brother will be sent back to the nursery.”
“No pudding,” Victor said again, grinning at his older brothers.
Percival tousled Victor’s dark hair. “Heed the young philosopher, boys, and follow Maggie’s example of
