December, 1823
Loughton Manor, Leicestershire
Crooning a lullaby he’d sung to Mary when she was a babe, Fitz held the six-month-old to his shoulder while pacing the floor.
The door opened with a waft of cool air that stirred the candle flame, and Mel slipped in. “Asleep?” she whispered. She angled her head as he turned and smiled. “Yes.”
Fitz set the small body in the bassinette and straightened the light blanket. “And Mary?”
“After three stories, I tucked her in and left, with strict orders she was not to join the boys in a biscuit raid.”
“Are we raising a hoyden?”
“Most certainly. In a few years, she’ll be leading all the little boys into mischief.”
The Lovelace sons had finally produced their own boys—Rupert’s and Selwyn’s boys in the spring, and George’s boy in September.
But this boy in the bassinette, Henry Gregory Parker Lovelace, would be the heir. Their son. Poor lad. It was good he had a clever mother.
He pulled Mel into his arms. “We’d best lock the door.”
Her low chuckle heated him to his soles and he had no thought for anyone but his brilliant, impossible, impetuous bride.
The End