Page 82 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
Deciding it was likely time he took charge of the conversation, Thorne asked, “A demanding infant?” as he crossed the room to his friend.
“Aye,” Demon growled, accepting the handshake. “Clearly she’s brilliant and we cannae leave the books and rattles and the colorful abacus at the townhouse for fear of delaying her education.”
At that moment, two women stepped through the doorway. They looked alike enough to be sisters, which they were, in fact. Georgia, Demon’s patient wife, juggled six-month-old Rosie, while her sister carried three bags of what Thorne had to assume were nappies, books, and rattles.
From behind him, he heard Fawkes reverently murmur, “Ellie,” before he went rushing past to gather the woman in his arms.
Judging from the noise the bags made as they hit the ground, Demon’s wee daughter required rather alotof rattles.
In an attempt to give the reuniting couple their privacy, Thorne crossed to Georgia to fuss over the bairn. “Give her to Uncle Thorne,” he commanded, already reaching for the lassie. “And go have a bit of a rest.”
“Careful, she hasn’t had her nappy changed,” Georgia warned him as her husband led her toward the settee. “And see if you can get her to focus on yer fingers. I’m convinced she’s trying to learn to count.”
At six months? Thorne smiled indulgently at the bairn he was certain would be his goddaughter if Demon had allowed anything as ordinary as a christening. “Yearea bright wee one, eh? Can ye count yet?”
Bouncing the lassie in his arms, he crossed the room, counting as he went. “Forty-seven, ninety-four, three hundred and twenty-one.”
“Donotteach her incorrectly,” admonished Georgia sternly from where she was making herself comfortable on the settee, feet immediately up. “Thorne, I mean it. If you teach my daughter incorrectly—”
“Och, dinnae fash, love.” Demon threw himself down beside her and hauled his wife up against him. “She’s an infant. She’s far more interested in Thorne’s massive eyebrows than his counting skills.”
Approaching the hearth, Thorne raised said brows at the baby. “I dinnae have unduly large eyebrows, do I, sweetheart?”
“I like your eyebrows just fine,” murmured Kit, who’d been standing stiffly by the mantelpiece. Now she twitched one of her own brows at Thorne, who flushed and lifted the bairn higher.
“This wee sprite is Rose. Rosie. Demon and Georgia’s daughter.”
Something like surprise flashed across Kit’s face before she masked it, leaning closer to tweak the bairn’s toes. “Hello, Rosie. You’re a smart little one, eh?”
The wee one grinned, showing off her two bottom teeth and far more drool than strictly necessary.
Still, Thorne announced, “She’s the prettiest baby in the world.”
From the settee, Georgia called, “And brave and strong and talented—and remarkably clever.”
Thorne lowered his voice. “Georgia doesnae want her to grow up thinking her appearance is the only thing praise-worthy about her.”
“If only more daughters were raised that way,” Kit murmured, leaning closer to stick her tongue out at the bairn. “You’re going to grow up to be a very special young lady, aren’t you, Rosie?”
Since she’d stated this while tweaking the bairn’s toes once more, Rose bounced happily, waving her spit-covered fists about happily. Kit burst into laughter.
It was an indulgent sort of laughter, laughter that was pleased and proud all at once. It reached down into Thorne’s chest and squeezed, as he wondered what she’d do if he suddenly handed the bairn to her.
The thought of Kit holding a babe—not evenhisbabe—made him flush. Happily, he was certain.
Ye have nae hope for a future of bairns if ye dinnae tell her the truth!
Aye, but how could he tell her the truth about her father if he was also trying to keep her desires in mind—her future, her freedom to leave Society well alone?
Wee Rosie chose that moment to smack him in the jaw with a drool-covered fist, something Thorne thought rather appropriate. Kit chuckled, reaching up to tuck the small arm back against Thorne’s chest.
“Sorry, sweetie, Uncle Thorne is fastidious and doesn’t care for other people’s spit on his face.”
Grinning wickedly, Thorne leaned closer. “I didnae mind yertongueon my skin though.”
“I’ll remember that,” she vowed, nodding solemnly even as her pale eyes twinkled. “Face licking is allowed.”
“Nae nostrils,” he admonished.
