Page 70 of Married to the Icy Duke
She isn’t leaving. Why isn’t she leaving?
“I thought we could spend some time with Tommy,” Charlotte blurted out. She glanced up, determinedly meeting his eyes. “I won’t apologize for taking him out on the picnic, but I am sorry that we didn’t invite you to join us. You should have been part of it. He’s your nephew, too. I want to tell you about the new words he used with us.”
Isaac clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. “Thank you. And I suppose I was overly sharp. The plain fact is that as a family, we are under a great deal of scrutiny. One can never know who is watching, and Tommy is a vulnerable child.”
In his mind, he could see Matthew standing behind that tree, with a clear view of the picnic blanket. He could see Charlotte, Sybella, and Mary cheerfully talking to each other, unaware that they were being watched. He saw Tommy, flitting around to look at the flowers. Tension tightened around his throat, a lump forming there.
Not that Matthew posed a danger, of course. Isaac was sure that once he had crawled through the horrific grieving process, he would return to his old self. And when he did, Isaac would be ready to forgive him, if only for Jasper’s sake.
“What do you mean?” Charlotte said, interrupting his thoughts. When he glanced at her, her brow was furrowed in concern. “What dangers do you think Tommy might be exposed to? Surely you cannot imagine that he would be … would be snatched up from a place like Hyde Park?”
“No, no!” Isaac shot back at once. “Heavens, no. I only mean that the world is a dangerous place. If you had a precious jewel, you wouldn’t display it as you walked down the street, would you? That would be foolish. You’d keep it safe.”
“And you mean to say that Tommy is that precious jewel?”
“Of course I do.”
Charlotte nodded slowly, biting her lower lip. “I understand what you mean, Isaac, but you must remember that, after all, a jewel is simply a piece of rock, and Tommy is a living creature with a mind of his own.”
She took a step forward, crossing some of the distance between them, and came to a halt an arm’s reach away from him.
“When we are married,” Charlotte continued, speaking slowly as she was choosing her words with extreme care, “I shall do my best to work alongside you. I think perhaps we have been working against each other until now, and that will do Tommy no good.”
Isaac breathed out slowly, his shoulders slumping. “No, I … I rather think you are right. The truth is, I do not know how to be a parent.”
Charlotte nodded. “Nor do I. I imagine you know all about my family history.”
“I know some of it, since it pertains to Gabriel, a Devil’s greatest rival.”
She gave a wry, brittle smile. “Well, let’s go to my art room. Tommy wanted to do some painting, and he would be glad to see you here.”
Isaac nodded slowly, smiling. Then he realized just what exactly Charlotte had said.
“Wait, what art room?”
She winced. “I might have … commandeered one of the empty rooms for myself.”
He sighed, rolling his eyes. “I should expect no less, I suppose.”
Half an hour later, Isaac found himself sprawled out on a rug in one of the unused morning rooms, watching Charlotte and Tommy paint diligently at a pair of canvases. Charlotte’s picture took shape slowly and appeared to be a portrait of some kind.
Tommy’s canvas appeared to be a mess.
After a few moments, he turned to his uncle, beaming, and waved a paintbrush, dripping with paint, towards him.
“I think he wants you to join,” Charlotte said, laughing.
Chuckling, Isaac sat up and shuffled towards his nephew. “There’s a good deal of paint on the floor.”
“Thankfully, it is an art room, and so it doesn’t matter how much paint there is on the floor,” Charlotte responded, laughing.
Tommy was clearly having the time of his life. A wide smile split his face, and he beamed up at Isaac, flashing a paint covered smile.
“Hands,” he said clearly, and Isaac paused, taken aback. He still felt breathless and giddy with happiness whenever Tommy said a single word. Then Tommy waved his tiny, paint-covered palmsand pressed them firmly to the canvas. It left a neat little hand-shaped imprint, one in blue, and one in yellow.
“It looks as though finger-painting is the order of the day,” Charlotte said, laughing. “I think he wants you to join in.”
Isaac hesitated, glancing down at his palms. He imagined thick, gloopy paint dripping from his fingers, possibly staining his cuffs, and getting ingrained into the lines of his hands.
