Page 25 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“Ship,” George echoed in agreement, then stuffed a chubby hand in his mouth.
Silence descended as George was transfixed by the passing scenery and everyone in the carriage breathed a sigh of relief.
“He’s very taken by you, my lord,” Mrs Mifford observed, her face aglow with admiration.
“And I by him,” Lucian replied smoothly—though he suspected his valet might be less charmed by the smear of toddler dribble now glistening on the shoulder of his fine wool coat.
“They are excessively endearing at this age,” Lucian continued, directing his comment to the duchess who looked nervous. His subtle reminder that he too was a parent—and as such, a relatively safe pair of hands—relaxed her and she smiled.
“I believe Mother Nature made them look sweet so we wouldn’t be tempted to throw them out the window when they start wailing,” Lady Chambers commented, earning herself a look of horror from her sister.
“There was many a day I wished a buzzard would swoop down and steal one of you,” Mrs Mifford agreed, then her expression went wistful. “But, oh, I do sometimes miss those days. They grow up so quickly.”
Lucian felt a flicker of wistfulness himself, thinking of Rowan at George’s age—sturdy, rambunctious, and endlessly affectionate. He had been so small, so trusting, so entirely convinced that his father hung the moon. Lucian had often been humbled by the terrifying yet glorious knowledge that he was his son’s whole world.
He glanced sideways at Miss Hughes. She had said nothing during the exchange, but a faint smile touched her mouth and something soft and sad lingered in her eyes.
For the first time in years, Lucian felt a vague stirring of paternal sentiment. He had, of course, indulged in several daydreams involving himself and Miss Hughes in circumstances likely to result in offspring. He was only a man, after all.
But now, the fantasy took on a different shape: not lust, but longing. A strange, quiet ache to share with her the joy of being—if only for a short while—someone’s whole world. She would make a wonderful mother, Lucian decided, and a wonderful wife.
“I am glad that I decided on this jaunt to Rosemount,” Mrs Mifford declared loudly, her eyes knowing as she looked at Lucian.
The woman was, Lucian was forced to admit, the most gifted of matchmakers.
The party spent another half-hour ensconced in the carriage before they arrived at Rosemount. They were each stiff despite the well-sprung vehicle, apart from Baby George, who toddled off immediately in the direction of the fountain—at the centre of which stood a cherub, ostensibly urinating water into the pool below.
“George!” the duchess called in despair, hiking up her skirts to race after him.
Mrs Mifford very pointedly took Lady Chambers’ arm, leaving Lucian to gallantly offer his own to Miss Hughes.
“She’s quite the tactician,” Miss Hughes observed wryly. “If only she knew the truth of what we were thinking.”
Lucian, who had just been indulging in another rather indecorous daydream involving creating offspring with Miss Hughes, awkwardly cleared his throat. He was very glad at that moment that Mrs Mifford could not read his thoughts.
A liveried servant emerged from the house to greet them, visibly blanching when he realised the company included several members of the aristocracy.
“Mr Rowley will be most displeased to have missed you,” he stammered. “If only you had written ahead.”
“I’m afraid I only act on impulse, my good man,” Mrs Mifford replied, causing the poor fellow to pale further.
“In that case, I shall fetch the head gardener to conduct your tour,” the servant said, bowing. “He is quite protective of his blooms.”
With one last anxious glance at Mrs Mifford—as though fearful she might act on another impulse and raze theparterre—he turned and scurried away.
A few moments later he returned with the head gardener, Mr Dimblade, who reluctantly removed his straw hat as he greeted the ladies.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the formal gardens,” he said gruffly, before frowning down at George. “Keep an eye on him; Mrs Rowley likes to let the peacocks wander and they’re liable to charge if they think someone’s invading their space.”
Mary paled, reached down to scoop George up into her arms and declared that they would both stay and play by the fountain. Mrs Mifford, meanwhile, had latched herself onto Mr Dimblade—and Lady Chambers along with her—and was racing ahead at speed.
This left Lucian to amble contentedly beside Sarah, as they both admired Rosemount’s famed roses.
“These smell divine,” Miss Hughes commented, as she leaned over to sniff a particularly vibrant bloom.
“Cabbage roses,” Lucian replied, as he paused beside her. “They bloom only once per season but they make up for it with their perfume.”
“Did your wife like roses?” she ventured, turning to look up at him.
