Page 108 of Duke of Sapphire

Charlotte glanced at Henry. “I do not think that is quite necessary.”

“It is entirely necessary,” Ian said. “Else the dragons get in.”

Henry cleared his throat. “Very well.”

He removed his coat and laid it over the back of a chair. The bed was not made to accommodate a duke, a boy, and a duchess. He managed to fit himself on the edge, shoulder against the headboard, careful not to jostle Ian.

Charlotte climbed in on the other side, skirts tucked, her shoulder making the smallest contact with the boy’s.

Henry could smell her scent at once. Roses. Not heavy. Just there.

Of course she wears rose water. Half the ladies in London wear it. This is nothing unusual. Except it is. Because it is on her skin. Because it is inches from your own.

Ian sighed contentedly. “This is better.”

Charlotte reached for the storybook on the table. “Which one tonight?”

“The ship one,” Ian said. “Wi’ the storm.”

She picked up the book and leaned across to hand it to Henry. Their fingers brushed.

Both of them pulled back too fast. The book slipped.

It landed squarely on Ian’s stomach.

He sat up a little and stared at them. “What are ye doin’?”

Charlotte forced a smile. “We are merely clumsy this evening.”

Henry retrieved the book. “It appears so.”

Ian looked from one side of the bed to the other. “Ye’ve been strange all day.”

Charlotte smoothed the blanket. “Have we?”

“Aye,” Ian said. “Ye didnae talk at breakfast. Ye turned round in the corridor like ye were avoidin’ him. An’ now ye’re droppin’ books on me. Has there been a quarrel?”

“There has been no quarrel,” Charlotte said quickly. “Your guardian and I are simply…tired.”

“Ye daenae look tired,” Ian replied.

Henry opened the book. “The sooner I begin, the sooner you will sleep, and then you will care very little whether we look tired or not.”

Ian made a face. “That’s true.”

Charlotte settled back against the pillows. Henry started to read.

The words came haltingly at first. His mind was not on the storm or the brave sailor or the ship that refused to sink. It kept sliding toward the warmth of Charlotte at his side. The faint brush of her sleeve against his arm when she shifted. The rise and fall of her breathing as she listened.

This is lunacy. You are a grown man. You have addressed Parliament. You have negotiated with men twice your age. You should not be undone by the sound of your wife breathing.

The rhythm of the story took hold at last. Ian’s eyelids drooped. His head settled more heavily into the pillow.

By the third page, his grip on the toy soldier had loosened. By the fifth, his soft snores cut through Henry’s sentence.

“He is asleep,” Charlotte whispered.

Henry closed the book. “Yes.”