Page 17 of His Duchess to Remember

The little boy seemed to consider the words. “Why has Papa not come to see us before?”

Goodness, how am I supposed to explain this?

If he was older, it would have been easier. But how was Octavia meant to tell the truth in a way that an almost five-year-old could understand?

“He has had too much to do,” she said hesitantly. “And he does not like to be in England. He is Scottish, after all, and the Scottish are not so fond of the English.”

Simon’s eyes widened. “Papa doesn’t like me?”

“Oh no, my dear boy, he does. No, you must not think that,” she hurried to reply. “He likes you very much, but… he prefers to be at home, and home for him is Scotland. It is the same way that you prefer to be here at Huntfield and get upset whenever we have visited your Uncle Hugo or Cousin Dominic.”

The boy’s expression softened, and he nodded slowly. “I like home best.”

“Exactly, my darling.”

She was about to breathe a sigh of relief and change the subject when Simon piped up again. “I like Papa. I like playing with Papa. Maybe…” he searched for his words “… he stays if he has fun. Maybe, here can be home for Papa.”

It grated on Octavia to hear her son call Malcolm by that term of endearment so readily, though she did not know why. He was Simon’s father. He was Simon’s Papa.

It is because it will wound him when Malcolm does leave.

“I can play boats with Papa again?” Simon asked.

There was such hope and enthusiasm in her son’s voice that Octavia knew she could not refuse. The last thing she ever wanted to do was make her son sad, and she feared that trying to keep father and son apart might do exactly that.

Even if it hurt Simon later, once Malcolm remembered, Octavia could not bring herself to disappoint her beloved little boy. She would just have to comfort Simon and help him heal from the abandonment when the time came.

“You can play boats with your father again,” she relented. “I will… let you spend time together, while he is still here at Huntfield.”

At that, Simon sprang from his seat and threw his little arms around his mother’s neck. He held on tightly to her, and she could feel him smiling against her shoulder as he said, “Thank you, Mama.”

As she hugged him back, she prayed that she would not come to regret this generosity.

Do not break his heart, Malcolm. Please, do not break his heart.

Despite the injury to his head, Malcolm had not become stupid. As such, he had decided that it would be in everyone’s best interests if he stayed out of the way for a while.

Instead of bothering his wife and son, he had withdrawn to the library to search for anything that pertained to his dukedom of Highcastle and how he had come to possess a manor like Huntfield House. When he had found nothing whatsoever, he had picked up a book that had been left on a table by the reading chair and begun to read that.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, succumbing to the exhaustion that occasionally struck him after his accident, for when he awoke, the sun was setting.

I have missed the whole day?

He rubbed his bleary eyes and got up, somewhat disoriented. It took him a couple of minutes to remember where he was, not in the gloom and mist of Highcastle but in the pleasant, airy realm of the duchess.

Heading out of the library, he narrowly avoided a collision with the butler. The man had either been posted outside the room, or it was a coincidence that he just happened to be there.

Malcolm did not believe in coincidences.

“Did my wife send ye to stand guard?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

The butler’s throat bobbed. “She… um… sent me to see if you would be coming to dinner, Your Grace. I knocked, but you didn’t answer.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “Why didn’t ye just come in?”

“That would not be proper, Your Grace.” The butler frowned in confusion. “Unless it was an emergency.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Well, aye, I’ll come to dinner.”