Page 63 of His Duchess to Remember

“I will try,” she promised with a smile.

“Very good.”

The doctor offered a sympathetic look before making his way out of the nursery, leaving Octavia to the soft, snuffling sounds of her son breathing in his sleep, and the gentle hum of the nursemaid, Millicent, who was folding fresh linens across the room.

“Millicent?” Octavia called out.

The nursemaid perked up. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Do you think my husband seems different?”

Millicent cocked her head, contemplating the question. A moment later, she shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t think so, Your Grace.”

Octavia allowed herself a small, relieved smile. “No… No, that is what I thought.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The following morning, emerging from his study after accidentally falling asleep at his desk, Malcolm climbed the stairs to the nursery. Outside the manor, the world was just waking up, the air filled with the chirps and twitters of the dawn chorus.

Indeed, he hoped it was early enough that Octavia would still be asleep, no doubt curled up beside their son.

Stealthily, he peeked into the nursery… and his lips involuntarily quirked into a smile at the scene before him. Sure enough, Octavia lay beside Simon, her arm curved protectively around him, sound asleep.

Has there ever been a more beautiful sight?

Perhaps it was that very thought that pushed him further into the room, edging closer to the bed. There was so much darkness in his mind that, just for a moment, he wanted to savor a little glimmer of light.

“Papa?”

Malcolm froze as his green eyes met those of his son.

He’s awake. He’s going to be all right.

Before he could stop himself, he had hurried to the other side of the bed and perched right there on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching for Simon’s.

“Ye had us worried, laddie. How do ye feel?” he asked quietly, so as not to wake Octavia.

Simon gave his father’s hand a fair squeeze, his little palm clammy against the dry rough of Malcolm’s. “Thirsty.”

“Thirsty? Aye, well, we can solve that.”

Still holding his son’s hand, he reached for a cup of water and brought it to Simon’s lips. The boy drank slowly, and when he was done, he wiped his mouth and stared up at his father.

“Thank you, Papa.”

Malcolm smiled; the first smile that had felt natural since the return of his memories. “Ye’re very welcome, laddie. Are ye still warm? How’s yer head?”

“Sore,” the boy murmured. “A bit warm.”

“Ye’ve nae been well, but I kenned ye’d be all right,” Malcolm said, relieved. “Ye had a fever, but the doctor gave ye some medicine.”

Simon pulled a face. “Don’t like medicine.”

“No one does.” Malcolm chuckled softly, his heart aching… for it was not just him that the boy resembled. Simon looked so much like Barnaby had done when he was a child. A sweet, lively, cheerful soul.

The sound of laughter must have pierced through the haze of Octavia’s sleep, for she stirred suddenly. Her eyes blinked open, surprise registering across her beautiful face as she saw Malcolm there. Then, in a rush, she sat bolt upright, pulling Simon into a fierce embrace, rocking him as she whispered over and over, “Thank goodness. Oh, thank goodness.”

“I got better,” Simon murmured into his mother’s shoulder.