Page 8 of His Duchess to Remember

Talk turned to the preparations that would have to be made, and what the theme of the occasion might be, the ladies chattering amiably while the boys played in the reflecting pool.

Octavia kept a watchful eye upon her son, but as the voices of her friends became a distant hum, her mind drifted to the man who had sired her darling boy.

She was glad that Malcolm had stayed true to his word, their marriage as separated as a marriage could be without annulment or divorce, and yet…

“Relax, lass.” His gentle words and tender touch rushed through the past and into her thoughts.

She would have been lying if she had said it was the first time she had thought of him, of that night, of that strange and surreal week in the depths of Scotland when he had come to her chambers and shown her nothing but care and consideration. Maybe not always with his words, but with his actions.

In truth, memories of their very short honeymoon haunted her, slipping into her dreams, and occasionally into her daydreams too.

As sunlight glanced off the pool and made the ripples sparkle, she absently touched her fingertips to her lips and remembered that first kiss: how profound and right it had felt, to be kissed like that, with patience and guidance and a gentle command.

I shall never be kissed like that again… That thought haunted her too, sometimes. Indeed, now and again it sparked annoyance in her, that her husband should have kissed her so well that she occasionally caught herself craving it, even five years later.

A frantic splash and cold, wet arms around her neck snapped her straight out of her wayward thoughts.

“Mama! Mama, help!” Simon panted, his little face pale with fright as his green eyes—so like his father’s—fixed on a fat bumblebee that buzzed across the pool. “A bee! It stinged me!”

Octavia put her arms around her son protectively. “It stung you, my darling? Where?”

The boy hesitated. “I think… it didn’t.”

“Did it just get too close?”

He nodded slowly.

She smiled and kissed his damp hair. “Bees will not harm you, my darling boy. They will only harm you if they think you are going to hurt them, but you would never hurt a bee, would you?”

Simon chewed his lip, considered her words, and shook his head. “No, I won’t hurt bees.”

“Well then, there is nothing to worry about,” she promised, as she watched the bumblebee fly off toward a patch of lavender. “Bees are lovely. Bumblebees are my favorite.”

Simon brightened. “My favorite, too.”

She chuckled, forever in awe of the sweetness of her son. It was hard to believe, at times, that his father was such an imposing, intimidating, stern figure, at least outside of that strange week. Then again, no one started out like that. Perhaps, in childhood, Malcolm had been a sweet little thing, too.

“Your husband will have to return at some point,” Evelyn said, drawing a sharp glance from Octavia.

“Why would you say that?” Octavia replied, her tone harsh.

Evelyn sighed. “Because that dear boy will need his father’s influence. If nothing else, he will need his father to teach him how to be a duke someday.” She put up her hands in defense. “I am not saying it will have to be anytime soon, but he should know of his future duties.”

“My brother can do that,” Octavia said, eyes narrowed.

Evelyn had already made many subtle comments that Simon was perhaps too soft, too sweet, and might benefit from not being forever at his mother’s side. Particularly before he eventually went away to Eton or Harrow, as most of the sons of society’s peers did.

It was a point of tension between the two sisters-in-law, especially when Octavia had mentioned that she might not send Simon away to school at all.

“Dearest Octavia, Hugo does not know the details of your husband’s estate,” Evelyn pointed out cautiously. “It really should be something that Malcolm oversees.”

“Well, as you said,” Octavia remarked crisply, cradling Simon’s head to her shoulder, “it is not something I need to think about at present. My son is not even five. The only thing he would do with a ledger or document is draw on it.”

“I know, but—” Evelyn’s response was cut graciously short by the abrupt appearance of Mr. Lincoln, the butler of Huntfield House.

In the five years that Octavia had been in situ at the lovely manor, she had never seen the wiry man run. But he was running now, red-faced, his well-oiled grey hair all askew, bounding down the steps to the edge of the gardens where the ladies and children were gathered.

“Your Grace!” he called, coming to a breathless halt, his hands on his sides. “Your Grace, I have… an urgent… message for you. Just arrived.”