Page 30 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

“I am merely being practically minded.” Andrew set his jaw.

He had no idea how she managed to get under his skin so effectively. First he wanted her, and then he⁠—

Well, he found it infuriating that she had so little concept of what it required to raise a healthy child with strong principles, one who would uphold his duty well and without complaint.

It was certainly not by coddling him.

William stirred, his face screwing into a red mask of displeasure, and let out an earth-shattering wail.

“Oh, my little prince.” Jessamine murmured, immediately leaning over to pick him up. “Have you grown tired of being on the chair?”

“Shall I call the nursemaid to feed him?” Andrew asked. “Or perhaps he needs changing.”

Jessamine sniffed the boy, then shook her head. “He doesn’t need changing.”

“I’ll call for Lucy, then.”

“Wait. He may just need a little comfort.” Jessamine cradled him in her arms as though she had never been without a child; it came to her as easily as breathing.

Andrew had never felt that. He spent hours worrying at night that he was stepping up to an imperfect guardian, and she had taken to motherhood the way a duck takes to water.

“Comfort?” he repeated.

“Babies need comforting too, you know. I think he just needs to be held.” She offered him to Andrew. “Perhaps he needs to be held by his fa—by his uncle.”

Andrew hesitated, even as he held his arms out for the child. The sooner she stopped this ridiculous farce and actually attended to one of the boy’s needs, the sooner he would stop crying. And if this was what was necessary to prove such a thing, then so be it. Even as some part of him trembled at the thought of holding such a tiny child.

He could handle the practical applications of being a father, but this had never been something he’d had experience with.

William kept crying in his arms, tiny body squirming, and Andrew felt a mixture of relief and odd anxiety. “See?” he demanded. “I was right.”

“Well, if you are just sitting there like a scarecrow, then no wonder he’s still crying. Rock him a little. Say something comforting. Caress his head. Show him that he is loved.”

Andrew glared at Jessamine, but he merely waited for him to follow her instructions. He had never felt more ridiculous than sitting here, with all his bulk focused on such a minuscule being, one that controlled him utterly.

Evidently there was nothing more to do than to, as she said, although showing him that he is loved was vague enough for him to take issue with. But William kept crying, so Andrew mimicked what he had seen Jessamine do on more than one occasion, rocking back and forth. The gesture felt stiff and oddly uncoordinated, but under her bright smile, he kept going.

Then—miracle of miracles—the baby stopped crying.

William stirred a few more times, but then his eyes opened, and he stared at Andrew, unblinking. Unsure what to do, Andrew stared back.

Something warm erupted in his chest. He had always loved William because he was Rebecca’s son, and he’d feared losing him the night of the fever, but he hadn’t quite felt… this before.

“There,” Jessamine said, her voice soft as William’s eyes began to close. The boy was falling asleep. In Andrew’s arms. “Do you see now?”

He saw nothing very clearly except the fact that he had a child in his arms he had no idea what to do with. And perhaps yes, he could believe that something as small and fragile as a baby required feeling safe before it could sleep. Somewhere familiar or warm and protected, and Andrew could protect him.

He would protect him against any danger that came along.

“Shall we take him upstairs now?” Jessamine asked, still in a half-whisper.

Andrew nodded and rose as carefully as he could. William didn’t stir, and soon his tiny breaths were all Andrew could hear.

Jessamine followed Andrew upstairs, doing her best not to celebrate too loudly. If he saw her celebrating, he would probably hand William immediately back to her and take himself off again. A man of Andrew’s caliber did not like to be wrong.

But wrong he was.

She could hardly blame him, given he clearly had no experience with children. In Scotland, she had seen plenty of children, although she’d never had any of her own. It made fitting into London Society life feel strange in comparison, but this—caring for William—was a point of familiarity in an unfamiliar world.