Page 19 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

Alice pressed her palms against the desk. The ink seeped through her gloves, warm and slick against her skin. She exhaled.

Behind her, she could hear a muffled giggle, and she sighed.

“Freddie,” she said tiredly. Not a question, but a statement of fact, delivered to the empty air behind her chair.

She rose and turned. The writing nook’s doorway framed a small boy in a rumpled jacket, one hand still gripping the doorframe as though he required it for balance. His eyes were bright with satisfaction.

“You have excellent timing.”

She knelt before him so they were at eye level. Once she took off one glove, she placed her bare hand on his shoulder, feeling the small bone beneath the wool of his jacket, and waited until his eyes met hers.

“Was that truly necessary?” she asked, exhausted.

Freddie’s mouth curved, and he shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied, then turned without waiting for a response and disappeared around the corner.

Alice remained kneeling on the polished floor. Ink darkened the palms of her right glove. The letter in the writing nook was beyond salvage.

After she took the other glove off, she rose and smoothed her skirts. It was no use.

Alice closed the door behind her. Perhaps she would write again tomorrow. And if she did, she would sit with her back to the wall.

For the rest of the day, Alice was acutely aware of her surroundings. Freddie’s laugh had made two things clear. The first was that he had no intention of stopping. The second was that he wanted to play.

She made her way to the dining room hesitantly when the gong rang. Dinner was eaten in utter silence, and for once, she did not attempt to start a conversation.

Kenneth sat across from her, his eyes fixed on his plate. Once her plate was cleared away, she looked up.

Charlie sat at the far end of the table, directly beneath his mother’s portrait. His arms were crossed over his chest.

Alice lifted the lemon tart from its stand. Cook had outdone herself. She carried it to Charlie and set it before him gently.

“Your favorite, I believe,” she said.

Charlie looked at the tart. His expression did not change.

“No, thank you,” he said coolly.

Alice frowned slightly. Even Kenneth looked up.

“Charles…”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” Charlie insisted.

Across the table, Freddie had arranged his peas into a formation that resembled soldiers in a war.

Alice could not help but wonder if the boy was aware of the irony. He had consumed approximately one-third of them. The remainder he shoved toward her with the flat of his knife, a gesture that transferred six peas onto the tablecloth directly beside her water glass.

“These are for you,” he announced. “A gift.”

“Frederick,” Kenneth warned.

Alice looked at the peas. They sat on the linen in a small green cluster, glistening with butter.

“Freddie,” she chided gently, “I believe Cook would prefer they remain on plates rather than tablecloths.”

Freddie shrugged. It took approximately two seconds before his left leg lifted, connected with the edge of the table, and applied sufficient force to the empty gravy boat that it tipped from its saucer and met the patterned rug with a crash that echoed off the dining room’s vaulted ceiling.

The sound hung in the air. Copper against wool, metal against hardwood beneath carpet, a percussion that announced itself with the emphatic clarity of deliberate mischief.