about that.
‘Up, man.’ The moppet held up her arms in clear expectation of being picked up.
Magnus frowned down at her, trusting that his hitherto unchallenged ability to rid himself of unwanted feminine attention would be just as effective on this diminutive specimen.
The moppet frowned back at him.
Magnus allowed his frown to deepen to a glare.
The moppet glared back. ‘Up, man,’ she repeated, thumping a tiny fist on his knee.
Magnus cast a hunted glance towards the doorway, still quite appallingly empty.
The small sticky fist tugged his arm. ‘Up!’ she demanded again.
‘No, thank you,’ said Magnus in his most freezingly polite voice. Lord, would no one come and rescue him?
The big eyes widened and the small rosebud mouth drooped. The lower lip trembled, displaying to Magnus’s jaundiced eye all the unmistakable signs of a female about to burst into noisy, blackmailing tears. They certainly started young. No wonder they were so good at it by the time they grew up.
The little face crumpled.
Oh, Lord, thought Magnus despairingly. There was no help for it—he would have to pick her up. Gingerly he reached out, lifting her carefully by the waist until she was at eye-level with him. Her little feet dangled and she regarded him solemnly.
She reached out a pair of chubby, dimpled arms. ‘Cudd’w!’
Again, her demand was unmistakable. Cautiously he brought her closer, until suddenly she wrapped her arms around his neck in a strong little grip that surprised him. In seconds she had herself comfortably ensconced on his lap, leaning back against one of his arms, busily ruining his neckcloth. It had only taken him half an hour to achieve its perfection, Magnus told himself wryly.
She chattered to him nonstop in a confiding flow, a mixture of English and incomprehensible gibberish, pausing every now and then to ask what sounded like a question. Magnus found himself replying. Lord, if anyone saw him now, he would never live it down. But he had no choice—he didn’t want to see that little face crumple again.
Once she stopped in the middle of what seemed an especially involved tale and looked up at him, scrutinising his face in a most particular fashion. Magnus felt faintly apprehensive, wondering what she might do. She reached up and traced the long, vertical groove in his right cheek with a small, soft finger.
‘What’s dis?’
He didn’t know what to say. A wrinkle? A crease? A long dimple? No one had ever before had the temerity to refer to it. ‘Er…it’s my cheek.’
She traced the groove once more, thoughtfully, then took his chin in one hand, turned his head, and traced the matching line down his other cheek. Then carefully, solemnly, she traced both at the same time. She stared at him for a moment, then, smiling, returned to her story, reaching up every now and then to trace a tiny finger down the crease in his cheek.
Gradually her steady chatter dwindled and the curly little head began to nod. Abruptly she yawned and snuggled herself more firmly into the crook of his arms. ‘Nigh-nigh,’ she murmured, and suddenly he felt the small body relax totally against him.
She was asleep. Sound asleep—right there in his arms.
For a moment Magnus froze, wondering what to do, then slowly he began to breathe again. He knew himself to be a powerful man—both physically and in worldly terms—but never in his life had he been entrusted with the warm weight of a sleeping child. It was an awesome responsibility.
He sat there frozen for some twenty minutes, until a faint commotion sounded in the hall. A pretty young woman glanced in, a harried expression on her face. Freddie’s wife. Joan. Jane. Or was it Jenny? Magnus was fairly sure he recognised her from the wedding. She opened her mouth to speak, and then saw the small sleeping figure in his arms.
‘Oh, thank heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for her.’
She turned and called to someone in the hallway. ‘Martha, run and tell Mr Freddie that we’ve found her.’
She turned back to Magnus. ‘I’m so sorry, Lord d’Arenville. We thought she’d got out into the garden and we’ve all been outside searching. Has she been a shocking nuisance?’
Magnus bethought himself of his ruined neckcloth and his no longer immaculate buckskins. His arm had a cramp from being unable to move and he had a nasty suspicion that there was a damp spot on his coat from where the little moppet had nuzzled his sleeve as she slept.
‘Not at all,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’
And, to his great surprise, Magnus realised he meant it.
Chapter One
London, February 1803
‘I want you to help me find a wife, Tish.’
‘Oh, certainly. Whose wife are you after?’ responded Laetitia flippantly, trying to cover her surprise. It was not like her self-sufficient cousin Magnus to ask help of anyone.
His chill grey stare bit into her. ‘I meant a bride. I find my own amours, thank you,’ said Magnus stiffly.
‘A bride? You? I don’t believe it, Magnus! You’ve hardly even talked to a respectable female in years—’
‘Which is why I require your assistance now. I wish the marriage to take place as soon as possible.’
‘As soon as possible? Heavens! You will have the matchmaking mamas in a tizzy!’ Laetitia sat back in her chair and regarded her cousin with faintly malicious amusement, elegantly pencilled eyebrows raised in mock surprise. ‘The impregnable Lord d’Arenville, on the scramble for a bride?’ Her rather hard blue eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘May I ask what has brought this on? I mean, seeking a bride is unexceptional enough—you will have to set up your nursery some time soon—but such unseemly haste suggests…There is no…ah…financial necessity for this marriage, is there, Magnus?’
Magnus frowned repressively. ‘Do not be ridiculous, Tish. No, it is as you have suggested—I have decided to set up my nursery. I want children.’
‘Heirs, you mean, Magnus. Sons are what you need. You wouldn’t want a string of girls, would you?’
Magnus didn’t reply. A string of girls didn’t sound at all bad, he thought. Little girls with big clear eyes, ruining his neckcloths while telling him long, incomprehensible stories. But sons would be good, too, he thought, recalling Freddie’s sturdy-legged boy, Sam.
The issue of getting an heir was, in fact, the last thing on his mind, even though he was the last of a very distinguished name. Until his journey to Yorkshire it had been a matter of perfect indifference to Magnus if his name and title ended with him. They had, after all, brought him nothing but misery throughout his childhood and youth.
However, far easier to let society believe that d’Arenville required an heir than that a small, sticky moppet had found an unexpected chink in his armour. It was ridiculous, Magnus had told himself a thousand times. He didn’t need anything. Or anyone. He never had and he never would. He’d learned that lesson very young.
But the chink remained. As did the memory of a sleeping, trustful child in his arms. And a soft little finger curiously tracing a line down his cheek.
It was a pity he’d had to ask Laetitia’s assistance. He’d never liked her, and saw her only as often as duty or coincidence demanded. But someone had to introduce him to an eligible girl, damn it! If he wanted children he had to endure the distasteful rigmarole of acquiring a wife, and Laetitia could help expedite the matter with the least fuss and bother.
He returned to the point of issue. ‘You will assist me, Tish?’
‘What exactly did you have