1829
London
She woke at the first press of his
lips on the nape of her neck.
“Good morning, my darling,” he
breathed in her ear.
“Is it morning?” She gave an
exaggerated yawn. He did this all the time, waking her up before dawn because
he was awake. “It feels too early…”
“It is. The sun is shining through
the windows, the maid’s been in three times asking if you want breakfast in
bed, my valet thinks we’ve both taken ill for staying abed so late…”
She snorted with laughter,
burrowing into the blankets a little deeper. “I would have heard the door!”
“Hmm, but you were so deeply
asleep.” His mouth moved down her neck and nipped at the delicate inner curve
of her shoulder. “Deeply, beautifully asleep, tempting me beyond all reason. Do
you know we have been married seven years this very day?”
Her smile grew broader. She did
remember, and she had a surprise for him later to mark the occasion. “Has it
really only been seven years? I should have thought it closer to one
hundred.”
“Because you can’t remember what
life was like before we married, I suppose.” His hands were working her
nightdress up over her hips. “I’m your entire world now.”
She laughed again, but it melted
into a sigh as his hands stroked up her body.
“You’re my entire world, Joan,” he
whispered, his voice suddenly rough and serious. After seven years, she could
tell when he was having fun and when, far less often, he was completely
serious. “Always will be.”
And then she really melted, not
just from the wicked intention in his touch but from the heartfelt passion of
his words. “I love you, Tristan,” she whispered. She opened her eyes, ready to
roll over and make desperate love to her husband.
Instead she screamed, and flailed
for the blanket, trying to pull it over her entire being.
“What the devil—?” Tristan
lurched upright, then went still.
“Good morning, Papa,” piped up a
voice.
“And Mama,” added another.
Red-faced, Joan made sure her
nightdress was still buttoned, and wriggled it down over her legs before
leaping out of bed. “What are you doing here?”
Their two sons gazed up at her
from the settee by the window, where they both sat in angelic silence. From the
looks of things, they might have been there a long time. George had his favorite blue blanket
around him, and Colin held a book with engravings of animals from far-off
lands. He could read, but both boys loved the pictures. “We came to say good
morning. The sun is up, Mama, it is
morning.”
From the bed, Tristan made a noise
suspiciously like a laugh and flopped back into the pillows. Joan glared at him
before turning back to her children. “Yes, darlings, it is morning, but it is
very, very, early morning. Look out
the window.” Both boys scrambled around on the settee and pushed aside the
drape. “Has the sun reached the steps yet?”
“Nearly,” said Colin.
“No,” said George at the same
moment.
“It is too early to be awake
before the sun is on the steps.” Behind her, Tristan was still shaking with
silent laughter. Joan yanked on her dressing gown and went to the settee. She
gathered her boys into her arms and put her head between theirs. “Papa is the
only one in the house who likes to wake before dawn,” she whispered to them.
“When you wake this early, you may come see him, but very quietly so Mama can sleep a little longer.”
George, her baby, patted her face.
“You’re awake now, Mama.”
“But I’m still tired.” She closed
her eyes and rested her cheek on top of his head, her heart softening at the
feel of his soft brown curls.
“I’m sorry, Mama. We tried to be
quiet.”
She couldn’t help smiling at
Colin’s earnest words. She knew this one was the image of his father, from his
dark hair and green eyes to the mischief in his soul. George followed where his
brother led, but Colin was always at the heart of any antics.
And that meant Tristan was the
parent ideally suited to manage them, not to mention deserving of it for the
way he was still lolling in bed, chuckling. Joan kissed each of them. “I know
you did, sweetheart.”
She rose and turned toward the
bed. “Well, since we’re all awake for the day, I shall go get dressed.”
That wiped the smile off her
husband’s face. He sat up. “Here now, the boys can go back to the nursery. I’m
sure Nanny is missing them already.”
“No she isn’t, Papa,” said Colin.
“She’s sound asleep.”
Joan smirked at him. He’d have to
wait until later to get her back into bed, naked and with the door securely
locked. Opening her eyes to see her children watching them make love had quite
spoiled the mood for now. “There, you see? Tristan, perhaps you can have a word
with your sons about wandering through the house before breakfast.” She turned
and went into the dressing room, more for a grand exit than because she wanted
to get dressed.
Tristan knew he’d been routed. He
still thought a quick ring for Nanny would put the children back upstairs
in the nursery where they belonged, and he could return to making love to his
wife as planned.
But after seven years, he knew
that gleam in her eyes quite well. He shouldn’t have laughed when Colin said
good morning.
“Come here, lads.”
His sons climbed onto the bed,
George dragging his blanket behind him. They sat cross-legged at the foot of
the bed. Tristan folded his arms and tried to look stern. “What are you doing
in my bedroom instead of in your own?”
Colin’s eyes veered away. “We wanted to surprise you,” said George.
“That you did,” said Tristan wryly, thinking of Joan’s panicked dive under the blankets. “Why?”
“Nanny’s very strict now,” mumbled Colin.
Tristan raised a brow. “How so?”
“She screamed when Colin put a mouse in her room,” piped up George. “So loud, Papa!”
Colin’s head was down.
Tristan recognized that look. He
supposed he’d spent most of his young life avoiding someone’s stern gaze. He
glanced at the dressing room door, satisfying himself that it was still closed, and lowered
his voice. “Where did you get a mouse?”
His son’s green eyes darted up
warily. “In the park,” he whispered.
Thank God it hadn’t been in the
house. “How did you catch a mouse in the park?”
George bounced up on his knees. “We
found him by the fountain, Papa, and Colin put him in his pocket!”
“Shh,” hissed Colin.
“I see,” said Tristan gravely. “Where
did you keep him since then?”
Colin looked wary, as though he
expected a trap. “In an old hatbox, beneath my bed.”
“We gave him scraps of ham and
toast, Papa,” added George, beaming. “And he crawled on our hands and up
Colin’s sleeve!”
Tristan grinned. Joan would murder
him if he let the boys keep mice in the house, but this was an exceptional
prank for someone not yet six years old. “Why did you put him into Nanny’s
room? He sounds a capital little creature.”
A glimmer of mischief came into
Colin’s eyes. “He wanted out, Papa. And Nanny scolded us about the hatbox. She
said it smelled.”
“Right.” Tristan made a note to
dispose of that filthy hatbox. “So you let the mouse run free?”
Colin shrugged. “I didn’t put him into Nanny’s room, he just went
there.”
Tristan glanced at the door again.
Still closed. He beckoned his sons closer, and they scrambled across the mattress
to sit in his lap, one in each arm. George gazed up at him with Joan’s golden
brown eyes, sweet and loving at four.
Colin pressed up against his
shoulder. Joan had said from the day he was born that Colin would be God’s
vengeance on Tristan, and he thought it was true. Vengeance, but also his second
chance. Tristan recognized the adventurous spirit in his eldest, the daring,
the craving for adventure and excitement that had driven him most of his life.
He hoped he was able to help Colin direct it into more acceptable channels, but
he couldn’t bring himself to squash it. Unlike Tristan’s own youth, Colin’s
would be filled with love and understanding, and far fewer thrashings.
And if he himself had to
participate in some of the adventure, he was more than willing. For supervisory
purposes, of course.
“This must be our secret, lads,”
he began in a low, confiding tone. “If Mama discovers the mouse, we’ll all be
in desperate trouble.”
“Because Mama doesn’t like mice?”
“She does not like them at all
when they are in the house, George. Outside the house, she thinks they’re
marvelous.” He thought Joan was used to having boys by now and wouldn’t kick up
too much at this statement. “So this is what we shall do. We must all get
dressed quickly. Can you manage without waking Nanny?”
Colin nodded eagerly.
“Very good.” Tristan gave him a
nod. “I will come upstairs and we’ll keep Nanny out. Then we three shall catch
the mouse and return him to the park. But we must do it—this is a very
important part, lads—without
letting Mama know. So not one word about it, right? Not to Nanny, not even
between yourselves?”
Both boys shook their heads solemnly.
“Off you go,” he said, and the
boys jumped off the bed and ran, not silently but quietly enough for children,
out of the room.
Tristan went into the dressing
room. As expected, his wife was still in her dressing gown, sitting on the
chaise and brushing her hair without any sign of ambition to actually get
dressed. He suspected she’d go right back to bed if given the chance.
If he hadn’t had a mouse to catch,
he would be all in favor of that course. It was the anniversary of his wedding,
and he’d been eager to celebrate it.
“I hope you actually told them not
to come into our room early.” She pointed the brush at him. “It encourages
naughty behavior if you laugh at it!”
“It wasn’t that naughty, and it
took real skill to creep into the room utterly undetected,” he countered. “High
marks for daring.”
Joan rolled her eyes but he could
tell she was fighting back a smile.
“We should have a daughter next,” he said, closing the door.
“Oh, should we? It’s as easy as
that, is it?” She laughed, but rosy color rolled up her face.
Tristan stopped, open-mouthed. “Joan.”
“What?” She widened her eyes at
him. “I assure you, I did not intentionally have two sons who show every
indication of following in their father’s roguish ways despite my best attemtps
to teach them some sense of dignity and decorum.”
He waved that aside. Mice excepted,
Joan did little to blunt their sons’ exuberant natures. But more importantly, Tristan
was doing some rapid math, and mentally smacked himself on the forehead for
being oblivious. He pulled her to him and put one hand on her belly. “Are you?”
Her face was bright pink. “Well,
yes. I was going to tell you tonight, or perhaps this morning if we hadn’t been
interrupted so ridiculously early.”
He grinned. “This one will be a
girl. I feel certain of it.”
“Do you want a daughter?” She
peered up at him uncertainly.
“I do.” He rested his forehead
against hers. “Although I fear she’ll also run us a merry race.”
His wife’s face eased into a rueful
smile. “I expect she will. Happy seven years, Tristan.”
“The happiest seven years of my
life,” he said, and kissed her.
