Four boys who’d needed help to get up onto the bed went sliding off it, thundering toward the door, while Valentine remained fascinated with the infant.
He stroked his sister’s dark mop of hair. “Soft baby.”
“She is soft,” Percival said. “And you, my lad, are smarter than your brothers for choosing the company of the genteel ladies over some nasty, old, shiftless cat.”
“She’s heavy,” Maggie said, passing the baby back to Percival. “I’m going to watch the boys.”
“Take Valentine.” Percival used one hand to balance the baby and the other to help Maggie and Valentine off the bed. “He’ll make enough noise that Madam Cyclops will be able to hide before her peace is utterly destroyed.”
“Come along, Valentine. We’ve a kitty to rescue.” Maggie left at a pace that accommodated Valentine churning along beside her, leaving Esther with her husband and her two baby daughters.
Percival shifted to recline against the pillows with his wife, one arm around Esther and Sophie, the other around Louisa. He leaned near enough to catch a whiff of roses, and to whisper, “Do you hear that, Your Grace?”
“I hear silence, Your Grace.”
They addressed each other by their titles as a sort of marital joke, one that helped take the newness and loss off a station they’d gained only months before.
“That is the sound of children growing up enough to leave us in privacy from time to time. Good thing we’ve more babies to fill our nursery.”
He kissed Esther’s temple, and Sophie sighed mightily, as if her father’s proximity addressed all that might ail her—would that it might always be so.
“I wish Peter and His Grace had lived to see this baby, Percival. They doted so on Sophie.”
Percival went quiet for a moment, mesmerized by the sight of yet another healthy, beautiful child to bless their marriage. A man might love his wife to distraction—and Percival did—but love was too paltry a word for what he felt for the mother of his children.
“In some ways, their last year was their best, Esther. That tincture gave Peter quite a reprieve, and His Grace perked up considerably when you presented him with a granddaughter.”
His nursemaid had perked him up, though the young lady had been Esther’s companion in the late duke’s mind, and nobody had disabused him of this idea.
“Percival, it’s Thursday.”
“It’s Louisa Windham’s birthday,” he replied, kissing Esther’s cheek. “Two months from now, if I’m a good boy, I may have some pudding.”
Esther turned to kiss his cheek. She was wearing one of his dressing gowns—the daft woman claimed the scent of him comforted her through her travail, and because she came through each lying-in with fine style, Percival didn’t argue with her wisdom.
“Today is Thursday, Percival, and your committees meet on Thursday. You never miss those meetings. The government will fall if you neglect your politics. George himself has said nobody else has your talent for brokering compromises.”
That the king admired such talent mattered little compared to Esther’s regard for it. Percival traded babies with his wife, then gently rubbed noses with Sophie, which made the infant giggle. “Am I or am not the Duke of Moreland, madam?”
Esther loved it when he used those imperious tones on her, and he loved it equally when she turned up duchess on him.
“You are Moreland, and it shall ever be my privilege to be your duchess.” His duchess had labored from two hours past midnight until dawn, and could not hide the yawn that stole up on her. Even a duchess was entitled to yawn occasionally.
“And my blessing to call you so. But, Esther, as that fellow standing approximately sixty-seventh in line for the throne, I’d like somebody to explain to me why it is, when all I need are three more votes to carry the bill on children in the foundries, I am incapable of seeing such a thing done.”
He should not be bringing his frustrations up to her now, but in the past few years, Esther had become his greatest confidante, and for the first time in months, he did not want to attend his meetings.
“When do you expect the vote to come up?”
Right to the heart of the matter, that was his duchess. “Too soon. I’m sure if I could turn Anselm to my way of thinking, then Dodd would come along, and then several others would see the light, but they won’t break ranks.”
Esther stroked her fingers over Louisa’s dark mop of hair. “Lady Dodd was recently delivered of a son.”
Percival had learned by now that Esther did not speak in non sequiturs, not even when tired. She was the soul of logic; it remained only for Percival to divine her reasoning.
“I know. Dodd was drunk for most of a week, boasting of having secured the succession within a year of marriage. The man hasn’t a spare, outside of a third cousin, and he thinks his succession ensured.”
Children died in foundries, died and were burned horribly. How could Dodd not know his own offspring were just as fragile?
“How old is Anselm’s heir?” Esther asked.
Percival raised and lowered his tiny daughter and cradled her against his chest, because Esther’s question was pertinent. He wasn’t sure how, but it was very pertinent.
“He has a daughter, and a boy in leading strings. His lady believes in spacing her confinements, which imposition he reports to all and sundry before his third bottle of a night.”
“Not every couple is as blessed as we are, Your Grace. Who else would you consider to be susceptible to a change in vote?”
The Duke of Moreland left off flirting with his infant daughter and offered his duchess a slow, wicked smile. “My love, you are scheming. I adore it when you scheme.”
He suspected Esther rather enjoyed it too, though she no doubt fretted that somewhere there was a silly rule about duchesses eschewing scheming. What duchess could fail to aid her duke, though, when it made him so happy to have her assistance—and was such fun?
“A lying-in party, I think,” Esther said, smoothing a hand over Louisa’s hair. “I will have their ladies to tea, ask after the children, and mention your little bill.”
“You won’t mention it. You’ll gently bludgeon them with it. They’ll leave here weeping into their handkerchiefs.” And God help their husbands when the ladies arrived home.
“We’ll follow up with dinner,” Esther said, her tone suggesting she was already at work on the seating arrangements. “We’ll invite Anselm one night, and Dodd the next, and you can drag them up to the nursery to admire the children before we sit down.”
“We have very handsome children.” Percival ran a finger down Louisa’s tiny nose. “And I have a brilliant wife. It could work, Esther.”
“Divide and conquer. Pull Dodd aside one night, tell him your wife is haranguing you about this bill, and she’s recently delivered of another child. He’ll sympathize with you as a husband and papa like he’d never bow down to you as a duke.”
When a man should not be capable of holding any more happiness, Percival felt yet another increment of delight in his duchess. “Because Dodd’s naught but a viscount, and they are a troublesome lot. I’ll do the same thing with Anselm the next night and imply Dodd would capitulate, except he feared losing face with his fellows. My love, you are a marvel.” He turned to kiss her then drew back. “A tired marvel. I see a flaw in your plan, though.”
She cradled his cheek against her palm, looking tired—also pleased with her husband. “One anticipates most plans will benefit from your thoughts, Your Grace.”
He kissed her—a businesslike kiss that nonetheless nurtured his soul. “You will be lying-in. No political dinners for you for at least a month.”