On that thought, Percival seated his wife. “Are you looking forward to the holidays, my dear? All of the children have confirmed that they’ll be in attendance.”

She tucked her legs up and curled into his side. “They had better be. Small children travel far more easily than the older variety, and a short visit from one’s offspring at the holidays isn’t too much to ask. But, Percival, have you counted heads?”

He had, but not like Her Grace would in anticipation of a family house party.

“Morelands can easily accommodate such a crowd.”

She reviewed the numbers with him: seven married offspring, most with at least one child or in anticipation of a child. Kesmore had two extra from a previous marriage—darling little scapegraces who would lead their parents a merry dance in a few years—and if Rose were to consort with her cousins, then Amery, his lady, and Rose’s small half brother would have to be included too.

“That’s twenty-nine people, Percival, not including ourselves, and if I’m to have the least chance of maintaining peace and order over the holidays, then we must depart for Morelands posthaste.”

Her Grace was a firm believer in peace and order, which was all well and good from Percival’s perspective, provided a bit of mayhem and mischief came along to liven things up.

“You’ve forgotten somebody, dearest wife.” The use of the word dearest would remind Her Grace of their sole remaining unmarried child.

“Jenny.” Her Grace closed her eyes and leaned more heavily on Percival’s shoulder. “She adores her siblings, but this gathering will be hard on her.”

Percival adored all of his children, of course, but he’d always felt that in his daughter Genevieve he had a kindred spirit. This notion had little apparent basis in fact. Jenny was sweet, kind, dear, devoted to family, and in every observable way, a paragon—which His Grace was not.

Jenny was also, however, prodigiously stubborn, as evidenced by her ability to withstand any and all marital lures longer than her notably reluctant brothers or sisters.

“About our Jenny…”

Her Grace’s head came up. “I’ve suspected you were up to something, Moreland. Out with it.”

Percival occasionally ignored summonses from the regent, but never ignored that command from his wife when on their cuddling couch.

“Are you familiar with Elijah Harrison, Esther?”

She sat up but kept her hand in Percival’s. “Flint’s oldest, and the despair of his marchioness. The boy hared off years ago intent on his art, and there hasn’t been a full reconciliation yet. Good-looking, said to be under consideration for the Academy, and not given to artistic excesses. The regent likes his work, and he’s had commissions from the Continent.”

In a few accurate sentences, she’d gone from a duchess peeved with her duke to a mama hound on the scent.

“Rothgreb is having Harrison paint a portrait of Sophie’s little ones.”

He felt the duchess snap the puzzle pieces into place. “Percival, that is… that is… diabolical. That is brilliant. That is magnificent.” She bussed his cheek, the greatest prize he might win, short of securing a husband for his daughter. “Elijah Harrison is a handsome fellow too, and Kesmore speaks highly of him. Husband, truly you have outdone yourself. Jenny has been restless lately and has tried so hard to hide it.”

Percival lived for such praise, and to make his duchess’s eyes sparkle.

“So you understand why I need a few more days to shop for your present, Esther?”

“You need not give me a present, Percival, and I need more than ever to get back to Morelands. We can invite Mr. Harrison to call, and to the open house… what?”

“Jenny bides at Sidling as long as we’re in Town, my love.”

She drew in a breath, huffed it out, and settled against him. “You are ever more daring than I, Percival. Do you really think such drastic measures are called for?”

God, yes. If Jenny were to be ensnared, Harrison would likely have to strut his artistic wares—among others—directly under Jenny’s dear, stubborn, discerning nose—again.

“It can’t hurt. Jenny holds her art very dear.”

Though, thank God, she no longer went sneaking out in male attire, risking scandal and disgrace every Tuesday morning for the sake of a few sketches. His Grace had nigh had an apoplexy to go with his heart seizure when his footmen had brought him that news.

And then there was that Denby rodent, now wielding his damned paintbrush in the wilds of Massachusetts, where bears and wolves might have the use of his talents with His Grace’s blessing. Thank God, Bartholomew had caught on to the man’s intentions before disaster struck.

His Grace set those thoughts on the scrap heap of paternal regrets and regarded his duchess, who—if Percival knew his wife—had on her considering cap.

“Can’t Jenny remain with Sophie even when we return to Morelands?”

“Jenny hates to bake, my dear, and yet she’s too nice to tell Sophie to leave her in peace. Then, too, I hear Flint and his marchioness will be up to Town on Thursday.”

He’d made sure of it, in fact.

“Friday, then. We’ll leave for Morelands on Friday.”

His Grace made no protest, though he’d hoped for another week at least, but Harrison was a bright lad and a genuinely talented artist. Then, too, the season of miracles approached.

“Friday it shall be, and we’ll collect Jenny on Saturday. Now, about your present…”

Elijah Harrison knew how to undress a woman with his teeth. Jenny watched as several bows came undone—more than three, fewer than she’d like—while he delivered a lecture to her on the ideal design of nightclothes.

Or something. Her brain was having difficulty extracting meaning from words, and the whisky was not to blame. The fault lay in Elijah Harrison’s hands, in his voice, in his kisses.

“Your hair takes my breath away, Genevieve.”

Not his words, but the look on his face—awestruck, reverent, aroused—made Jenny shake her head, letting her hair fall in disarray down her back.

He brought fistfuls of gold forward over her shoulders and buried his face in the abundance of it. “If I live to be a hundred, the scent of jasmine will bring me back to this moment.”

If she lived to be a hundred, how would she recall the memory of straddling Elijah’s lap, of learning his taste and scent, of wanting him so intensely that desire eclipsed all in her awareness?

“When I’m in Paris, I will miss you, Elijah. If I live to be a hundred, I will miss you.”

Something passed through his eyes. Anger, maybe, that she’d remind them both their pleasures were stolen and temporary. That was good, that he’d be angry and not relieved.

“Let me give you something more to miss—or recall fondly.”

As she had done the previous night, he used a single finger to nudge fabric aside and reveal flesh. He didn’t touch her; he let the silk of her nightgown caress the slopes of her breasts until she was exposed to him.

She’d liked the position he’d put her in, once she’d gotten used to it. Sitting on his lap, facing him, astride him, she’d felt as if she had superior control and he was pinned to his fate.

He could not get away unless she allowed it, or so she’d thought.

But her position also meant he could study her breasts, trace blue veins with a fingertip, watch as her nipples ruched up in welcome—and she could watch him studying her.

“Thou art more lovely…”

He was quoting from somewhere; Jenny could not think where. His hands cupped her breasts, bringing warmth and wanting in equally generous measures.

“Before…” Jenny struggled for words. She put her hands over his, so he would not leave her bereft of his touch.

He leaned closer, ran his nose up her sternum. “When you were sixteen?”

Brilliant man, to read her thoughts so easily. She nodded. “I never… he never…”