The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(106)
Andrew entered the heart of mayhem.
Given that it was his own home, however, he was used to it. Children—his and Primrose’s as well as those belonging to her family—were everywhere: laughing and playing and generally carrying on like wild animals that had been cooped up too long. He didn’t blame them. The opening ceremony of the new hospital had dragged on for hours, taking place out in the hot summer sun, and, through it all, the bantlings had looked and behaved like little angels.
Now his children and their cousins were making the most of their freedom. The adults sat around the drawing room chatting, enjoying the respite; like him, they knew it wouldn’t last. The children always got on like a house on fire… until they didn’t.
“Papa!” On cue, Miranda, his eldest, dashed over to where he was standing, her beautiful jade eyes full of pique. “Oliver is being a pest again!”
He placed a hand on her sunny curls. “What did he do now, little chick?”
“He’s waving his sword about like a maniac. I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Look,”—she pointed accusingly at a tiny tear in her puffed white sleeve—“he’s ruined my new dress!”
“Oliver.” Andrew crooked his finger at his brown-haired middle child.
Oliver toddled over, lugging his wooden sword with him.
“Yes, Papa?” he said, all innocence.
“What did I tell you about playing with your sword indoors? Now apologize to your sister for ruining her dress.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” Oliver protested.
“Liar,” his sister hissed.
“Tattle-tale,” he shot back.
“That’s enough from both of you,” Andrew said sternly. “Oliver, when you do something wrong, you take responsibility for it. That is what gentlemen do.”
“But I didn’t mean to ruin Miranda’s dress.” Oliver’s brown gaze widened. “I was trying to give her an aclade with the sword—the same way Her Majesty gave one to you, Papa.”
“That’s an accolade, dummy,” his sister said.
“Miranda, a lady doesn’t engage in name-calling.” Crouching, Andrew looked into his children’s adorable faces; from experience, he knew not to give into those pleading eyes. “Now apologize to one another—and mean it.”
“I’m sorry for putting a hole in your dress,” Oliver muttered.
“I’m sorry for calling you a dummy,” Miranda muttered back.
“Good. Now go play with your cousins.”
Peace temporarily restored, the two scampered off, Miranda going to her bosom chum Sophie and Oliver to the pack that included the Carlisle boys, Revelstoke’s eldest, and Harry Kent’s son.
Awareness tingled on Andrew’s nape, and he turned to see his wife entering the room. Even after all the years of marriage, the sight of her never failed to move him. She looked like a dream in her pink frock, and when she came over, he put an arm around her waist, tucking her close.
“Is Lily asleep?” he said.
Primrose gave a rueful nod. “Poor thing went out like a light. I left her with Nanny.”
“The day has been too much for her. For all of us.”
“Nonsense.” His wife smiled at him. “Today was a tribute to you, my darling, and you earned every minute of it.”
“I still can’t believe Her Majesty conferred the honor on a man like me,” he mused.
Of all the things he’d never expected to find, respectability was near the top of the list.
Right under love.
“After all your charitable contributions to society, you deserve no less. Why, Nursery House has become a model of care for women and children, and the hospitals you’ve built, including the new one, help so many in need. You’ve created ‘innovations in social welfare’—and those aren’t my words but those of His Royal Highness.”
His lips twitched at her zealous defense of his achievements. “I had to do something. Idle hands and all that.”
“Your hands haven’t been idle a day in your life.” Her grin turned flirty. “I can attest for that.”
Before he could give her a proper answer, the butler entered with a cart of iced champagne for the adults and cold lemonade for the children. Glasses were passed around, and everyone, young and old, gathered in a circle. Even Horace and Fanny Grier were there. Andrew’s throat felt oddly scratchy as he took in the beaming faces of his friends—and of the family Primrose had given him.
“A toast.” Ambrose Kent raised a glass. “To Sir Andrew Corbett.”
“And Lady Corbett,” Marianne Kent added with a smile.
“To Sir and Lady Corbett,” everyone chorused.
They all drank to that.
Leaning over, Primrose whispered, “See? I always knew I married a gentleman.”
Lifting his lady’s hand, Andrew kissed it tenderly. “So you did, sunshine. A gentleman who loves you.”
The End