just lemon barley, I’m afraid,” she said. “I’ve discovered that unless Nurse herself administers it, it doesn’t work.”
“Lemon barley?” He struck a hand to his chest. “That tonic has cured me miraculously numerous times.”
Serena’s smiled widened as she stroked Louisa’s hair. “I apologize for disillusioning you.”
“Let me take her,” Dominic said. “She’s heavy.”
He half expected her to protest, convinced as she was that she knew better what his children needed, but she willingly offered Louisa over.
The transfer proved awkward, as Louisa burrowed into Serena’s neck. Dominic’s suddenly clumsy fingers brushed Serena’s shoulders and upper arms through her clothing. She stiffened.
By the time he held his daughter, he felt as if he’d been wrestling quicksand. Serena’s cheeks were pink, her gaze downcast.
It occurred to him that the high-necked garment she wore might be a dressing gown. It certainly wasn’t the dress she’d worn to dinner, which had been white, with a pink ribbon and a ruffled hem. Simple, but pretty. Whatever this peach-colored garment was, it boasted the shabbiness of long wear.
To allow them both time to collect themselves, Dominic paced the room, trying to keep his steps rhythmic. With no better plan of his own—indeed, he didn’t have a clue—he followed Serena’s example, stroking Louisa’s hair, hushing her. Inept though he felt—should he be stroking or patting?—it seemed to soothe the child.
Serena yawned and sank down onto the edge of Louisa’s bed. Dominic walked past the chest filled with toys, many from his own youth, and over to a table where pencils and paper and paints were laid out. One of the chairs had a cushion tied to it, presumably for Louisa. On the table was a painting—if you could call the mess of colors that—anchored with two stones from the garden. Dominic eyed the “masterpiece” with misgiving. Was Serena a poor tutor, or was his daughter entirely lacking artistic talent?
“Louisa uses color to great effect.” Serena had followed the direction of his gaze.
“It’s a mess,” he said.
“It’s the work of a five-year-old, Mr. Granville.”
The sudden frost in her voice was a defense of his daughter, he realized. About which he could hardly complain.
“Actually,” she continued, “it’s a portrait of you.”
Dominic leaned over to get a better look at the painting. Louisa’s head flopped forward; quickly, he cupped it, hugging her securely. “I appear to have three eyes.”
“It’s perhaps not a good likeness,” Serena admitted. “Maybe,” she continued, still frosty, “that’s because the children don’t see enough of you to remember what you look like.”
Dominic had heard the phrase midnight madness... This must be it, the casting aside of daytime’s social inhibitions. Mind you, Serena seemed to indulge the urge to speak her mind at any time, thanks to her father’s unusual liberality.
Dominic would not be indulging in madness. No matter what the provocation.
“I see my children morning and evening,” he reminded her calmly.
“For all of seven minutes each time.”
“I have an estate to run, Miss Somerton. It ensures my family’s daily provision and future security, and it occupies a great deal of my time.”
“You have five children. You’re their only parent.”
“A situation I intend to rectify.”
“Your sons in particular need more of your time,” she said.
It was growing more difficult to maintain his polite demeanor. “I know you mean well, Miss Somerton, so even though I have explained to you that well-meaning people are among my least favorite, I will overlook your interference.”
“William’s fear of the dark—”
“He’ll outgrow that.” Actually, Dominic had assumed his son had long ago outgrown the fear that beset him after his mother died.
“—is getting worse,” she said. “Perhaps if you talked to him...”
Before she could give him the benefit of any more of her advice, the maid appeared, carrying the laudanum. She gave a little gasp of surprise to see Dominic.
“Mr. Granville, could you set Louisa on the bed?” Serena asked.
Laying Louisa down wasn’t easy. Her little fingers clutched at his lapel. Detaching them seemed to hurt her, and she squalled.
Dominic took a hasty step away from the bed, the back of his neck hot, as if he were the one with the fever.
“Hold her hand, please,” Serena said crisply.
Out of his depths, unsure if there was some medical reason to obey, he reluctantly approached the bed again and took his daughter’s hand. Serena administered the laudanum. Louisa settled almost instantly, whether from the effects of the medicine or from a belief that it would do her good. Dominic let go of her hand, feeling as if he’d just run a mile.
Serena dismissed the maid. “You may go, too, Mr. Granville,” she said.
Eager though he was to get back to bed, he didn’t like being dismissed in his own house by an uppity governess. Companion, he corrected mentally.
“What about you, Miss Somerton? You need your sleep.”
“I’ll wait a few minutes, to be sure she’s asleep.”
As if to prove the wisdom of her strategy, Louisa writhed suddenly. “Mama,” she moaned.
Dominic drew in a sharp breath. Louisa didn’t remember Emily; she’d been only six months old when her mother died. Of course, she’d heard the other children talking of their mother over the years. More so recently, going by what Serena had told him the other day.
Could another woman possibly fill the gap in his children’s lives, if she couldn’t fill the gap in his?
Serena’s gaze met Dominic’s. “If you’re questioning the wisdom of your plan to marry, believe me, the children will appreciate it.”
Had she read his mind? Discerned his doubts? “Stepmothers are often vilified in literature,” he said lightly.
Her lips curved. “Naturally, you should avoid those who plan to feed the children poisoned apples, who possess magic mirrors or who will force the girls to live among the cinders.”
“Useful advice,” he murmured. “Thank you.”
He noticed again the graceful length of Serena’s neck—she was so well covered that was all there was to notice. Other than her eyes, the blue of cornflowers. And her lips, rather full and rosy for a governess. From his own childhood, he recalled governesses with pursed lips and tight mouths.
“It
