At the zoo, the children were freer to run and shout and point and exclaim. Indeed, he was conscious of being free from others’ eyes, too; in that setting, he didn’t need to keep an eye peeled for Child or anyone else and could largely be himself without restraint.
The boys finally moved on from the tiger and headed for the giraffes’ enclosure. Therese went with them. Devlin looked at Horry and arched his brows in question, and she smiled and wriggled. “Down.”
Obediently, he bent and deposited her on her feet, then followed as she raced after her brothers.
Horry rushed past Therese to catch Rupert’s arm and steady herself, then with her brothers, she stared at the long-legged, brown-spotted orange beasts stalking on cloven hooves about the space behind the railings.
After confirming that all three children were absorbed, Therese glanced around and smiled as Devlin ambled up to halt beside her. She watched as his gaze rested on the children, saw the expression of contentment that softened his sharply cut, aristocratic features, and felt appreciation well.
She experienced that emotion, one of gladness and gratitude, quite often when out with him and the children. As a maven of society, she knew very well that few of his peers would ever even think of accompanying their children on such outings. Children were to be seen and not heard—and even then, the seeing was severely restricted and regimented. Gentlemen like Devlin hired others to raise their children, yet to his credit and her real relief, he’d never been of that mind.
He’d never been a distant father, although she strongly suspected his own father had been. From the moment that, as squalling newborns, each of their children had been placed in his arms, he’d embraced them as if they were the gifts she herself thought them, gifts it was his duty and pleasure to protect and guide through life.
Growing bored with the stately giraffes, the children ran on to where the two elephants were stamping and tossing hay about their enclosure. Whether the animals were engaged in some game or a disagreement wasn’t clear, but the boys applauded the action and cheered the beasts on, and Horry jumped up and down and enthusiastically added her voice to the chorus.
Devlin chuckled, Therese smiled and linked her arm with his, and they strolled in their offsprings’ wakes.
Although Nanny Sprockett, Patty, and Dennis hovered, ready to assist if required, Therese and Devlin took it upon themselves to herd the children around the paths and along the fronts of the enclosures. They had arrived soon after the gardens had opened, and as the morning wore on, more families appeared. When they reached the monkeys, Devlin took the boys’ hands and held them back until others departed and a suitable opening appeared, then went forward with them, while Therese lifted Horry and carried her to where she could look into the cages over her brothers’ heads.
The monkeys chattered noisily, and the boys grinned, then Rupert asked whether monkeys ate only monkey nuts. “And why,” Spencer added, “are they called ‘monkey nuts’ when we eat them, too?”
Therese briefly met Devlin’s eyes and left that for him to answer—which he did, explaining that other people called the nuts different names, for instance, peanuts, but that as the British first learned of the nuts as monkeys’ favorite food, the name “monkey nut” had stuck in their country.
“As for what monkeys eat”—Devlin looked at Rupert—“I know they eat bananas and other types of fruit.”
“But not eggs or bacon or sausages?” Rupert asked.
Devlin ruffled Rupert’s hair. “I’m not sure that anyone has ever offered them eggs, bacon, or sausages, but I suspect they wouldn’t like them. I think they’re herbivores, which means animals that eat only leaves, fruits, nuts, and vegetables.”
“We’re not herbivores,” Spencer declared. Then he looked up at Devlin, faintly puzzled. “What are we?”
“I think”—Devlin met Therese’s eyes and widened his in a plea for help; they’d discovered that giving incorrect answers could sometimes rebound in unexpected ways and in unhelpful company—“that as we eat meat of all sorts, we’re carnivores.”
Therese promptly stepped in. “However, because we also eat our vegetables—and you know Nanny Sprockett is forever telling you how important that is—then we’re actually, technically, omnivores.”
Devlin nodded. “Omni means ‘all’ in Latin, and vores comes from the Latin verb vorare, which means”—he widened his eyes at the boys and raised both hands like claws—“‘to devour!’ Argh!”
The boys shrieked and giggled as Devlin pounced on them both and pretended to roar like a beast.
Therese couldn’t stop smiling. She couldn’t imagine any other earl making a fool of himself in public just to make his children laugh.
They finally waved goodbye to the monkeys. With all three children starting to flag, Therese caught Devlin’s eye and tipped her head toward the exit, and he nodded and steered their tribe in that direction.
Wise in the ways of young children, Nanny Sprockett had brought biscuits; once she’d distributed her treats, the children walked rather slower as they munched, allowing the adults to stroll in more leisurely fashion.
With her arm wound in Devlin’s, with him, Therese followed their trio and inwardly acknowledged how content she was with the way the morning had gone. The truth was she treasured the moments such excursions gave rise to—the interactions, the often-wordless communication, the sense of acting together to protect and nurture the three little people they both held so dear.
In dealing with their children, she and Devlin had always been something of a team, but today, that partnership had seemed…smoother. Easier. More instinctive and practiced. The closeness, the sense of togetherness the morning had engendered, reminded her of how they’d worked together in reintroducing Martin to the ton at Lady Wicklow’s event two days before. There, too, she’d sensed a drawing closer, at least in terms of their understanding of each other, of how the other thought and would behave.
Whatever the subtle change, or perhaps a deepening of something that had already existed, Devlin seemed as amenable to embracing it as she was.
She glanced at him; he was watching the children, and she seized the moment to drink in his relaxed, easygoing expression. Looking ahead again, she revised her assessment; he wasn’t passively accepting the change she’d sensed but actively inviting and encouraging it.
They’d been married for over five years. Such a change—a deepening connection—was, she supposed, to be expected of a maturing relationship.
Not having any similar relationship with which to compare, she couldn’t be sure, but she resolved to keep her eyes open and her wits about her during their upcoming joint engagements to see what other signs of evolution she might detect.
Her mind returned to the hour and more she’d spent with Devlin after Lady Wicklow’s picnic had been consumed, when they’d banded together in furthering Martin’s cause. She’d enjoyed those minutes more than she’d expected; she’d derived more satisfaction from those moments than she had through any similar interlude at a ton event.
And her delight hadn’t been solely due to her pleasure over helping Martin. She’d found herself engrossed with what she’d learned about Devlin and his various interests, as with her on his arm, he’d weaved through the guests and sought to make her brother known to those who might be useful to Martin in reclaiming his place in the ton.