She met his eyes. “I’ve noticed the same thing, and I don’t have any idea, either.”
Devlin grinned rather diabolically. “That’s a joint mission we can look forward to undertaking next year—winkling Child’s secret from him.”
“Indeed.” Therese glanced across the lawn to where the children were still absorbed. “We’d better summon our brood for their tea, or Nanny will grumble.”
They paused before the front steps, and Devlin called, and after entrusting their navy to Dennis and Patty, the boys came pelting across the grass, with Horry holding Gillian’s hand and shrieking as she toddled in their wake as fast as her little legs would carry her.
The boys mobbed Therese, while Horry made for her father. Letting go of Gillian’s hand, the golden-haired moppet wound her arms around one of Devlin’s legs and clutched like a limpet. He laughed and ruffled her curls, then the crunch of boots on gravel had everyone turning to see Martin come striding around the house from the direction of the stable.
Martin’s face lit. “There you all are!”
The children promptly forsook their parents and raced to Martin; he was already firmly established as their favorite relative.
He’d arrived midmorning, having driven himself from London in his newly acquired curricle, which he’d proudly displayed to Devlin, Therese, and the boys. He’d brought wishes from the rest of her family, along with a quantity of gifts, and had happily accepted Devlin and Therese’s invitation to stay for a few days, admitting that he’d come hoping to pick Devlin’s brain about setting up a business venture.
Keen to get the air of the capital out of his lungs, after lunch, Martin had gone riding.
While the boys grasped his jacket and pelted him with questions, Horry rushed up, holding up her arms, and Martin swooped and scooped up the little girl, settling her in his arms as he answered her brothers’ eager queries.
After spending some minutes smiling fondly at the sight, Therese shooed the children toward the house. “If you don’t get up to the nursery soon, your tea will be cold, and Nanny Sprockett will be cross.”
At the mention of food, the boys cheered; deserting Martin, they raced up the steps and into the house. Martin handed Horry to the waiting Gillian, and once she, Horry, Patty, and Dennis had followed the boys inside, Therese, Devlin, and Martin climbed the steps and ambled into the stone-flagged hall.
Alverton Priory was a rambling old house, built around an old baronial hall that had been added to by successive generations of the Cader family until it had grown to the sprawling, comfortable home it now was.
The children’s voices echoed down the ornately carved wooden stairs, the sound bringing a smile to Therese’s lips, a smile she noted Devlin shared.
This was their principal home, the house in which they would live and love for the rest of their days. More than at any other of the earldom’s houses, their hearts were anchored there.
They knew their greatest peace in this place, and to add yet more joy to their happiness, she and Devlin were expecting a new addition to their family next year.
She felt her smile deepen as, on Devlin’s arm, she walked across the huge old hall and sensed all around her that most precious of commodities—love, open and true, made manifest in every action, in every expression. That emotion now bound them so much more tightly than it had before, spilling its glory onto every small task, filling every moment.
This was the life she and Devlin now shared. She slanted a glance at him. Even though he was conversing with Martin, the change in his face was obvious to her. He was happy, truly happy, now that they’d embraced their love and blossomed into their new reality.
She looked ahead and determinedly steered her husband and brother toward the drawing room while, in her mind, she contemplated the certainty, unshakeable and absolute, that now lived in her heart and reached deep to her soul.
For her and Devlin, this was their heaven on earth, and now they’d claimed it, neither would ever let go.
Epilogue
December 27, 1851. Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire.
Devlin lounged by the side of the large, third-floor nursery of Somersham Place, principal seat of the Dukes of St. Ives. With his hips propped against an old sideboard, he watched with fond amusement as Therese, seated on a battered chaise, kept a close eye on their three children, sprawled on the rug before her. All three, Horry included, were attempting to play with—or perhaps lead astray—the Carrick girls, who were two-year-old twins, four or so months older than Horry. Therese’s cousin Lucilla, the twins’ mother, sat beside Therese and also observed the group. Judging by the expressions that flitted over Therese’s and Lucilla’s faces as they exchanged low-voiced comments, they were swapping anecdotes and predictions, as fond mamas were wont to do.
Elsewhere in the large, comfortably furnished room were no less than five babes in arms, although the eldest, Richard Cynster, first child of Marcus Cynster and his wife, Niniver, was making a determined bid to walk under his own steam. Marcus and Niniver hovered, trying not to laugh at Richard’s stubborn bid to master the elusive skill of balancing on his sturdy legs.
Next in age came the ducal grandson, Sylvester Gyles Cynster, currently perched on the hip of his mother, Antonia, and evidently fascinated by the pearl choker circling her throat. His father, Sebastian, in between chatting with his wife and his heavily pregnant cousin, Prudence, tried to distract his son, but Sylvester was having none of it; pearls were clearly more interesting than his papa.
Ensconced in one of the large armchairs, Thomas Carrick, the twins’ father, jiggled his heir, Manachan Carrick, who was only days younger than Sylvester, on his knee. Thomas was chatting with Cleo, Michael Cynster’s wife, who was standing by the armchair and rocking her sleeping daughter, Katherine Louise, in her arms. Katherine was barely three months old, but she wasn’t the youngest there. That title belonged to Andrew Royce Varisey, who was not quite two months old and presently draped over the shoulder of his mother, Louisa, and sound asleep.
Given how powerful Andrew’s lungs had earlier proved to be, everyone was grateful for that.
Devlin raised his gaze and surveyed the room. A gaggle of nannies and nursemaids was clustered at the far end, ready to resume responsibility for their charges when the parents were summoned downstairs for the massive celebratory luncheon. The huge, sprawling house was packed to the rafters with family and connections; the Somersham Place Cynster family Christmas gathering was not an event one missed, not if one wanted to remain in the good graces of Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, and her socially powerful, grande-dame cronies, chief amongst whom was Therese’s mother, Patience.
On Devlin’s left, Christopher, Therese’s older brother, was chatting to Michael, the current duke’s second son, while on Devlin’s other side, Deaglan Fitzgerald, who had married Prudence Cynster earlier that year, was swapping tales of—of all things—goats with Ellen, Christopher’s recently acquired wife.
While 1851 might have been a year of births within this group, there were already three more happy events slated for the year to come. Deaglan and Prudence were preparing to welcome their first child in February, and Christopher and Ellen hoped to do the same in the middle of the year. Added to the son or daughter Devlin and Therese anticipated adding to their brood, plus the likelihood of further additions to the tally as the months rolled on, the coming year looked set to further expand the ever-widening circle of the family.