Page 32 of Stealing His Duchess

“I am sure you do. I heard he intends to return for this Season,” Owen supplied in a tone that was intended to be helpful, as he carefully watched Hudson’s face while he broke the news.

Hudson remained silent for a hit, focusing instead on the rhythm of his footwork that he had long since lost interest in keeping perfect while his mind wandered. He wandered too far and recalled when they were much younger, when Cornelius was smaller and always frightened, clinging to his sleeves as they walked through the halls of what was once their sanctuary and home but had eventually turned into a space of disdain and pain. He remembered every time he had placed himself between his brother and the source of their discomfort, how he had taken on the role of protector without being asked, without ever faltering. And look where it had gotten him. It had apparently earned him nothing but a brother who could not be bothered to send a single letter, not even a brief one, in all the months since his departure, simply because he believed his feelings had been hurt.

“Ungrateful little mutt,” Hudson muttered, though there was no real heat behind the words, only the particular fondness of an older brother complaining about a sibling he would have gone to war for without a second thought.

Though one could say he likely had, in smaller ways, more than once over the years.

Owen laughed outright at that, ducking beneath a swing with practiced ease. “You are asking a great deal of him, you know – expecting gratitude and correspondence in equal measure from a man whose feelings you have spent a while refusing to take seriously. Perhaps if you had respected his affection for Edith rather than dismantling it so thoroughly, he might feel more inclined to stay in contact with you.”

“Feelings are irrational,” Hudson stated, aiming another punch, as he ignored the fact that his tone came out sharper than he had intended. “And untrustworthy. I acted in his best interest, whether he chooses to recognize it or not, and I would do the same again tomorrow if the circumstance repeated itself.”

“Perhaps,” Owen said, still grinning, clearly enjoying himself far too much at Hudson’s expense. “Or perhaps fatherhood will teach you a thing or two about being a person, rather than merely a duke concerned with interests and outcomes and obstructions to be removed.”

Hudson’s punch landed rather harder than he had intended, causing Owen to swear colorfully, stumbling back and clutching his shoulder, though his laughter did not stop even as he winced, doubling over slightly.

“Fair enough,” he sighed, still grinning through the pain, as he did so with some effort. “I suppose I deserved that one. Though you might have considered a less literal response, old friend.”

“You might have considered holding your tongue,” Hudson retorted, though there was no real irritation in it.

There was only the easy, worn familiarity of two men who had traded blows and barbs in equal measure for the better part of nearly two decades. They fell back into their rhythm after that, the conversation drifting to lighter matters, though Hudson found his thoughts returning, again and again, to the twins waiting for him at home, and to a brother somewhere on the continent who had not thought him worth a single line of correspondence.

Of course, he spared a moment to think of his wife, whom he was still unsure of how to relate with.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Eat up, little one. Please.”

Anna’s voice was gentle and coaxing, though there was an unmistakable streak of desperation woven through it as she tried, once again, to settle Lucy against her bosom. The child fussed, turning her face away with a small, distressed cry, her tiny fists batting weakly at the air, and Anna felt her own throat tighten in response, heavy with a sense of helplessness she had rarely allowed herself to feel so deeply.

This was the third day it had happened. Lucy, who had always been the easier of the two, who had nursed without complaint since the moment she was born, who had gripped Anna’s finger with such contentment while feeding that Anna had come to think of it as one of the small, quiet joys of her days, now refused to latch no matter what Anna tried. She had changed her own feeding routine and meal choices according to the housekeeper’s advice, adjusted her position a dozen different ways, sought every remedy the household’s collective wisdom could offer, and still the child would not feed properly, growing seemingly thinner and fussier with each passing hour that left Anna feeling more and more that she had somehow failed her.

“Your Grace,” Miss Hill spoke gently, appearing at her side with a soft cloth in hand, having watched the last several attempts with a growing, sympathetic concern, “I believe it may simply be time to bring in a wet–nurse.”

Anna’s arms tightened instinctively around her daughter, an involuntary response she could not entirely suppress even as her rational mind acknowledged the sense in the suggestion.

It was an obvious next step a bid for a lasting solution but it still felt like an attack on her person.

“Is there truly nothing else to be done? I had thought – perhaps if I continued to try for a little while longer –”

“There is no shame in it,” Miss Hill shook her head gently, her tone kind but firm, settling into the chair beside Anna’s own. “A great many women require the help of a wet-nurse, for reasons that have nothing at all to do with their own capability as mothers. Sometimes a child simply prefers another source, or a mother’s supply falters under strain – and heaven knows you have been under a great deal of strain of late, Your Grace, what with the duke’s return and everything that has come with it. It does not reflect poorly on you. It is not a failing. It is simply what these small bodies sometimes require.”

Anna nodded, trying to remain outwardly composed, although inside she felt something close to panic clawing at her ribs, tightening with every passing moment. She did not want anyone else close to her children – not truly, not in the way that mattered, the way that meant trust and vulnerability laid bare before a stranger. She had spent months building a fortress around them, keeping their existence secret from their father, keeping their care entirely within her own hands and the hands of those she trusted absolutely, those who had proven themselves worthy of that trust through long months of quiet, unwavering loyalty.

The thought of inviting a stranger into that fortress, of allowing someone unfamiliar to hold Lucy against her bosom and feed her in Anna’s stead, made her stomach twist with an anxiety she could not quite explain even to herself, could not entirely justify with reason no matter how many times she turned it over in her mind.

She stayed calm and quiet regardless, thanking Miss Hill softly for her counsel.

“Do you need anything, Your Grace?” the housekeeper enquired softly.

“No,” Anna shook her head, unable to take her eyes off Lucy, who seemed to have preoccupied herself with her mother’s fingers again. “I am fine. I will set her down in a moment and rest soon.”

“Very well, Your Grace,” the older woman bowed before taking her leave to see to some other matter about the household, leaving Anna with her thoughts.

Anna’s panic was growing and twisting into something she could scarcely endure the longer she stared at her daughter, and just before it could take a turn for the worst, the door to the nursery fell open quietly.

“Ah,” Hudson exclaimed in a soft voice he had resolved to use only around the children. “There you are. How is my little flower bud faring today?”

Anna was not particularly in the mood to deal with whatever stress an interaction between them would yield, but she resolved to indulge in the distraction she had not requested but deeply understood that she needed.