"No, it's my turn," her father said, scooping the baby off his wife's shoulder and swinging him into the air.
Theodore burst into a storm of giggles. He was adorable in the way that deeply loved babies are: bald, fat, and altogether scrumptious.
"You girls need to start planning for charades," the duke said, looking down at his daughters.
"Tobias has finished writing all of the parts and he's handing them out."
"Last year he made me be Lucifer, from Paradise Lost," Lucinda said resentfully.
"Your fault," Phoebe said, laughing. "You shouldn't have played that trick on him when he came home from Oxford for the summer. You know he's particular about his clothing."
"I just wish he'd let me pick out parts some time," Lucinda said. "I'd make him play an old beggar woman. Or Puss in Boots! He would have to put on paper ears and a tail, or he would never win.
Can you imagine? Tobias would rather die than be so undignified!"
"Come on," Phoebe said, grabbing her hand. "Let's go, because if we get a wish from Mama for winning, we can say that we want Theo all tomorrow afternoon."
Lucinda's eyes brightened and they trotted off.
The duke slipped into the place next to his wife, holding Theo's hands so the bowlegged babe could practice sitting upright in his lap.
"He's the best birthday present you ever gave me," Eleanor said, leaning her head against his shoulder.
"It's true that he's three months old," Leopold said, grinning at Theodore. "But I think of him more as your present to me."
"Oh no," Eleanor said."! have very, very clear memories of my birthday last year. And naturally, I expect that you plan to top your performance. Practice," she said demurely, "makes perfect."
Her husband shot her a wicked glance, full of laughter—and desire. "After the charades or before?"
"Before," she whispered, leaning over and brushing a kiss on his jaw.
"Tobias!" Leo shouted, leaping to his feet.
His eldest son, a sleek, brilliant version of himself, strolled over.
"Take this scrap," Leo said, dumping Theo unceremoniously into Tobias's arms. "Whatever you do, don't let Phoebe and Lucinda start fighting over him."
Theodore reached up and grabbed at his big brother's chin, giving him his best toothless smile.
"Did he burp?" Tobias asked sternly. He had quickly learned that sartorial standards can be severely threatened by leal<y babies.
"Yes," Eleanor said, taking her husband's hand. "Thank you, sweetheart."
"The charades begin in one hour," Tobias said, not letting on with even the tiniest smile that he might have some idea what his beautiful stepmother and adoring father meant to do in the interim.
"We should be fine with that," Leo said, grinning down at Eleanor. Unlike his son, he'd lost his ability to appear emotionless.
But he did wait until he was out of the parlor to pick up the duchess in his arms and carry her up the stairs.
Historical Note
My literary debts in this book are numerous. Shakespeare makes several appearances, with particular reference to Sonnet 116. But the unnamed hero of A Duke of Her Own is Lord Byron, who lent the English version of his French play, Salomé, to Sir Roland. I feel quite certain that he would have resented my gift of his sensual lines to such a young and foolish man. In my defense, Byron himself was not yet forty when Salomé was written.
The inspiration for—and some of the invective in—the scene featuring Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Land Busy sprang from a play written by Shakespeare's contemporary, Ben Jonson. Bartholomew Fair puts Zeal-of-the-Land Busy in the stocks; I gave him both a funeral and a wife, and in this case I would venture to say that Ben Jonson would not disapprove.
And finally, Lisette sings a version of an old lullaby, "Hush-a-bye Baby," that has mixed ancestry.
When my son Luca was born, fourteen years ago, he liked to be sung to sleep. One night I was singing that lullaby when my stepmother peeked in. I confessed to her that I didn't really like the song because it ends with the baby plummeting from the treetop.
She sang two lines of a second verse for me, but couldn't remember any more. So during those long evenings of singing to a fretful baby, I wrote another two lines. I'm including the whole lullaby below, in the hopes that perhaps some of you are still lucky enough to be singing small, delicious-smelling scraps to sleep.
Hush-a-bye Baby, on the treetop,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
Down will come Baby, cradle and all.
Mama will catch you, give you a squeeze.
Send you back up, to play in the trees.
When twilight falls, and birds