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“As am I. And they should be happy. We’re giving them the run of the most beautiful house in England.”
Indeed, they were. Winnover Hall was a part of her. She wouldn’t have proposed to Will Pershing otherwise. She wouldn’t have conjured a pair of youngsters otherwise. Having the children here, though, forcefully reminded her of one important fact. This wasn’t just about her and Mr. Pershing and Winnover Hall any longer. “As vital as it is they learn propriety,” she said, “we do need to see to it that they have some fun, then.”
Nodding, he stood again. “I agree. And I’m beginning to think we were lucky Farmer Dawkins didn’t take us up on our offer.”
“Or the Hendersens, for heaven’s sake. We could never pass that Prudence off as a five-year-old.”
That earned her a chuckle. “We do still need to make amends with the Hendersens,” he reminded her.
“Keeping things frosty for the next few weeks might be to our advantage,” she countered. “The Hendersens have a large social circle.”
He shrugged. “If we cross paths with them, we’ll simply tell them that they’re a cousin’s children, here for a visit before we take them with us to Cumberland. Oh, didn’t we mention that they would be joining us on our holiday?”
She snorted, belatedly putting a hand over her mouth. “William Pershing! I’d quite forgotten you were so wicked.”
Mr. Pershing looked over at her. “I know. I am a bit, though. Wicked.”
What did that mean? His green-eyed gaze remained on her as he offered her a hand, and a small shiver of… something warm trailed down her spine. Oh. Oh. “We have a strategy, then,” she said, taking his fingers and rising, then swiftly releasing him again as she turned for the door. Goodness. Or not goodness, rather. “Useful lessons, and as much fun for the darlings as we can reasonably manage.”
“Agreed again.”
Afterward, their well-orchestrated, parallel dance could resume. Would resume. Everything would return to calm, order, and perfection, and not one thought about how long it had been since he’d last kissed her. Since she’d kissed him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Clearing her throat, Emmeline set her palms over the pair of journals she’d brought downstairs. “Now that you’ve eaten, I have a story to tell you before bedtime.”
“Are you certain you wish to do this now?” Will asked. He understood that she wanted to explain her—their—motives. But these weren’t imaginary children, and they were tired after a long day. At the same time, she was the one who’d begun laying the plans to save Winnover seven years ago. Perhaps a bit of faith was called for.
“I love stories,” Rose said, yawning. “Does it have ducks in it?”
“No.” Emmeline opened the first journal. “A few years ago, we—”
“Is there a giant? Or a beanstalk?”
“It’s not that kind of story, Rose.”
The girl slumped. “Oh.”
Emmeline looked over at the little one, then took a deep breath as she shut the journal again. “It does have a prince and a princess.”
Will lifted his eyebrows. “It does?”
“Yes. You see, a prince and a princess married, and the old king, the princess’s grandfather, gave them a wedding gift. Th—”
“Oh, a magic one?” Rose straightened. “Was it a chicken who grants wishes?”
“Chickens aren’t magic,” her brother stated. “Nothing is magic.”
Damn, but the boy was cynical. “That’s a rather broad sta—”
“Mornings are magic, I’ve always thought,” Emmeline countered, before Will could conjure his own argument.
“See?” His sister stuck out her tongue. “So was it a magic chicken?”
“No. The gift was a beautiful, perfect home. A home with a garden, and big windows, and a large pond filled to the brim with fish.”
“Oh, like this house,” Rose breathed.