“Say good night to Mr. Rider,” Maddy told them, and one by one they lined up beside the bed in their patched white nightclothes, faces scrubbed and shining, demon card players transformed into small angels.
“Thank you for the excellent card games, sir,” John said. “You are a very sneaky player and I enjoyed it very much. Good night.”
“Can we play again, sir?” Henry said. “Perhaps tomorrow?” Nash laughed and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Perhaps.” Henry looked so pleased, Nash was absurdly flattered. Who would have dreamed that children could be good company?
“ ’Night, Mr. Rider,” Susan said sleepily. “Sweet dreams.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Rider?” Jane asked.
“No, thank you, my dear. You’re quite the demon card player, aren’t you?”
She blinked and gave him an anxious look.
He smiled. “It’s a compliment,” he explained. “You’re going to lead some man a merry dance when you’re older.”
She gave him a wondering look. “Me?”
“Yes, minx, you,” he told her, and flicked her cheek gently with his finger. “ ’Night, Jane.”
She blushed, mumbled something, got halfway to the stairs and came back to wish him, “A very good sleep and sweet dreams, Mr. Rider.” Her eyes were shining.
Maddy stood at the foot of the steps, watching the exchange with Lucy draped over her shoulder, sound asleep. In the dim light, he couldn’t read her expression. Jane ran up the stairs past her, but Maddy made no move to follow.
“What is it?” he asked quietly. The children had gone ahead of her. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” She took two steps up the staircase, then turned back. “It was nice, what you said to Jane.” Then she turned and carried Lucy upstairs. She would tuck them in, tell them a bedtime story, and kiss them good night. He already knew the routine.
Nash sat back, feeling strangely affected by the simple domestic routine. There had been nothing in his own experience like it.
When his father was in residence, Nash and Marcus would occasionally be brought down for half an hour’s conversation in the drawing room. It was a nerve-wracking and humbling experience; their father was clearly bored by them.
He’d never played any sort of game with his sons. Not unless they happened to come across him at Whites, or some other club, as adults.
And Nash could no more imagine sitting on his father’s bed than flying, let alone falling asleep in his lap.
As a child, Nash had been put to bed by servants, different servants each year. It wouldn’t do for a son of the Earl of Alverleigh to get vulgarly attached to a servant.
The servants weren’t interested, either. They were usually impatient, indifferent, not unkind—just in a hurry to get the boys off their hands.
Mama had never put them to bed. She occasionally burst into the nursery quarters like some kind of glamorous fairy princess in a cloud of perfume, glittering with jewels, her skirts rustling. She would swoop upon them, hugging and kissing them extravagantly, sprinkling questions over them but never waiting for the answers. And then she’d be gone, leaving two dazed sons behind, Marcus sneezing. Mama’s perfume always made him sneeze.
Maddy wasn’t even these children’s mother . . .
Finally he heard her come down the stairs. He waited as she laid out the bedding in front of the fireplace, as usual, then—
“What are you doing?” he asked sharply.
Maddy gave him a cool glance. “What does it look like? I’m going to bed.” She flipped back the covers and climbed in.
“Your bed is here.”
Maddy shook her head. “You and I both know what will happen if we share a bed again.” She’d tried all evening to hold on to her anger, to use it as a shield against his charm. But it was impossible to stay cross with him for long.
The way he’d played with the children, his patience, his sense of fun, his kindness . . . And then when Lucy fell asleep in his lap, his careful, cautious response, the look in his eyes . . .
She had to keep her distance. It would be too easy to fall in love with this man.
He swung his legs out of bed. “I gave you my word as a gentleman that no harm would come to you from sharing this bed.”
