Page 72 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
He whirled her round and put her on her feet. Ophelia lifted up the little boy, cradling his blond-haired little head. He was six months old, and still sleepy, for all that he’d woken when he heard their voices near the door. She held him carefully, looking down at him. He was growing daily, his little face somehow not like Owen or herself.
Owen always said he looked like his father.
“So. How was your day?” Owen asked the little girl, who was looking up at him as he walked with her across the room to the doors.
“I played hide-and-seek with Miss Cranford,” Amelia informed him. At almost three, Amelia was already tall for her age, her blonde hair held back from her face in a braid. She had delicate features and Ophelia thought she resembled the countess for whom she had been named, but Owen said she looked like her mama.
“Grand. Grand,” Owen told her. “Would you like to ride later?”
“Riding! Yes, Papa! Yes. I love riding.”
Ophelia felt her heart twist. Little Amelia had a good childhood, and she felt honored to give her one. Riding, painting, tapestry—anything the little girl wanted to learn was available. Of course, she was too little to start some of those pastimes, but anything that she enjoyed was something they wanted her to learn.
“Well, let’s go and see what Mrs. Crane made today for tea. And then we can see how the weather is outdoors.”
“Outdoors! I want to go outdoors.”
“Not yet,” Owen said gently, laughing at her instant joy. “You’re like your mama. She also loves spring that much.”
“I like spring. It’s warm,” Amelia informed him. “And sunny. And we can take walks.”
“Yes. "You’re absolutely right,” Owen told her, smiling at Ophelia, who grinned back warmly.
In the room, it was light and bright. Ophelia looked tenderly at the boy who slumbered against her chest. His little eyes were closed, his face in sweet repose. She bent down and kissed him gently on the head. Unlike some noble families, where the children were raised by servants almost exclusively, they hadchosen to do most of the raising themselves. Mrs. Walgren was a nanny for when they were doing other things, but the children took their meals daily with Owen and herself, and they spent hours with them, walking around the garden, painting and drawing in the drawing room, or playing together.
“Uh,” little Grantham said when he opened his eyes. Ophelia smiled down into them. His eyes were gray. Mrs. Walgren was of the mind that they were going to go brown, but Owen knew they’d stay like that, and Ophelia was sure that was true. The moment he had seen the little boy he had known what his name was because of those eyes.
Ophelia glanced up at the portrait of Lady Ivystone—not herself, but Owen’s mama. The painting smiled down at her, those dark eyes unreadable, her smile gentle.
All the family’s paintings hung prominently in the house. The gallery had been one of the only rooms that had not been touched by the fire, and Ophelia was immensely grateful for that. They had precious paintings, but the ones that were precious to the heart were the ones she cared about.
Only what the heart sees is value.
She grinned at Owen, who smiled back. She wondered if he recalled that line. She had shared her poems on that subject with him, and he agreed with every word. They had both learned exactly what it was that had meaning, that really had worth—and it certainly wasn’t measured in gold. They had both always known that.
Her little poetry-book had survived the fire, hidden inside a writing-case inside a chest of drawers. The chest had been damaged, but the contents were safe, and they’d kept the damaged set in honor of their saving the book. All her poems were safe, and she had written many since that time.
“So,” Owen murmured, pouring tea. “Shall we go for a walk after tea?”
Ophelia shrugged. “It would seem a nice idea.”
Amelia’s joy was uneclipsed. Ophelia chuckled, seeing the brightness of her little grin. She loved the outdoors and Ophelia loved walking round the garden with her. They would find a nice sunny spot to sit, and Amelia could play for hours, while Ophelia sat nearby and wrote poems, undisturbed by anyone except the breeze and the sunshine.
“Well, then,” Owen agreed. “I suppose we have some time, so there’s no harm spending it outdoors.”
“I imagine not.”
They both chuckled warmly.
Amelia ate part of her Chelsea bun and then rocketed out of her seat as Owen stretched his legs, sensing that they were about to go outside.
“Outside!” she yelled.
Ophelia laughed. “Yes, yes, you dear impatient creature!”
“Impatient!”
Owen laughed and Ophelia felt her cheeks lift in a grin as he ran to her and lifted her into his arms.
