Page 16 of Much Ado About Hating You (Second Chance Season #2)

April 1823

B eatrice rose and stretched, shaking out the stiffness of a body long curved over satisfying work. Outside the study window, chaos reigned, and she needed to join it. Abandoning her work, she found her way into the garden and leaned against Bell House, her heart full.

Richard chased Lucy, who chased the twins, who were running off with a cat. Two cats. One for each boy. The cats yowled. The twins yowled. Lucy cried, “Unfair!” and Richard’s laughter rose to the heavens for a glorious moment before he swallowed it whole.

“Shh!” he commanded. “The little bird is sleeping.”

Indeed, she was. Beatrice knelt at the wicker basket near the study door and pushed the blanket away from Rosalie’s cheek. Six months old and sweet as a purring kitten when sleeping. As irate as cat in a bag when awake. Richard would want to keep her sleeping.

But even now, she wiggled, little fists fighting the light blanket spread over her in the soft spring wind, her face scrunching as a wail built inside. Beatrice picked her up, sighed when the little bird buried her face in her neck.

Richard jogged back down the path toward her, a train of children and kittens following at a distance. He was so achingly beautiful with that roguish grin and those soft, brown eyes. More than their color, their emotion made her breathless. Oceans of adoration.

The only ocean she wished to set sail upon.

He kissed her cheek, then Rosalie’s head. “Done for the day?”

“Mm.” Beatrice stole a kiss from Richard’s lips until she felt the heat of three pairs of eyes boring into her.

Lucy and the twins watched them, eyes unblinking, faces blank.

“Uncle John and Aunt Evie do that, too,” Lucy said. Her nose wrinkled. “But I don’t think another person would taste very good.”

Richard cleared his throat. “Yes, well.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Why don’t you lot go down to the swing. I believe Aunt Lena and Uncle Martin are there.”

The children ran off, cats bounding after them, and Richard groaned. Then grinned at his daughter. “Are you going to say things I’d rather not respond to one day, little bird?”

Rosalie babbled, sitting up in Beatrice’s arms and reaching for her papa. He took her and bounced her, and she laughed.

“Did I leave you for a moment, little bird?” he cooed. “I’m back now. I’ll never be gone long.”

She grabbed his nose, and with a yelp, he pried her hand away, let her wrap her small fist around a finger instead. She would never have to worry about Richard forgetting her, leaving her, not wanting her.

And neither would Beatrice.

He hefted Rosalie onto one hip and wrapped his free arm around Beatrice, steering her toward the woods, the swing, and the sounds of glee echoing from that direction. “How is the translation coming today?”

“Quite well. I finished another poem.” Five more to go before she finished her first collection of translated works. “Gálvez is kind to me today.” She’d begun working on her English translation of the Spanish poet’s work shortly after they’d married when she’d finally realized she could no longer chase after her father’s affection. He’d barely noticed. And neither had she.

“Everyone is going to love Mama’s work, aren’t they, little bird?”

Rosalie babbled.

“I must find a publisher first,” Beatrice said. Then, “You spoil her.” He did not. She loved it. She loved him.

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing, hellcat.”

Beatrice arched a brow. “ Hellcat is for when we’re alone.”

“And what will you call me when others are not around?”

“Mine.”

His sweet grin took a feral turn. The glow in his eyes blossomed into lust. “Well enough. And what will you call me when we are in public?”

Beatrice tapped her chin. “There are so many options. Mi bruto. Mr. Clark the nodcock.”

He swung in front of her and silenced her with a kiss, his hand cupping the back of her neck, his lips warm and firm and demanding.

Happy to give—oh so happy—to him.

Rosalie gurgled and smacked them apart.

“She’s a fighter,” Richard said with a laugh. “Like her mother.”

Beatrice snagged his cravat and pulled him down the path. “You like it.”

“You know I do, sweetheart.”

Hand in hand, they followed the sound of laughter into the woods.

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