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H e knew she was coming. She’d never been late to visit during the times that were slated as her breaks during the day.

He hated that her time was not her own. He wanted to give her every single second of every minute of every hour of every day so that it was her own with which to do as she pleased—to paint, to smile, to just simply be with her daughter.

But this was what he had with her and of her—for now.

By the time she stood before him, his gut was a tight as his cravat had been when he’d begun waiting for her to arrive.

He just hadn’t anticipated the reason for her delay or what would be different about their meeting together this afternoon.

“Close them.” Alice gave him a teasing pinch, and not a light one either, pulling him from his thoughts.

Denbigh winced.

“I’d like to point out that since I’m being blindfolded, closing my eyes seems a tad redundant,” he said drolly.

Alice gave the black strip about his head an extra tight tug. “Oh, hush.” She finished tying the fabric.

Denbigh waited. And waited. And continued waiting.

When absolutely nothing happened, he checked to make sure he wasn’t alone, “Are you still here, Alice?”

“I am,” she piped in happily.

Several more beats passed.

“And we are?” he drawled, when she still didn’t say anything.

“We are waiting,” Alice said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Waiting.” Denbigh paused. “You’re nodding, aren’t you?”

“I am, Laurence”

He counted the seconds.

Denbigh got to a whole thirty before he pressed his mysterious partner. “And exactly what is it we are waiting for , Alice?”

“Well, if I wanted you to know, you wouldn’t be blindfolded,” she pointed out.

“Very true,” he allowed. “Very true.”

He counted the seconds once more. This time, he made it to ninety-six.

“I’d be remiss if I failed to point out being blindfolded in this place of all places has a hint of wickedness to it.”

“This place being your bedroom,” she drawled.

“Well, I did refer to here, at the Devil’s Den.” He paused for a beat. “But I would say as confirmation to your question that, yes,” he purred silkily, “being blindfolded in my chambers could hint at wicked—”

“Mama, are you playing blindman’s bluff without me?”

That sweet, slightly wounded child’s intonation brought a curse flying to his lips. Denbigh instantly swallowed as much of it as he could. Frantically, he wrestled with the knot Alice had wrapped at the back of his head.

A rather impressive knot. Maybe it was more that his fingers shook so badly. The task was impossible. Somehow, he managed to wrestle himself free of the bindings. And he looked.

A powerful, painful, swell of emotion lodged in Denbigh’s throat. Unlike the only other time he’d come face to face with the little girl when she’d referred to Alice as Miss Killoran. This time she freely called her mother.

“No, Laurel, we were not playing without you,” Alice said softly.

Suddenly, he put together the reason for the blindfold, the surprise she planned, and the little girl being allowed to drop her guard.

Alice fell to a knee beside her daughter. “I was surprising the earl with you .”

“ Me ?” Laurel lifted those enormous eyes up to Denbigh. Adorable confusion creased the even more adorable little girl’s freckled forehead. “I’m not a fun surprise.”

In an instant, Denbigh fell head over heels, over toes, over his entire self in love with a little girl, with Alice’s daughter. So much love took hold of him, as did an all-consuming, all-powerful need to protect her.

Denbigh dropped to a knee beside mother and daughter. “On the contrary,” he said hoarsely. “I cannot imagine a greater gift than getting to spend time with you, Laurel.”

Alice’s daughter erupted into a fit of giggles like he’d just told her the most hilarious of jests “Mama, Laurence is funny.”

“Yes, he is,” Alice said, her voice thick with emotion.

Denbigh had to force himself to tear his gaze from little Laurel, he needed to look at Alice. The same way in which he was overwhelmed and consumed by the moment, so too was Alice.

A light tugging on his hand brought him back to the moment. He stared at Laurel’s fingers; she’d laid her palm in Denbigh’s. So trustingly and tenderly, her fingers so small, so tiny, so delicate against his larger, darker, harder ones.

And all he wanted to do was fold his palm around hers and protect her forever. Her and her mother.

“Do you know any jests, my lord?”

“I do,” he acknowledged.

Laurel’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, you must tell me. Please, please, please !” With every plea, she tugged at his hand. “ Tell me .”

“I will,” he promised. Denbigh dropped his voice to an exaggerated whisper. “But first you have to promise me something.”

Alice’s daughter all too trustingly bobbed her head in an enthusiastic nod. The ease with which she capitulated only reminded him of all the boundaries out there. Who would be there to take advantage of her just as they had Alice? Never again. Not with this young girl. Over his dead body.

“Yes?” Laurel pleaded.

“You shouldn’t refer to me as my lord . My father was the my-lord sort of fellow. I like to think of myself as just Laurence.”

Laurel flashed a dazzling smile to rival the brightest star in the clearest sky. “Okay,” she giggled. “‘Just Laurence’.”

Just Laurence. It was perfect.

Alice and her daughter…were both perfect.