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H annah sat upon the floor of the drawing room, serving tea to a stuffed bear.

Emily Chesterfield, the Countess of Whitmore, had her own skirts tucked over her feet while their daughters offered chocolates to the other doll guests.

Diamonds and priceless jewels hung from the little girls’ necks, while heirloom tiaras rested on their heads.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not going in,” the Earl of Whitmore announced, nodding at Michael, who stood in the doorway with him. “They might make us wear a crown.”

Hannah smiled and rose to her feet. “Michael already has to wear one on formal occasions,” she told her brother, as she drew closer to the men. “It’s the price of being a prince.”

Michael kissed her hand in greeting. “May we join you for tea?”

Hannah stood from the carpet, holding the hand of their daughter, Charlotte. At the age of four, Charlotte wore her hair in two braids, one with a pink ribbon and one with purple. She’d inherited her mother’s beauty, but her stubbornness was a trait of her grandfather.

“Papa, you have to sit by me,” the little girl insisted.

Michael allowed Charlotte to take him by the hand, leading him to a chair. His daughter chose a chocolate biscuit from the tea tray and stuffed it into his mouth. “I made these, with Aunt Emily’s help,” she explained.

He brought her up to sit on his knee. “They are delicious.”

Charlotte sent him a sunny smile and wound her arms around him.

Her sapphire-and-diamond crown dipped below her forehead, and he adjusted it on her head.

Pride and contentment filled him up inside, along with the gratitude that he could now give his wife and daughter everything they would ever need.

Hannah came up beside them, and Michael took her hand in his. As their daughter chattered with her cousin Victoria and the countess, he met his wife’s gaze. Love shone from Hannah’s smile, along with silent amusement.

Charlotte jumped down from his lap to serve tea to the dolls, and Michael turned to Hannah with a wicked gaze. He glanced down at his lap and whispered, “There’s room.”

“No, you wretch.” Hannah rested her hands on his shoulders, laughing in his ear. “That would be improper.”

“I like being improper,” he whispered back. “We could be quite improper later.”

“Yes, later,” she promised.

He stood from the chair and reached out to adjust her crown. Hannah’s smile transformed at the touch of his hands. In his eyes, he let her see all the desire he held, and how much she meant to him. How much he loved her.

Taking his hand in hers, Hannah sent him a soft smile of her own. “Or sooner.”