Page 56 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Eleanor sat cross-legged on the plush rug, a smudge of green on her wrist and a streak of blue on the hem of her sleeve. Across from her, Penelope hunched in deep concentration, tongue sticking slightly out of the corner of her mouth as she attempted to paint a wing without dripping onto the table. She hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. Eleanor didn’t mind. She found the silence… easy.

It wasn’t a silence born of discomfort or scrutiny, like the ones that so often haunted parlors and drawing rooms. This was a child’s silence—focused, undemanding, soft-edged. And somehow, it made Eleanor feel more at peace than she had in days.

“Does this look like a bird?” Penelope asked, breaking the quiet.

Eleanor leaned in. The creature in question was a delightful mess of pink feathers, a crooked beak, and two wildly uneven eyes.

“It looks like a very fashionable bird,” she said solemnly.

Penelope grinned. “She’s a princess bird. Her name is Melpomene.”

“Like the Muse?”

The child blinked. “Like what?”

“Never mind.” Eleanor smiled, dipping her brush into a pale lilac. “Princess Melpomene it is.”

They painted in companionable silence for a moment more. A few brushstrokes. The flutter of birdsong from the open window. The sound of a maid passing by with folded linen.

Then Penelope spoke again, very softly. “Are you going to stay?”

Eleanor’s hand froze midair.

She looked up. The girl was watching her now, not suspiciously but with a quiet, aching hope that made Eleanor’s chest tighten.

“Stay?” she echoed gently.

“Here,” Penelope said. “In the house. With us. Or are you going to leave too?”

Eleanor set her brush down.

She had no idea how long Penelope had been carrying that fear. How many times she’d watched trunks being loaded or heard footsteps down the corridor at night and wondered if someone else was going. If she was being left behind again. Her small shoulders looked impossibly tense for someone so young.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Eleanor said, voice soft but steady. “I promise.”

Penelope blinked at her. “Even if he makes that grumpy face? My other father?”

Eleanor smiled a little. “Even then.”

“Even if I make a mess?”

“Especially not then.”

There was a long pause. The child returned her gaze to the paper, but her hand didn’t move.

“Will you be my other mother?”

Eleanor felt her breath catch.

Not in fear. Not even in panic. But in something sharper that trembled behind her ribs, just out of reach. She hadn’t expected the question. Not so soon. Not so plainly. But there it was, raw and waiting.

“I would be honored,” she said quietly. “If that’s what you want.”

Penelope was silent for a long time. Then, with the frankness only children possessed, she asked, “Will you be as grumpy as my other father?”

Eleanor laughed, warm and sudden. “I shall try not to be.”

The girl frowned. “But he says grumpiness is a family trait.”