His little cheeks had taken on the soft, rosy color of a peach, and the fuzz upon his head had the silky texture of down. Cushioned, as he was, in a profusion of lace-edged pillows and snowy linens, and weighing only slightly more than ten pounds, he seemed rather small to be a marquess; but every time his mother peered down at him, she felt the deep maternal pang of love. Her husband, the duke, came up behind her and put his arms about her waist. “Isn’t he perfect?” Louisa whispered, her cheek pressed closely to his. “Perfect,” Robert agreed. His voice grew husky. “I can hardly wait to make another just like him.” As his hands began to rove, Louisa turned and threw her arms about his neck. “Oh, Robert!” Moments later, she emerged, shaking from their embrace. “We’ve been so blissful.” The heavy sigh accompanying this statement alerted her husband to the probability that something of a devious nature was in her mind. “Isn’t it a shame that everyone cannot be as happy as we?”
