Ivy cooed to Elsie, rocking her in her arms, but the child was having none of it. She squalled and cried and released little sobbing sounds that wrenched at her heart. Ivy swept a hand over the baby’s hair and put a hand to her rosy red cheeks. They weren’t naturally rosy, however. Bright, ugly patches of colour marred her pudgy cheeks. “What’s wrong, little one?” she asked. Oh how she wished babies could talk. It would make things so much easier. She paced the nursery, singing, talking, swaying—anything to comfort the child. Elsie had been restless all night and Ivy’s eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. Of course, she hadn’t slept properly for two nights since that moment with August. August. She had begun to think of him that way. It was hard not to when they had shared such a moment. Very well, not a moment—a kiss. A beautiful, sensual, heart-destroying kiss. She’d kissed a few boys in Surrey. They were silly kisses she concluded. Nothing like August’s kiss.
