Like that, two more months slipped by in a blur of soft giggles and sleepless nights, and now little Amara-just four months old-was beginning to master the wobbly art of sitting, her tiny body swaying like a sapling in the breeze.
At this time, the Duke and Duchess's three children were still away at their maternal grandparents' estate, leaving the grand halls unusually quiet except for the soft coos and occasional indignant wails of the newest member of the household.
It was a still morning in the west wing of the estate. The high ceilings seemed to hold the hush of the early hours, broken only by the faint rustle of curtains in the summer breeze.
Amara sat on the thick carpet, her chubby legs folded beneath her, turning a wooden block over and over in her hands. She was just learning how to balance herself without tumbling sideways, her concentration fierce in a way that made the Duchess smile from her sewing chair.
The door opened-not hurriedly, but with that measured quiet the Duke always carried with him.
In his arms was something odd: a small, square cushion, plain but clearly new, the stitches neat yet slightly uneven.
Amara looked up at him with round, questioning eyes.
Without a word, the Duke crossed the room, his tall figure casting a long shadow over her. He knelt-a slow, careful lowering of a man not used to spending time on the floor-and set the cushion before her.
"It's... for you," he said, voice deep but strangely gentle. "So you don't sit on the cold floor."
The Duchess's eyebrows rose slightly-her husband was not known for handmade gifts.
Amara stared at the cushion for a moment, then, as if understanding perfectly, patted it once with her tiny hand. She looked up at him, and in that baby way-wordless, trusting-she leaned forward and rested her head against his knee.
The Duke froze.
Her hair was soft against the fabric of his trousers, her warmth small but startling. Something shifted in his chest, like the unlocking of a door he hadn't realized was closed.
"She approves," the Duchess murmured, smiling over her embroidery.
He cleared his throat, awkward, and gently lifted Amara onto the cushion. She grinned, rocking back and forth as though testing it.
For the rest of the morning, she refused to sit anywhere else.
When the Duke finally stood to leave, she made a little sound-not a cry, but enough to make him pause. She reached up toward him with both hands, fingers opening and closing in the universal request to be held.
He hesitated. Then, carefully, he picked her up. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, and he let out the smallest sigh, holding her just a moment longer than necessary before returning her to the cushion.
It was the first gift he had ever made with his own hands.
And it wouldn't be the last.