Ninety-three:
Prince Declan
Our family had a hunting lodge. The last time I had been there, it had been one year ago, at Christmas. Fiona had been there with Nanny Fallon. I remembered that it had been late in the night and I had been going up the stairs at the same time that Fiona had been coming down it. We’d nearly run into each other.
“Fiona,” I growled.
“Prince Declan,” she said, hiding her face. She blushed and brushed back a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“What are ya doin’?” I asked.
“Gettin’ hot chocolate for the little ones,” she said, “they couldn’t sleep, and Arabella did that poutin’ thing that she does.”
I laughed. “That poutin’ thing is absolutely lethal. Her future husband is goin’ ta have their hands full.”
“Most definitely,”
