The Brabanti Baby. Catherine Spencer

I can hardly take issue with that, can I?” He took her hands and drew her up to stand beside him. Her head barely reached his shoulder. “I’d like to look in on my daughter before I leave. Will you come with me?”

      Together, they went through to the nursery. A lamp glowed on the dresser, filling the room with soft light. Nicola lay on her back in the crib, with her little arms spread-eagled and her tiny fists curled.

      Bracing his hands on the crib rail, Gabriel watched her, his eyes hooded, his expression unreadable. “Will she sleep through until morning?”

      “No. She’ll need to be fed again around midnight, and again between two and three.”

      “Then I should be shot for keeping you up so late.” He touched her arm. “Tomorrow, you must rest. I’ll spend an hour with her after breakfast, before I leave for my office, and another in the late afternoon when I return home. Otherwise, Beryl will look after her.”

      “That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine. I’m used to shift work.”

      They were standing close together, speaking in whispers, the way parents might, and the intimacy of it all shimmered between them like a live thing. “I suspect,” he said, his gaze burning into hers, “that you’re also used to picking up the slack for others, regardless of what it might cost you.”

      “I do what has to be done, but I’m no saint.”

      “Nor am I,” he said, and the way he looked at her made her stomach turn over. “Nor am I. You’d do well to remember that.”