he expect of her, now that they would have so many hours together? The tour of the house had been helpful and she had seen a half-score of rooms where she might search for information about her father.
But they could not spend each day in rambling about the house together. Nor would he wish to spend his evenings thus. Along with the letter to Montague, she had scribbled a hurried note to Penny and begged her to come to dinner, hoping to alleviate this awkward togetherness.
The duchess had sent an equally hurried response. ‘You need time to get to know one another again,’ she had said. ‘You do not need the distraction of others. In a week, perhaps, we shall come to see how you are getting on.’
A week? Penny might as well have said a year, for all the help that offered. Justine had sighed and informed the housekeeper that all meals would be served ‘for two.’ And that was a problem in itself. She had no idea what her husband’s favourite foods were, his schedule when home, or even what rooms he took his meals in. She would have to rely on the servants. With the instruction, she had added a shy flutter of her lashes and a worried look. Then she had remarked that he had been sick for so long she’d feared ever having this opportunity...
The housekeeper had rushed to her aid, promising that every effort would be made to help her learn the likes and dislikes of the master, and the proper running of the house. The woman’s eagerness to help her made her feel like even more of a liar than usual.
But trusting Mrs Bell had led to the table in the main dining room, facing an excess of silver and crystal, and a banquet clearly meant as a triumphant celebration of their return home. The man who could barely lift his fork two days before was enjoying nine courses and three wines.
Though he ate with obvious relish, she could feel his eyes upon her, just as Montague’s were, when they were alone together. His gaze was possessive, as though he was admiring some lovely ornament on a shelf, still surprised that he had come to own it. Soon, he would take it down and run his hands over it, to learn its every contour and detail. She shivered again.
He glanced immediately to the far side of the room, to the unlit fireplace. ‘You will find that old houses such as this are draughty. It is as if the chill settles into the stone, even in summer. Shall I call for a servant to light a fire?’
‘It is not necessary,’ she assured him. ‘We will not be here for long. If it bothers me again, I will remember to bring a shawl to dinner.’
‘Oh.’ There was a faint downward inflection, as though the idea that she might hide her bare shoulders disappointed him. Why did he not simply refuse her the comfort? She had long ago learned not to make such requests of Montague, for fear that he would insist she must wear even less, to show her obedience. When one had been given the choice of just a gown, or just a shawl, one learned to ignore the cold.
Now, Lord Felkirk pushed his dessert away. ‘There is no need for an ice so late in the season, no matter how beautifully it is presented.’ He stared down at the china ice-cream pot on the table, its lid heaped with ice to keep the contents cool. The butter, as well, rested in a basin of ice so that it might keep its perfect mould of the Felkirk family crest. He stared at the display and shook his head. ‘So cold, all of it. Cold as the grave.’
As Justine watched, his attention slipped from her. He had gone oddly pensive, of a sudden, his expression darkening as though his mind wandered in a cavern somewhere, further and further from the light of day. It was almost as unsettling as his earlier thoughts. ‘Let us retire to the salon,’ she suggested. ‘There is a fire laid there. I am sure it will be most cosy.’ She feared that was rather an overstatement of the truth. Although the old manor was smaller than the new one, it was still too large to house a single couple. At the very least, it should hold two rambunctious boys, as it had in William’s youth.
But the man before her was no longer an energetic child. When he stood, he offered his arm. But they both knew that what appeared an ordinary courtesy was a subtle request for her support so that he might manage with just a walking stick and not crutches. As she had in the afternoon, she came to his side and they proceeded together down the hall.
In the formal sitting room, she led him to a divan and poured him his port. Then she took her own place in a chair opposite, where her lacemaking pillow had been arranged for her. The evening was likely to be a silent affair, as full of thoughtful glances and mutual speculation as dinner had been. They were strangers, after all. There was little they had to converse about.
Necessary though it was, she could not bring herself to create any more memories out of whole cloth, demanding that he believe anecdotes from their courtship and elopement. There was only one thing she wished to discuss and the topic was unreachable. What was it about his house that had set him looking for a diamond pouch that had been missing and forgotten since late in the last century?
She made a covert study of the room: fireplace and mantel, landscapes on the wall, rug thick, but flat. There were no obvious hiding places here. She could not imagine herself stomping about the place, sounding for loose floorboards and hollow compartments. As her husband stood and approached her, she could not help but listen, hoping that one of his steps might sound different from another, revealing a trapdoor in the planking. But each sounded the same as the other, until he stopped just short of her, staring down as she worked.
She paused and looked up, expecting to see the censure she received from Montague when she occupied herself with something other than his needs. ‘If you wish, you have but to say the word and I will put it away.’
‘No. No, certainly not.’ He took a step back as though surprised at her response. ‘If it gives you pleasure, by all means continue.’
She offered a nod of thanks. Though she had not given it much thought, it did give her pleasure. While her hands were busy, her mind was free as a bird to think whatever she liked.
She felt him shift uncomfortably, foot to foot, and wondered if he wished for a similar pursuit. Perhaps he was as unsure of his place in this new world as she was. She raised her eyes from the mechanical motion of her hands on the bobbins and said, ‘What do you normally do, of an evening, to pass the time?’
‘You do not know?’ he asked, almost suspiciously.
Her mind raced for a moment, then settled on an answer. ‘We were together only a short while. You had little time or interest in domestic pleasures. In fact, I did not pick up my lace again until after we arrived in Wales and I knew you were settled comfortably. There simply was not time for it.’ She waited for him to infer the obvious.
‘We spent more time in the bedroom than the drawing room?’ he said, then laughed at her blush. ‘It need not embarrass you. We are married and our behaviour was quite normal.’
‘Of course,’ she responded. Now that she had put the thought into his head, he would likely demand that they retire immediately to return to their old diversions. At least the suspense would end and she could settle her nerves. Lying on one’s back in silence was easier by far than trying to think of what to say while sitting up.
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then said, ‘I am sure, with practice, we can learn to sit together in the parlour as well. You asked how I spend my evenings when at home?’ He paused again. ‘I like to read. Not very exciting, I suppose. You may have noticed that my brother is happiest pacing about the room and debating politics. And while Penny is a great reader, she is often translating from Greek or Latin as she does so.’ He paused, as though it were some sort of guilty secret. ‘But I prefer novels.’
‘Do you read aloud?’ she asked. It was a solution that would solve no end of trouble.
