as well.’
The delightful pink of her cheeks clashed with the reds in her hair. ‘You are welcome.’ She glanced down at the table. Toast?’ She pushed the toast rack closer to his plate, as though appeasing one appetite would make him forget the other.
He ignored her offer of bread and continued on his original topic. ‘I enjoyed what you did for me, very much,’ he said, thinking the words oddly polite. But they seemed a match for her reserved response.
‘I am glad,’ she said, sending the marmalade pot after the toast with a nudge of her finger.
He ignored that as well. ‘Did you enjoy it as well?’
To this, she gave him an odd look, as though it had not occurred to her to have an opinion about it. ‘It makes me happy when you are happy.’ Then the placid smile returned.
‘That is not what I asked,’ he said. ‘I want to know if you enjoyed touching me.’
She glanced around her, as if to remind him that they were in the breakfast room, not the bedroom. She looked down at her plate as though trying to decide if it might be possible to pretend she had not heard. She took up her knife and fork and began slicing the sausage on it into ever smaller bites. Then, as if she’d noticed what she had done to the rather significantly shaped meat, she set down her utensils with a clatter and said, in a rush of words, ‘Enjoyed it? Of course. Why should I not? You are my husband, after all, and it is my goal...’
‘To make me happy,’ he finished. ‘That brings us back to where we began.’ He pushed the toast rack out of the way and reached for one of her hands, holding it gently in his and noticing how cold the fingers were. ‘It is not that I object to being happy. But I assume, when I married you, that I wanted you to be happy as well. Surely I said something of the kind.’ He hoped that it was true. This morning, she was acting almost as if she was afraid of him.
She blinked at him, as though the details of their past were as murky to her as they were to him. Then she glanced down at their joined hands with an expression of such modesty and beauty that he wanted to capture it in oils. ‘Of course, my love. It is just that I do not want to seem less than grateful for all you and your family have done for me. Your offer last night, to allow me to send for Margot...’ She looked up hopefully, as though fearing he meant to retract it in the cold light of day.
‘Grateful?’ Was that why she had been so affectionate? It was oddly annoying to think that her treatment of him had been some sort of a reward for a perfectly normal offer of hospitality. ‘You needn’t be, over such a small thing. Where else would you sister stay, if not with us? If you pine for her company, then you shall have it.’
‘I do. Very much so.’ Her smile returned, and for a moment he was afraid that she might cry. Or stranger still, that she might repeat her behaviour of the previous evening and sink to her knees before him during breakfast. Exciting though the idea was, it was rather alarming to think of her putting a hand in his breeches each time she wanted a favour.
‘Then it is what I wish as well,’ he said carefully. ‘For I want to see you happy, just as you wish to see me happy.’
She nodded, as though all was settled.
‘But I wish that your happiness, last night and in nights to come, can be separate from the thought of your sister’s visit. It is quite a different thing, you see.’
‘Of course it is,’ she said, nodding. But there was something in her tone that announced she had no idea what he was talking about. What kind of a selfish beast had he been, if he had not taught her that the bedroom was a place to seek mutual pleasure? This obtuse behaviour on her part was almost enough to set his mind to doubting again. It did not sound like him, at all.
At least, it did not sound like the sort of husband and lover he had wished to be. But how was he to know, really? His experience thus far had been limited to the sort of women who knew what they wanted in bed, even if it was only to pretend satisfaction in exchange for jewellery and rent.
Did gently bred virgins behave in the same way? Were they taught to submit to their husbands and trade favour for favour like courtesans? Did no one speak to them of the pleasure of the act? Perhaps it was his job to teach that particular lesson. The prospect of that made him want to grin like an idiot. Instead, he smiled at her with as much kindness and gentleness as he could muster, then leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek again. ‘Tonight, I shall demonstrate what I mean.’
‘Oh.’ It was but one word. But she said it in a tone that said, oh, dear. Or, worse yet, oh dear, you needn’t bother. If he had not seen her on the previous evening, totally in control of both his body and her own nerves, he’d have thought she was frightened.
‘For now, let us finish our breakfast,’ he said, dismissing the subject until later. ‘I will leave you alone so you might go to the morning room and write letters to your friend and to your sister.’
With that, the relieved smile returned to her face as though it had never left.
* * *
He expected something of her.
Justine was not sure what it was that he had wanted, but it seemed some display of happiness was in order. Clearly, he did not understand how difficult it was to appear pleasant and at ease when one was already holding a paper full of admonishments on how she must behave if she was to ferret out the Felkirk family secrets. In his note, Montague had approved of the move to this house, since it was most likely to hold what they were looking for.
But he had also hinted that he would expect a detailed accounting of her activities when next they met in the woods. She rather feared that was more than just a description of the rooms she had searched and what she might have uncovered in them. He would want to know exactly what had transpired in the bedroom with Will.
Of course, Will seemed to want to talk of that as well. What was wrong with men, that they could not put what happened in the bedroom firmly in the past, as she meant to do? His kisses were nice, of course. She especially liked the little ones he had given her in the breakfast room, as though it were a matter of course to remind her of his feelings throughout the day.
But she wished he would stop. Small kisses only made her think of other, more intimate ones and the feel of his skin under her hand. It felt nice, just as the kisses did. But it would all lead to the same place in the end, where he had all the control and she had none. Badgering her about her own happiness was unnecessary. Life was what it was. Even the difficult bits went more smoothly if one did not brood on one’s feelings from moment to moment.
This morning, he meant to leave her alone, just as promised, to write her letters. Once the door was closed, she began with a thorough examination of the room. As she’d expected, she did not find a desk drawer full of loose stones, or a treasure map rolled up in a pigeon hole. Yesterday’s tour of the house had convinced her that the library was the only room worth searching. It held the books and papers left behind when the previous duke had moved to the new house.
If there was nothing to be found, so be it. She assured Montague in the note she wrote him that she would follow his orders to the letter, but she had no real intention of rooting through Will Felkirk’s mind for the truth. Why risk disturbing the conveniently forgotten past, on the slim hope of gain?
It was far better, in her opinion, to ensure Margot’s safety through the rather ordinary method Will had suggested. If money was needed to make her situation permanent, she did not need stolen diamonds. Her husband was a most
