She threaded her arm through his. Birchwood and spice…his heat…him—all of it washed over her and set her heart into a light sprint. A single word came to her and circled around her mind in obstinate refrain.
Mine.
What a word. What an idea. It wouldn’t let up. This man was her husband. In the eyes of the world, he belonged to her.
And last night in his bed… There, he’d been hers, too.
“We may regret having left his lead behind,” he observed as Sir Bacon raced ahead. It was as if the little dog had intuited their destination.
Although it was a Sunday morning, the short route to St. James’s Park was already beginning to bustle with morning activity. Grocers setting out their wares. A wagon here and there trundling up the lane. Pedestrians shouldering past, intent on this task or another. Hortense had always liked this about London. Its industry. Its sense of purpose and importance.
For all the city cacophony racketing about, silence persisted between her and Jamie as they strolled on, careful to keep Sir Bacon in their sights. They reached the wide mall leading into the park, orderly colonnades of plane trees providing a verdant border between the park and the city. At least, Sir Bacon must have thought so as he ran free and loose, alternately scaring up flocks of pigeons and scurries of squirrels. Even his antics couldn’t distract from the beauty of the park with its wide avenues for strolling lined with oak and mulberry trees and flower beds bursting into bloom at the insistence of spring. St. James’s Park was an oasis.
“Do you know much about the park?” Jamie asked as they approached the canal that served as a pond.
She shook her head. “Preserves of peace and loveliness don’t figure much into my line of work.”
She might have imagined him tensing his jaw, but then he continued, “As it happens, I came across a short history of the park recently.”
“Let me guess. In your study?”
Half a smile tipped up the corner of his mouth. “Not much has happened in England, Scotland, Wales, or Ireland that isn’t accounted for in its collection.” He pointed toward the pond. “What do you see?”
She squinted across the water. Upon its surface floated a group of large white birds. “Swans?” she guessed.
“Pelicans.”
“Pelicans?” She squinted again.
“Their ancestors were a gift from the Russian ambassador almost two hundred years ago.”
“What a thing,” she marveled.
“On a more scandalous note, King Charles the Second courted his favorite mistress, Nell Gwyn, here.”
“I would venture Hyde Park would have been too near the watchful eye of his queen.”
“But what we see today will soon be changing,” Jamie said.
“Surely, there are no plans to build here. That would be a shame.”
“Nothing like that. The king has commissioned the landscaper John Nash to redesign the entire park and make it less formal and more naturalistic.”
“Wild and free. I rather like that idea.”
“They say it will be done next year. We’ll have to return.”
Had he hesitated before adding that last bit? She held her tongue. She wasn’t at all certain they would be strolling anywhere together a year from now.
Truly, she would be content listening to him speak on this or that subject for hours on end. His deep, mellifluous voice. His knowledge that came from between the covers of every book under the English sun. He was learned in ways she wasn’t, and she appreciated that in a person, for while she could read, write, speak two languages fluently, and two others passably, she lacked all formal education beyond what Papa and Maman had taught her before their untimely deaths.
As they approached the reedy banks of the pond, she noticed areas on its surface where the morning mist hadn’t yet dissipated, casting a magic over the water. Sir Bacon ran up to the edge of the bank and came to a sudden stop, his gaze casting a wide net of suspicion. He must have seen something that needed investigating, for he started barking and charged off.
She couldn’t help laughing. She’d never experienced such an enjoyable walk. Mostly, when she was walking London streets, it was to travel from one place another. The idea of strolling for pleasure’s sake was a novel one, and she let it all soak into her—trilling birdsong, the tiny splash of water from a fish jumping, the soughing of the breeze through the newly emergent leaves of the canopy overhead.
“About last night,” said Jamie, his voice pitched low.
The pleasantness of the morning faded, replaced by the low buzz of discord. She unwound her arm from his, her body gone tense in anticipation of the conversation ahead, and set her gaze across the pond. She couldn’t touch or look at him. “We might not need to discuss it,” she said. It was worth a try.
