“I do not like dresses.” Catriona smiled, a new sense of purpose dawning inside her. “And you will. This, I promise.”
*
It was almostdinner by the time Alessandro had finished poring over his mangled estate’s equally mangled ledgers. He was weary to his bones, disgusted with himself and with his inept, thieving steward Bramwell, and oddly, he found himself missing the presence of his wife.
Catriona.
Just her name was enough to make the longing he had been tamping down burst forth again. His hunger for her was disturbing. But worse than his desire was the undeniable realization he was fond of her.
There was no mistaking it.
Helikedhis wife.
As the unwanted revelation sank in, Alessandro stopped in the portrait gallery. To his left and right hung a handful of paintings, those hanging within reach nothing more than dark squares on the wall coverings where they had once adorned the plaster. Perhaps Bramwell had not been able to secure a ladder in his haste?
He could only hope the devil would be caught.
And when he was caught, he would be cast into prison for the rest of his miserable life.
But whether or not Bramwell and the stolen paintings were ever located—for Alessandro had a sickening suspicion the money he had filched was long since spent—there was something more troubling than being surrounded by the evidence of his failures.
He liked Catriona.
He wanted to see her.
To kiss her again.
Cristo.What was wrong with him? He was not meant to make attachments here. He was meant to return to Spain, to fight Boney’s forces, to honor the memory of Maria and Francisco. He was meant to go where he belonged.
Footsteps in the hall behind him predicated the arrival of his butler. “Sir?”
He turned to Johnstone, irritated for the interruption upon his solitude as much as furious with himself for the emotions swirling within him. “Yes, Johnstone?” he snapped. “What can it be?”
“Her ladyship has yet to return from her trip to the village, and I am wondering if we shall postpone dinner to accommodate her schedule,” said the stalwart domestic.
He frowned. “I was not aware her ladyship was going to the village today.”
Where had she gone and why? More importantly, why was she tarrying so long? She had not spoken one word of her plans to him. But then, he supposed she might not after what had transpired between them. He had proven himself a rutting beast, and then he had fled like acobarde, a coward who could not face his own wife.
“Lady Rayne took Miss Olivia to the village,” Johnstone informed him.
That his butler should know his wife’s whereabouts and he should not seemed dreadfully wrong. It nettled.
“Who the devil is Miss Olivia?” he asked next, for that was not lost upon him either. He knew of no such person.
“The, er, young lad Lady Rayne has taken under her protection,” the butler explained, for once at a loss for words. “He has turned out to be a girl. Named Olivia, my lord.”
“Olly?” Alessandro stared, baffled by the revelation.
“Yes, my lord.”
Thepícarowas a female named Olivia. The discovery was only slightly less disturbing than the feelings he was beginning to develop for his wife. Of course, as his mind worked to make sense of the news, he had to admit, it made sense. He had been perplexed at the lad’s softness of face and voice, his slightness of form.
“La vida es loca,” he muttered to himself, passing a hand over his face.
“Indeed, life is mad, my lord,” Johnstone droned, his expression impassive. “I quite agree.”
He glowered at the domestic, irritated at the man’s tenacity. “Do you know when Lady Rayne and Olly-Olivia departed for the village, and when we might expect them back, Johnstone?”
