He eyed her in silent amusement. “Or I could be a wall-hedge instead of a flower. Shrubbery would be more masculine, don’t you think?” From the ironic look in his eyes, she suspected he was making fun of her.
Distracted, she answered, “Yes. That’s it exactly.” With a glance, she saw her aunt signaling her from across the room.
Right. She wasn’t supposed to be talking to men or to be seen in their presence. She hadn’t made her debut, and it was inappropriate to be anywhere near an unmarried man, even if he was harmless.
But as she apologized again and excused herself, she couldn’t help but cast another longing glance at the viscount of her dreams. Margaret wouldn’t try to steal Viscount Lisford, would she? Her sister truly ought to be with a man like Lord Castledon. A handkerchief who was kind, well-mannered, and likely would do whatever a woman told him to.
But from her sister’s blushing face, Amelia suspected that her worst fears might happen after all.
Chapter Fifteen
Juliette sat at the large mahogany desk, surrounded by ledgers. Her hands were stained with ink, and she’d spent hours deciphering Donald Fraser’s handwriting. Scraps of paper lay all over the desk, figures she’d tallied regarding the estate’s assets.
Her husband was not poor. Not tremendously wealthy, either, but his uncle had left him with several hundred acres of land. There was another estate, far to the north, which supposedly had sheep and acres for grazing, but it wasn’t clear if that house was suitable for a residence. Then there was another estate in the northwest region. Already she’d scribbled half a dozen ideas on how to increase their profits.
She set down her pen, still awed that Paul had given her command of the estate ledgers. It had been such a comfort to immerse herself in numbers, adding the columns and sorting everything into rents paid and bills that needed to be handled. It might have been an unusual gift for a new wife, but she was grateful to have a way of spending her hours. Especially since her husband had been avoiding her.
Despite her desire for a shared bedroom, he’d given her a room of her own, two doors down from his own.
Almost as if he didn’t trust himself not to open an adjoining door.
Their life had fallen into a pattern. Rising, eating meals together, and then he went to meet with the tenants, ensuring that they had everything they needed. At night, he gave her a kiss on the cheek, and then they went off to their own rooms.
It bothered her more than it should. Ever since the first night they’d shared together, she’d grown restless, realizing that she wanted more from this marriage. Her husband was keeping a respectful distance, and it irritated her. She wanted that closeness back, of being wedded to her best friend.
After she wrote to Victoria, her sister had sent a letter containing instructions that had made Juliette blush. But then, she’d wanted to know about ways of satisfying a husband. Her sister’s response had been eye-opening, to say the least. Even better, a package had arrived from Amelia that Juliette believed would help to make things right with Paul.
Footsteps approached the study, and she glanced up to see her husband standing in the doorway. “Did you find everything in order?” he asked. His hair was windblown from riding, and his coat was askew. She rose from her chair and went to greet him.
“I did, yes.” She kissed him on the cheek, and added, “I think I’ve sorted it all out. If you’d like me to go over the figures with you—”
“I’ll leave it to your judgment,” he said. “Just tell me what you’re wanting to do, and you needn’t worry.” His demeanor was distracted, as if his mind were elsewhere. He was staring above her, outside the bay window.
“What is it?” she asked.
He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his coat. “I’ve received a letter from my mother, asking me to come back to Ballaloch.”
“Is something wrong?”
“That’s just it. Ne’er in my life has she written to me. It’s no’ her way.” He held out the letter, and Juliette took it. “I’ve no idea if she can even hold a pencil.”
“Obviously, she can, if she took the time to write to you.” Juliette smoothed out the paper, studying the note. Bridget informed her son that she needed him there to help with some of the crofters who were wounded. She urged him to come quickly.
“My mothers hasna asked for my help for as long as I can remember,” Paul said. “I don’t think she wrote this letter. Someone else did. Someone who wants me back at Ballaloch.”
And Juliette suspected she knew who that someone was—Brandon Carlisle, the Earl of Strathland. “How did he find us?”
“It’s no’ difficult. Not since I became the viscount.” He took back the letter and replaced it in his pocket. “The question is: What is he wanting?”
“Nothing good,” Juliette said. “He’s angry at us and at me for wedding you.”
“He canna change that.” Paul took her hands and drew her into his arms. She rested her cheek against his heart, and the scent of his skin made her want to cling even tighter. But he tensed the moment she did.
“You’ll stay here,” he told her. “I’ll go and find out what’s happening.”
“No. We’ll go together,” she insisted. She wasn’t about to remain behind while he went in search of trouble.
“You’re daft if you think I’m going to take you into harm’s way. You’ll stay, and that’s that.”
