Chapter Ten
Those two little words sealed Harriet’s fate as far as Paul was concerned.
She washis. His to protect, to hold whenever he wanted, tolove…and wasn’t that an interesting thought?
After parting to attend to their duties, with only one quick kiss to seal their pledge to each other, Paul had marched away with the oddest urge to sing Rule Britannia as he strode down the passageway to the hall.
At the bottom of the stairs he paused to examine the strange euphoria that had swept over him at the thought of marrying Harriet.
Was it just because he desired her? Because he certainly did, and had pretty much since they exchanged their first kiss in the darkness on the lane to Ridlington. But no, he’d desired other women before, and it was nothing like this.
Was it her looks? Her personality? Her rapier-fast wit?
Could be all of those things, in combination with a lot of other things he couldn’t identify. They fit, for one. Their bodies seemed to align perfectly—he could hold her in comfort. She smelled…right. That one he couldn’t explain, since she didn’t seem to wear heavy perfumes like so many of the aristocracy. Now and again he detected a hint of lavender, probably from her soap, but there was just a light and pleasing fragrance around her that made him smile.
Maybe, just maybe, this was what love was actually all about.
He didn’t know, but if it was, then it was certainly a pleasing emotion. He hadn’t sung Rule Britannia since he got seriously drunk in a seedy tavern during a trip to St. Petersburg. The details of which event, thank God, were somewhat hazy.
“I say, Paul…” A voice hailed him from the top of the stairs. “Any chance of a sherry or something? I don’t even know what time it is, but I feel in the need of some libation.”
Paul watched Sir Farren walk down the stairs toward him. “Of course, sir. I believe sherry is available in the parlor, and the fire is warming the room most pleasantly. If you’ll follow me?”
He led the way and opened the door for Sir Farren with a slight bow. “I’ll pour for you, sir. Please make yourself comfortable.” There was an almost-full decanter of sherry on the sideboard, and he had the appropriate libation into Sir Farren’s hands within moments.
“Ah, this is more like it.” Sir Farren nodded. “Good man.”
“If I might take the liberty of enquiring, Sir Farren,” said Paul, “would you know if Lady Aphrodite and the others will be down for dinner? I am aware that this was a long and challenging day for everyone…”
Sir Farren snorted. “Ain’t that the truth? None of us are up to the challenges of country living, it would seem. My back’s sore, my shoulders hurt and I feel eighty years old.” He held out his hand. “I think I even have a splinter or two. Haven’t had one of those since I was eight.”
Paul nodded. “It can be a shock to the system, sir. I sympathize.”
The other man glanced at him over his sherry. “I doubt you and your wife have such problems. You both seem hale and hearty.”
“We do live in the country, sir. Lots of walking is expected. I’m sure that helps.” Paul’s answer was diplomatic, and did not involve words like “too much rich food” or “not enough exercise”, though they trembled on his lips.
“Hmph.” Sir Farren shrugged. “Well, as to that I can’t say. But as for dinner? Geoffrey won’t be down. That cut on his hand has plunged the stupid man into an attack of the vapors. Can’t stand the sight of his own blood, I suppose.” He took another healthy sip. “Last I heard he was being administered to by my valet.” He shot a sly glance at Paul. “I’m sure that will help.”
“Indeed,” answered Paul noncommittally.
“M’wife won’t be down, either.” He smiled. “I expect word’s got about by now. And it’s true. She isenceinte,I’m proud to say.”
“Congratulations, Sir Farren. That is great news indeed.” Paul allowed himself a polite smile. “You can rest assured she will have the greatest of care during her stay.”
“Good to know,” answered the proud Papa-to-be. “She seems to have times when she’s happy as a grig, but then she’ll be so tired she’ll sleep for a whole day.”
“I’m glad we can leave that whole business to the women, sir.”
“As am I,” nodded Sir Farren. “All that vomiting and fussing…wouldn’t catch me doing anything like that.”
Paul reserved judgement on that statement, and merely topped up the sherry glass.
“I’m told I have another four or five months before I get to see my heir,” sighed Sir Farren. “But I’ll make sure the gel gets the best of whatever she wants.” He looked up. “Almost gave up hope of siring one, y’know. But here we are.”
“These things happen when the time is right, sir.”God, that was a stupidly awful and useless comment.
“I say, is that sherry?” Sir Ambrose strolled in. “I might be able to put a glass or two of that to good use.”
