Instead, she’d died of cholera after only a month.
Winnifred wrapped her arms around her middle, hiding her shaking hands, and raised her chin. “I’m not mad. You don’t have to worry about our children.”
“Christ.” He thrust his hand through his hair, pulling some of the locks from their ribbon. “It’s not them I’m worried about.” He strode to her and gripped her arms, running his hands up and down them. “I don’t believe you’re mad, Winnifred. And I give you my word I would never send you away. But I’d like to get to know my wife. Who you truly are. Not who you want me to see.”
He stepped closer, his chest brushing hers. “Trust is earned, I know this. Being your husband doesn’t give me an inevitable right to it. I hope that soon enough, however, I’ll have earned yours.” He bent his head and pressed a butterfly-soft kiss on her forehead.
Something twisted, fluttered behind her breast. The feeling was strange, uncomfortable, and felt an awful lot like hope.
Instead of squelching the feeling immediately as she’d trained herself to do, she let it dig a tiny root into her heart.
Perhaps, with Sinclair, she’d found a safe place to call home.
Chapter Eleven
Winnifred adjusted the wick on her desk lamp. It was early afternoon but the shadows in her sitting room had taken a gloomy shape. Horatio and Banquo snored softly behind her, one stretched across her settee, the other on the rug before the fire.
Tapping her pen against her lips, she considered the letter before her. Mr. Raguhram had introduced her by letter to a Scottish chemist at the University of Edinburgh, and his response to her query was promising. He’d even addressed her directly, although she’d signed her name as assistant to her father.
“Good afternoon, wife.” Sin burst into the room, the space filling with energy her husband seemed to carry about with him everywhere. He wore a jacket of black superfine and his cravat was loosely knotted, revealing his thick bronze neck. Tan buckskin breeches stretched across hard thighs and snuggly cupped his—
Winnifred averted her gaze, her mouth going dry. “Good afternoon. What are you up to today?”
“Weare going for a horseback ride.” He plucked her pen from her hand and tossed it down. “Cook has prepared a picnic luncheon for us. I’d like to show you around the estate.”
She gave him an apologetic shrug. “I’ve never ridden a horse before.”
“Never?”
“I’ve lived in London my whole life. I walked, or hired a hackney coach.”
“Well, then, it’s high time you learned.” He clapped his hands together, and Horatio lifted his head from the rug and huffed.
Sinclair frowned. “Why are you letting Banquo lie on your settee?”
Winnifred stored her letters and rose. “You try moving him.” Except for bribing them with treats, she had little recourse against animals that size. “Besides, he’s not harming anything.”
Banquo yawned widely, two long strings of drool stretching between his jaws and dripping onto the embroidered fabric, before dropping back down into slumber.
She blew out her cheeks. “Well, not much harm anyhow.”
“Useless beasts,” Sin grumbled. “Fatigued from a morning of running away in terror, no doubt.”
Winnifred tilted her head, and a slight flush rose up her husband’s neck.
“I brought them with me to try to flush out your badger.”
Her lips twitched. “And?”
He tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat. “We were unsuccessful. This time.”
“I see.” She would not laugh. She had decided to try to be freer with her husband, but finding amusement at his expense was still a step too far. She swept a hand down her wool morning dress. “Will this serve? I have no riding habit.”
“Yes, you do.” Sin turned for the door and she fell in step beside him. “I’ve had a complete new wardrobe made for you. It arrived this morning.”
“New clothes?” Excitement quickened her words. Expensive frocks were unimportant, she told herself. A pointless expense when her plain gowns covered her as well.
And her feet still itched to fly to her rooms and see what Sinclair had bought her. She had thought as a marchioness an improved wardrobe would be one of the benefits. After coming to know her husband and how little he cared about appearance, however, her expectations had dwindled.
