“Yet the night is far from over.”
She heard something in his voice—a note that belonged to candlelight, too much wine, and him reciting verse in that stirring vibrato. “Let’s pray we reach home without further mishap.”
He opened the carriage door and helped her inside, then took the plaid blanket and laid it across her lap. Stepping away, he spoke with the pipe-smoking watchman and a red-faced Mr Barker, who had returned without the villain.
Before climbing into the vehicle, he looked at Mr Kincaid. “Pick a man to accompany you on every journeyuntil we know what the blazes we’re dealing with. Someone with an excellent aim.”
“Aye, my lord. I ken just the man for the job.”
Two hours later, they sat at opposite ends of the long dining table in Studland Park, the fire banked high against the lingering chill, the distance between them as vast as a chasm.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked as the footman set down a plate of lamb cutlets à la Soubise, the rich scent of cream and butter making her mouth water.
“I beg your pardon?” She craned her neck to see him over the elaborate flower arrangement in the centre of a table that seemed half a mile long.
He spoke a few words to the footmen, and suddenly they were alone in a room fit for royalty. Gabriel took his plate and wine goblet and came to sit beside her.
“We don’t need to dine formally,” he said, returning for his cutlery and napkin. “Tonight was about cementing your place as my marchioness. The staff will know they’re to obey your every word.”
She surveyed the polished silver, the sparkling crystal, the mahogany table gleaming beneath the candlelight. “I’m sure this is the perfect place to entertain guests. Not the best place for an intimate conversation.”
He regarded her as he leaned back in the chair and sipped his wine. “I’m in no mood to discuss the valise tonight. I’ve no taste for grim talk just now.”
Beneath his calm tone, she sensed a lingering sadness. Not born of tonight’s events, but of a grief that had waited a decade to be acknowledged.
“Perhaps we might retire to your private drawing room, and you can show me what you’re reading.” A means to shift his thoughts and lighten the mood.
His lips curved faintly. “You know what I’m reading.”
“Do I?”
“The gift you gave me. To remind me that friendship can be found in the least likely places.”
She remembered the look on his face when she’d given him the book of poems, like an urchin being handed his first pair of shoes. “But you’ve read Gray a hundred times.”
“Not your copy.”
She laughed. “It’s the same as yours.”
“It’s not.” He rose and came to her side, pulling back her chair. “Bring your food and wine, and I shall prove to you why mine is different.”
Intrigued by the man and the notion, she gathered her plate while he wrapped their cutlery in napkins and slipped them into his coat pocket. He told one footman to clear the table and have the food sent to the sick in the parish; another carried her meal through the lofty halls.
In his private drawing room, firelight flickered across dark wood and burgundy furnishings, lending the space an unmistakably masculine air. She noticed the shift in him at once, the softer shoulders, the deeper smile, the whisper of relief.
The footman set a small table before the fire, arranged her plate and wine, then withdrew, leaving her alone with her husband.
How strange that a word, a title, a noun could create a sense of belonging, as if each syllable and vowel were invisible tethers.
She watched him cross the room to retrieve a volume from the narrow bookcase, allowing herself a moment to study his strapping physique. He had the strength and will toconquer the world, yet hid himself away in this quiet corner of the house.
He returned to the fire wearing a grin that said he knew he’d won the argument, then handed her the book bound in burgundy leather, open at one particular page.
“You’ve read it before?” he asked as their fingers brushed.
She tried to steady her heart. “Many times.”
“Good. Read the final stanza, and tell me if your thoughts are the same.”
