“Her Grace said the lower passage wants more lamps.”
“Her Grace asked if the kitchen might send broth to the tenant’s boy with the fever.”
“Her Grace wondered if the unused east rooms might be opened to air.”
Every question, every suggestion, had been filtered through his mother’s mouth with a vinaigrette of displeasure.
“Your wife has opinions on the ordering of this house,” the Dowager had said that very morning over breakfast, slicing bread as if it had personally offended her. “She moves servants like counters on a board. She asked Mrs. Hargrave why the maids eat where they do. She sent your stable master’s daughter to the stillroom with instructions.”
“She is trying to be useful,” Edward had answered, keeping his voice even. “Better that than vapid.”
“There is a middle ground,” Lady Eleanor had said. “It is called knowing one’s place.”
He had not argued further. Arguing with his mother about Scotland, or women, or any subject where grief and pride braided was like shouting into a gale. Instead he had buried himself more deeply in work, as if paper could protect him from the knot of doubt and desire that tightened whenever Isla entered a room. A week had not loosened it.
He took one last look at his reflection. The man in the mirror looked composed. His mind felt like a restless sea.
“Enough,” he told his own face, and left the room.
***
The main hall of Wexford Hall had been transformed. Garlands looped from the gallery rail. Lamps wore shades that turned their light to honey and the polished floor in the ballroom beyond shone like a small lake. Footmen stood in ordered ranks and music floated faintly. He was halfway down the stairs when he saw Isla.
She stood near the base of the balustrade with Edith Godwin at her elbow. The house smelled of beeswax and roses but she smelled of something lighter. Soap made of citrus and spice. A hint of summer and heather. His head spun and he resisted the urge to breathe in deeply.
Her gown was simple compared with the architectural contrivances he had seen on other women. Soft green, clean lines, a neckline that flattered without shouting and sleeves that allowed movement.
Without the weight of excessive ornament she looked different. More herself, less a mannequin dressed by a modiste and required to stand still. Her hair was pinned in a way that said someone clever had helped and she had then undone two or three pins herself until it felt right.
She stood with Edith, arranging flowers and laughed at something Edith said, head tipped back slightly, teeth flashing white. The maid was grinning, hands fluttering as if protesting some outrageous suggestion. Isla reached to adjust the spray offlowers on a pedestal. She shifted a stem, tilted a leaf. Edward stopped on the stair, unnoticed, and watched.
He had seen beauty in plenty of guises, polished, painted, carefully rehearsed. This was something else. The ease in her posture, the unstudied light in her eyes, the way servants relaxed around her rather than stiffening, all of it struck him with more force than any jeweled gown she might ever wear.
Remember the nature of your marriage, Lieutenant. Do not let your guard down.
Henry’s warning about rumors had not yet been resolved. Isla’s motives, and her brother’s, remained unproven. His body, unhelpfully, recorded quite a different verdict. Isla glanced up then, perhaps sensing the weight of his gaze. Their eyes met across the space between stair and hall. For a moment the noise of preparation faded and he heard only the small hitch of his own breath.
“Your Grace,” she said, with a neat little inclination, as if they were not, technically, sharing a name and a house.
“Your Grace,” he answered, reaching the bottom step, mirroring her formality.
“Do you approve?” She gestured to the flowers, the room, the visible evidence of her hand in his house.
“They are … satisfactory,” he said, and wanted to kick himself at once for the lukewarm idiocy of it.
Her brows lifted the smallest fraction. The corner of her mouth twitched. “Mrs. Hargrave,” she said, turning to the housekeeper who had come up behind, “His Grace is overwhelmed by joy. He can hardly form the words.”
Mrs. Hargrave, under the guise of adjusting her apron, hid a smile. “I shall note his condition in the household ledger, Your Grace.”
Edith snorted, then coughed to disguise it. “Beg pardon, Your Graces.”
Edward felt something in his chest wanting to laugh as well. He strangled it with a reminder.
“You should … finish dressing,” he said, though she clearly needed nothing more. “Guests will arrive shortly.”
“I am dressed,” she replied. “I merely refused to armor myself in whalebone for their entertainment. Mrs. Hargrave assures me I can sit and stand and breathe in this. I consider that a victory.”
“It is indeed, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said.
