But there had been love.
“It has as long as I’ve known it.” But he’d heard her hesitation and raised one questioning brow — which she chose to ignore.
“Let’s see the rest of the house. Is there more than one salon?” This, she felt was important. A lady required a place for guests to wait but also a room to find privacy. One’s bedchamber was often overrun by maids and whatnot.
He led her to the second salon, into a formal dining room, and another room where one could either practice fencing or host a ball. After a brief perusal of the kitchens, they climbed the servants’ stairs to the second floor.
The staircase was narrow and winding. When she stumbled at one turn, Mr. Findlay placed his hands upon her waist and did not remove them no matter how quickly she climbed the remaining stairs.
When they reached the landing, he took her by the elbow and guided her through a few of the rooms. They didn’t reach the master suites until last.
It surprisingly had two dressing rooms, one sitting area, but only one bed.
“It’s outrageous! Where is the lady of the house to sleep?” Loretta commented before thinking her words through carefully.
Something she only seemed to do in this man’s disturbing presence.
“With her husband, Duchess.” He pulled the large sheet down from the canopies. “Did you not sleep with your husband?”
“Why must you always say the most outrageous things to me?” she demanded.
But he’d moved closer to her. “What is so outrageous about a man sleeping with his wife? I find it even more outrageous to consider that a man would not sleep with his woman. Was your husband some sort of backgammon player?”
Crack!
Loretta stared at her stinging hand before she even realized what she’d done.
The Tour
He deserved it. He’d known he was going too far the second the words flew out of his mouth. No, strike that. The secondafterthe words had flown out of his mouth.
He didn’t even allow himself to flinch.
And yet.
His blood ran cold at the expression on her face. He’d hit a mark with his joking comment. He’d not meant to. Hell, stupid, callous bastard that he was, he ought to have remembered the rumor about the son.
About Lord Harold.
But that wasn’t it, and he knew the truth in an instant. The duchess’ deceased husband had preferred to lay with men.
Fuck.
Her complexion, rosy only moments ago, had drained of any color. And then she spun around with every intention of fleeing the room. Of fleeing from him and his careless, thoughtless attempt at a joke.
“Duchess!” She flew through the corridor and down the stairs as he went after her. Could he even begin to set matters to right with an apology? He slowed to a walk. He’d allow her a minute or two to herself, but no longer than that. Hell, no wonder the lady had locked herself away.
The implications of such a marriage as she’d had… he shook his head.
The front door was left open and he could see her standing beside the curricle. Rigid. Proud.
Alone.
How long had she been alone for? Much longer, he’d guess, than since she’d been widowed.
She remained still as he descended the steps and stood behind her.
Thomas knew he’d likely be slapped again, but didn’t care. Dropping both hands upon her shoulders, he pulled her back against his front. When she went to resist, he wrapped both arms around her and held tight. “I’m sorry,” he managed.
