“You’re learning already. That is always the correct response.” With another laugh, I took a grateful sip.
I wiled away the afternoon, in this vicarage that felt like home. With the woman who was not my mother, but comforted me the way my mother did. And the girl who was rapidly becoming a sister to me.
For the first time since I stepped out of the carriage at Lady James’s ball, it seemed as though everything might actually be all right.
Nineteen
THORNTON HALL, KENT – DECEMBER 28, 1813
HUGH
I was developingone of Mother’s megrims—lord, I hoped those were not heritable. It had been two hours of back and forth with Mr. Matthews, the steward of Thornton Hall. Two hours of listed problems, and needed improvements. And two hours of insisting that there are not enough funds coming in to fix the problems and execute the improvements. A claim which was patently absurd because I sent more than enough funds to cover such things every month.
I wished I had been able to let him go along with the solicitor Michael hired during his tenure.
Mr. Forsyth, my solicitor, was always amiable and pleasant to meet with.
Mr. Matthews was always one complaint after another, and “Michael did it this way,” and “Michael left instructions that the irrigation system was of the utmost importance.”Michael is not here, and Michael is not viscount.
Finally, after another hour filled with pointless arguments, he agreed to return later in the week with documentation. As though one could trust the books of a man hired by a notorious gambler, liar, and cheat.
My wife was nowhere to be found for luncheon and one of the footmen told me that she went to visit the vicarage. That was a surprise. I could count on one hand, perhaps one finger, the number of times Mother sought out Mr. and Mrs. Hughes. Perhaps it was something to do with Katherine’s upbringing.
Wandering through the halls of my estate, my muscles were tight, tensed for some unknown action. I needed exercise. In town, my chosen activity was always fencing.
The one diversion that the country allowed that the city did not. Riding. Not just riding; galloping across the countryside, heedless of those around you. Racing for miles while the wind rushed through your hair.
Occupation found, I changed and set off for the stables—for Perseus. I ordered the blood bay stallion saddled. I allowed him a moment to readjust to me, it had been some time since we saw each other. Then we were galloping across the fields.
My muscles tensed and released in time with his. Orchards and fields passed in a blur. Finally, Perseus decided he was finished with his gallop. He was a stubborn one. He loved to sprint across the open land until he did not. Without another horse to push him on when he was done there was no dissuading him.
I dismounted next to a pond, allowing him a few moments to refresh himself. We were somewhere on the Smith farm, perhaps the northeast corner? The field beside me was almost entirely underwater, the edges swirled with a mixture of frost and mud. The drainage must be abysmal here. Perhaps Mr. Matthews had a small point regarding the irrigation issues. That field would not be plantable in the spring as it stood.
Silently, I vowed to take another look at the books to see if funds could be provided for such improvements. I had no idea what such a thing would cost though, surely a substantial sum.
At last, Perseus had sated himself at the pond, but he kicked at the ground in protest when I attempted to mount him. He really did best with his lady love to show off for, Andromeda. I tugged him reluctantly along until we reached the road, where he finally allowed me up.
We walked along at a stubbornly slow pace past the old mill. It had certainly seen better days, two of the blades were broken off completely and another was damaged quite beyond repair. Perhaps Mr. Matthews had a large point. My burgeoning megrim was returning with a vengeance.
* * *
My rideback to the house was considerably longer. It was approaching supper when I finally returned. I stepped inside, with no staff to be found, I was left to hang my hat on my own. I trailed down the hall, fully intending to dress for dinner when I heard it. A bright, allegro piece—Mozart perhaps—from the pianoforte in the music room.
Katherine.
I had almost forgotten her penchant for the piano. But now, notes slipping one right after another in perfect measure in a dance of fingers, and I remembered. Nothing in the world could have kept me from her in that moment. My body recalled the enchanting sight of her playing; dragging me, compelling me forward.
In the hallway just outside the music room, I found the entirety of the household staff. They curved around the entry to the room, staring, awestruck, at the sight and sound of my wife. When they caught a glimpse of me, they startled before scurrying off to whatever duties they had been neglecting. I could hardly blame them for stopping to appreciate her.
Alone in the hall at last, I moved to the open doorway. Framed by the massive windows, the sun setting behind her, my wife was lost to her keys. Her wide eyes were closed, dark lashes spilling onto flushed cheeks. Her dexterous fingers moved, seemingly of their own volition, across the keys quick and light as a bird’s wings. Her playing was passionate but unstudied. There was no performance here, no artifice in her. She had not even noticed her previous audience’s arrival or departure, and she did not know me now. She was lost to the music, and it was breathtaking.
She wore a dark rose gown tonight. It had no embellishment save a small scrap of lace at the bodice. Her gowns had improved substantially since the modiste delivered them a few days before we left town. They fit to distraction, cupping her generous bosom, highlighting her nipped waist, before hinting at the luscious hips and thighs below. Her hair was loosely twisted away from her face, it too was unadorned. The silky strands caught the fading light behind her, each curl a silky ribbon.
I could bask in this sight every single day for the rest of my life and never tire of it.
For the first time, without caveat, I knew with every piece of my soul, that my wife was exquisitely, stunningly, mind-numbingly beautiful. Not sensuous, like in my dream, not alluring, the way she was at Lady James’s ball—though she was those things too—but she was just unbearably beautiful. And she was mine. Forever.
* * *
