I merely shot him a raised brow.
“Right, dim question. Juliet has been fretting something fierce over you. Been pestering me about calling on you damn near every day.”
“She needn’t worry after me.”
“My wife is rather fond of you. And it’s a privilege to be worried after by her—do not squander it.”
I could not restrain a sigh. “I’m quite fond of her as well. But I cannot stop her fretting.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”
“What do you wish for me to stay, Michael?”
“Something, anything.”
“There is nothing to say. It’s over.”
He caught my elbow, stopping our progression and pulled me beside a building. “Tom, I?—”
“I’m fine, Michael. I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t look it—you look like I did when?—”
“I’m not you, Michael.”
“No, I know.” I couldn’t read that expression either. It was an unfamiliar sensation. I’d always been able to read Michael and Hugh both—it was a necessity of survival in my youth.
“Are we finished? Kit needs my assistance.”
“No. Juliet will feel better for having seen you with her own eyes.”
“I hope you have an extra tart in that bag.”
Confusion fell over his expression and settled in the lines of his brow. “Didn’t you request one from Kit?”
“I fail to see how that’s relevant.”
A chuckle escaped him and he clapped me around the shoulder and shoved me back toward Dalton Place.
At least the weather was fine and I was less bottle weary than previous days—the walk was not entirely unpleasant.
No sooner had we set foot in the house, than he caterwauled, “Jules?”
“Drawing room,” she called back, much more sedately. If Juliet Wayland was ever anything less than the perfect lady, I couldn’t name the instance.
Perched on the new settee in the refurbished drawing room, she was hard at work over an embroidery hoop. I didn’t fully grasp the intricacies of ladies’ finery, but her work was always lovely.
“Oh, Tom!” she exclaimed and pushed off the settee with both hands as she abandoned her work. Her belly had grown round in the weeks since I had seen her. There was no hiding it now, she was certainly with child. “I am so glad you’re here. Come, come. The gazebo is fine this time of year.”
“I brought you the tarts you requested,” Michael interjected.
“That is nice, dear. Thank you.”
His shoulders fell on a sigh. “The craving has passed, hasn’t it?”
Juliet’s expression was sheepish, a lip caught between her teeth.
“Mine has not,” I added.
