She shook her head again, glancing down before immediately remembering that he couldn’t see her mouth. Turning her face up, she spoke.
“It was one of John’s favorite books.”
“Ah,” he said, hoping to sound indifferent, though his stomach twisted. Quickly, he tried to shift her focus. “Was it a favorite of yours as well?”
“Not particularly, if I’m being honest. I know its significance, but the naivety and shortsightedness of the heroine always made me feel, well, annoyed.”
“Annoyed? How so?”
She shrugged.
“I don’t know. I can’t remember if it was my third or fourth time reading it when I decided that it was truly a miserable story. But John loved it so and I tried time and time again to try and see what he did.” Rhys had hoped that that would be the last of it, but then she continued. “Do you have a favorite book?”
“Er, no.”
“Are you sure? You seem like you would enjoy reading.”
He wished in that moment that he did, but reading books for entertainment had never made sense to him. He always preferred to be outdoors, whether it was horseback riding, or investigating nature, or merely walking. To him, books had always been a last resort.
“I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m really not much of a reader.”
“Oh,” she had said, almost defeated for some reason, which of course had made him instantly try to rectify his shortcomings in her eyes.
“I have read books, of course. Many of them. I just finished one before my trip to London, but… It’s not one you would find very exciting.”
She perked up instantly.
“I think you should let me be the judge of that. What is it? Something by Henry Fielding?Robinson Crusoeperhaps?”
Rhys had sighed before answering.
“Have you ever heard of theDiary of a Country Parsonby James Woodforde?”
Louisa’s shoulders dropped a fraction and though her face remained perfectly neutral, the slump in her stance made Rhys irritated. She shook her head.
“I have not.”
“Well, that was the last book I read. But mostly, I read the Agricultural Society Reports.”
She had nodded in response before turning back to the bookshelf to continue packing away all the ancient books that had been left there by the previous owner.
It had been a small, almost insignificant encounter, but one that Rhys had obsessed over the following days. He had never been the sort of person to envy others, but he couldn’t deny the growing desire to be everything Louisa wanted in a husband.
Mud splattered on his boots, kicked up from beneath the horse-drawn seed drill. Rhys had spent every day in the fields, sowing wheat. Yesterday had been the first that he hadn’t been able to, due to monsoon-like rain that had swept the countryside. But the humidity had increased tenfold by sunrise the next morning. He was drenched in sweat since he had just had to dig out the corner of the seed drill that had sunk into a pit near the eastern edge of the field, and mud covered his legs, all the way up to his waist.
He looked like a peasant from olden times. Which only served to make him agitated. Surely Louisa would never want the likes of him touching her.
But as soon as the idea popped into his head, Rhys let out a ragged breath. Every night since their arrival at Fenwick Park, Rhys had dreamed the most vivid dreams about Louisa. And each one was triggered by a word or a look she had given him the previous day. Just yesterday, she had been down in the kitchen, on her hands and knees, cleaning out and around the cast-iron stove. She was dressed in what could only be described as rags,to keep from ruining any of her good gowns, and he had walked in to find her scrubbing the floors.
“What on earth are you doing?” he had asked, half stunned, half indignant, as he stalked over to her.
She sat back on her calves and looked up at him, her eyes as round as saucers, with black soot marks all over her cheeks and nose.
“I’m cleaning, of course.”
“You’re not a scullery maid.”
“I am until we hire one,” she said with a small grin.
