The sight of her there, on her knees, was too much for him. Staring up at him, covered in dirt, she had sent his senses into a frenzy. He was equal parts aroused and appalled. That she should be on all fours, scrubbing floors like a servant, irritated the husband in him. That she was covered in dirt all because she was eager to help make this place a home called out to some primal part of him. He wanted to forbid her from ever lowering herself to scrubbing floors, while simultaneously trying to restrain himself from falling to his own knees and kissing her senseless and taking her right there among the old ashes, well… He felt torn in two.
He had to take several deep breaths before he spoke again.
“Get up off the floor,” he had barely whispered.
“I will,” she had answered, turning back to her work. “Just after I finish this last part.”
Her backside began to jiggle from her vigorous cleaning, and all Rhys could do was leave the kitchens immediately, lest he pounce on her like some sort of vagabond.
His dreams had been wet and torturous that night. Just like every damn night.
Which was exactly why he decided he’d rather toil in humid, muddy conditions than be within a hundred feet of his perfectly plump wife.
He exhaled a hiss as he remembered her during their first night, when he had left her alone in the main bedroom. It was the only completely refurbished room in the entire estate, with all the comforts of modern life. It was the best of Fenwick Park and she deserved it. A place for peace and sleep.
If he shared her bed, however, it would not be a place for either of those things. Which was why he had decided to sleep in the room next door. He didn’t want his carnal urges to triumph over his goal of being seen as a gentleman in her eyes.
He only wanted to please her on all accounts. But once he had finished laboriously seeding the last field of the day, sometime around noon, he found that all his efforts were for naught.
Coming in through the main door after unharnessing the horses, Rhys needed a bath. He would have to heat the water himself and carry it upstairs to the copper tub that he had purchased a few months ago. The idea of hauling multiple buckets of water up and down the stairs made his sore muscles tense, but there was no helping it.
Peeling off his muddied vest, he mentally prepared himself for the next mountain of work that would start tomorrow. The tenant houses. But before he had even crossed the threshold, he saw an overcoat he had not seen before.
A murmuring of what sounded like muted laughter caught his attention next as he stalked into the receiving room. There, sat next to one another, was Louisa, in one of her prettier gowns, and an exceedingly well-dressed man huddled over dozens of rolled out papers.
The man, Mr. William Trench, was the architect Rhys had hired three months ago, when he had come for his initial visit to survey the house. It had taken him some time to sketch up what needed to be fixed, and this meeting was to confirm all the details. Rhys had insisted that Louisa take the reins on theproject, but seeing the two of them now, shoulder to shoulder, not covered in mud or dripping with sweat, made him insecure.
But without understanding that, Rhys only felt annoyance mixed with shame.
Just then, Louisa laughed heartily, more so than he had ever made her laugh and as her head dropped back, she caught sight of Rhys. Her mouth dropped open as her eyes scanned the length of him, and when Mr. Trench saw her expression, he turned as well. His brows bounced upward.
“Lieutenant,” he said, standing up as he made his way toward Rhys, hand outstretched. “I believe congratulations are in order. Mrs. Carlyle was just telling me about your nuptials.”
Rhys blinked, his eyes glancing over the man’s shoulders at his wife.
“An amusing story, is it?”
“Hm? Oh, no, not at all,” Mr. Trench said, stepping to his left to allow Louisa room. “Mrs. Carlyle is terribly witty.”
“Is that so?”
“I wouldn’t claim to be terribly witty,” she said smiling. “A pun is barely worth recognition.”
“But it was very clever—”
“It was silly—”
“Perhaps I might be the judge of that, since you two are at an impasse.” Rhys tried to control the tone of his voice, which had sounded confrontational. Mr. Trench seemed unaware of it, but Louisa’s entire focus landed on him, the smallest of creases appearing between her brows. “What did you say?”
“Well—”
“Terribly charming, it was,” Mr. Trench interrupted. “I was laying out my architect instruments to fix some changes Mrs. Carlyle requested. My triangles, protractors, pencils, and the like. She then asked out of all my tools, which one did I think was the king? I was confused at first, but then she picked up theruler, and well…” The man chuckled again. “It’s a clever thing to say, is it not?”
Rhys blinked and Mr. Trench’s smile faltered.
“Yes, well.” Mr. Trench cleared his throat. “Em, regarding the third floor, Mrs. Carlyle had some ideas of replacing the windows in the servant rooms, considering some are cracked and have started to come unsealed.”
“Very well,” Rhys said, his demeanor still reserved. “Is that all the changes?”
