Thank you.
Her heart warmed at the softness in his eyes, which had turned a rich, warm chocolate.
“It was my pleasure.”
He picked up a knife and cut into the pie. Olivia held her breath—she never knew whether a pie was a triumph or disaster until it was cut open. He made another cut, then lifted a wedge onto his plate.
Encased in crisp, light-brown pastry, the meat was a soft rose color mottled with different shades of pink and red. It formed three layers,separated by the pale-green slices of apple. Between the meat and pastry, a thick jelly glistened in the afternoon light.
Thank heaven!The meat was cooked through and the jelly set. Charles picked up the wedge and took a bite. He frowned in concentration, and his jaw moved up and down, then his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“Is it not to your liking?” she said.
He blinked, and a sheen of moisture glistened in his eyes, then he drew back his chair and stood.
“Charles?”
Olivia’s stomach flipped at the dark intensity in his eyes.
“I-I know I should have sought your permission before instructing Mr. Carlton to assist me with the garden, and the purchase of your h—”
She broke off as he placed a finger on her lips.
Slowly and awkwardly, he lowered himself to his knees. He took her hands and dipped his head, his chest rising and falling as he drew in a deep breath, followed by a long sigh that rippled over her skirts. He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to her knees, as if in prayer, and grew still.
Not daring to speak, Olivia held her breath and waited. Then, at length, he looked up. Her heart almost cleaved in two at the expression in his eyes. He lifted a hand and cupped her cheek, caressing her skin with his fingertips. Then he blinked and a tear splashed onto his cheek. He opened his mouth, and her heart gave a jolt.
Would he speak—say her name?
Then he closed it again and shook his head. He lifted his hands and gestured, but his hands were shaking, and she could only make out a few words.
“Forgive me, Charles, I-I cannot understand you.”
He nodded, then reached for the paper and scribbled on it.
Never ask for my forgiveness.
“But…”
“Shh…” He squeezed her hand, then continued writing.
It is I, not you, who requires forgiveness. I am proud to have you as my wife. The pie. The garden. My beloved Destriero. I am most fortunate.
Her heart soared as she read the words, but her joy was tempered by the absence of a declaration of love. Would it have hurt him to have spoken the words? His horse he referred to asbeloved. But he’d known the horse longer than he’d known her. Doubtless he’d chosen the horse as his companion himself, whereas she…
He’d had no choice in marrying her. Their union had been one of necessity, on Montague’s insistence, to prevent a scandal. Perhaps the best she could hope for was that he’d not regret that choice.
Then she lowered her gaze to her belly.
His regret would come soon enough.
She withdrew her hands, and a flicker of hurt crossed his expression. Then he resumed his seat beside her and cut her a slice of pie. But she could only eat a few bites. After he’d cleared his plate, he leaned toward her, his eyes narrowed with concern.
“I-I’m not very hungry,” she said. “I think I might retire early.”
As she rose, he caught her sleeve, unexpected shyness in his eyes. He paused, staring at her for a moment, as if contemplating something. Then, trembling, he scribbled on the paper once more.
May I visit your bed?
