“I was under the impression breathing was optional in marriage.”
“Ah, but not kissing. That is absolutely required.”
She gave him a knowing look. “And what would the servants think?”
“That their duke is at last in possession of his wits.”
“A rare day indeed,” she said, laughing. “Though I fear we must give them more to talk about. I mean to send an invitation to Aunt Eugenia.”
“You astonish me. Is this peace offering or strategic assault?”
“Neither. I simply want her to see what we’ve made of the place. Let her see what a duchess looks like when she is loved.”
He touched her cheek. “She will not know what to make of it.”
“Good. Confusion will do her good.”
“You are becoming ruthless, Duchess.”
“Only when provoked. And only with certain people.”
He gave a low laugh. “I may never recover from you.”
She tilted her head again. “Then don’t. I should not like you any other way.”
“And I should not like to be anything else.”
Their eyes met, and the silence that followed was thick with all the things they still dared not name.
She laughed. “Scandalous. Shall I ring for tea while you consider kissing me again?”
“If you must. But I should like to keep you all to myself until dinner.”
She leaned back, still smiling. “I thought to invite Aunt Eugenia soon. I want her to see the new Stone Hall.”
“That is a splendid idea.”
“Quite so.”
A knock interrupted them. Theo called, “Enter.”
Redmond stepped in, a small stack of missives in his hand. “Correspondence for you, Sir. It arrived by the midday post.”
Theo looked at the bundle. “Leave it in the study. I shall attend to them shortly.”
Redmond bowed and withdrew.
April moved to the hearth. “You’d best go before duty calls more loudly.”
Theo kissed her again, a parting touch that lingered longer than intended. “I will not be long.”
The walk to his study felt heavier with every step. Each footfall sounded like a warning:You are happy. That makes you vulnerable.
He shut the door behind him and crossed to the desk. The first letter bore the careful, coded seal of Charles Smythe.
He slit it open.
Inside, in Smythe’s crisp, exacting hand, were the following lines:
