The tears threatened to spill again, but Persephone forced them back. She was done crying. After a night’s rest she would face the future.
Chapter Six
“I told you to pack up and go,” Adam grumbled as Harry sauntered into the book room.
“You also told me you’d call me out today,” Harry replied. “Never did. Always knew you were afraid of me.”
“I’ve decided to shoot you in your bed instead.” Adam looked out the French doors and out over the formal garden below, though little was visible in the nearly moonless night. “Go to sleep so I can load my pistols in peace.”
“Your mother said the new duchess was indisposed this evening.” Harry, as usual, was unaffected by threats. “Any idea what she meant by that?” He obviously thought Adam knewpreciselywhat Mother had meant.
He did, actually, have a pretty good idea.
Adam had stood at the door he was standing at now for the better part of a quarter of an hour that morning, looking out over the gardens to a small alcove among the back hedgerow, where Persephone sat with her face in her hands. He knew she had been crying. It had bothered him. Quite a lot, actually.
Twenty-four hours into this ill-conceived marriage and his wife was already sobbing in the back of a garden. Watching Persephone’s teary farewell with her family was enough to, most likely, convince half the staff that he was some kind of ogre holding the fair maiden against her will. And then the littlest sister—what was her name? Archipelago, or some such nonsense—had all but dissolved into a puddle there on the front lawns.
“The best mama she’d ever had,” Adam muttered under his breath.
“What’s that?” Harry asked.
“Nothing.” One would think he’d married the girl’s mother then sent her off to some orphan asylum.
“Old Jeb Handly says winter will come in early this year.” Harry abruptly changed the subject. “Says we’re bound to see a foot or two of snow before Christmas.”
“Hmm,” was all the reply Adam offered, despite Old Jeb’s legendary ability to predict the weather. The man had to be approaching his eightieth year and hadn’t made a wrong guess in sixty-five of those years. “Two feet of snow ought to be enough to keep you from coming to visit.”
“I was born and raised in Northumberland,” Harry scoffed.
“Maybe it will turn out to be ten feet and you’ll never come back.” Adam stepped away from the French doors and back toward his chair near the fire.
Harry grinned. “Don’t worry, Adam. If you’re really lucky, we’ll get that ten feet of snow before I leave.”
“Then I really would shoot you in your sleep.”
“I’m quaking.” He obviously was doing nothing of the sort.
“You should be.” Adam glared across at him.
“So why was your new wife not at dinner this evening?” Harry casually studied his fingernails.
“Mother said she was indisposed.” Adam infused his voice with utter lack of interest.
“She also was not at tea?”
“She was out.”
“Luncheon?”
“Harry.”
“Late this morning?”
“Harry.”
“Earlier this afternoon?”
“You are keeping rather close tabs on her.” Adam raised an eyebrow.
