“I haven’t been wearing slippers.” A hint of a laugh entered her voice. She hadn’t smiled in a week. How had her gruff, usually grumpy husband managed to pull a laugh from her?
“You might as well have been. You must have true riding boots. They should arrive in the next week. Rogers, in York, is sending a hat. Your gloves are coming from London, so there is no saying how long that will take.”
“Gloves from London?” Persephone had never owned anything made in Town. Even her wedding dress has been fashioned by a seamstress closer to Shropshire.
“A good pair of gloves cannot be overestimated.” Adam rose rather abruptly.
“I have no idea what to say, Adam,” Persephone whispered, her hand brushing the habit but her eyes fixed on him.
“It is not necessary for you to say anything.” He held his hands fisted at his side. “I only wished to explain why it was the wrong color.”
With that, he left, forehead furrowed, jaw tight.
Persephone shook her head in disbelief. She never would have guessed that Adam would think to order her a riding habit, let alone boots and gloves and a hat. Then to go to the trouble of explaining why it did not take into account her sudden state of mourning. In any other man it would have been a thoughtful gesture. Coming from Adam, it was nothing short of utterly confusing.
She lifted a sleeve, rubbing the soft wool against her cheek. He’d been uncomfortable, that much was certain. And though no one would believe her—she hardly believed herself—he’d given every appearance of embarrassment. The Duke of Kielder, who, if rumor and her own observations were to be believed, cared not at all for his fellow man, had been uncomfortable being found out in an act of kindness.
The fidgets he’d so conspicuously been trying to hide reminded Persephone forcefully of her sister Daphne. She, too, grew antsy around others. But, then, she was painfully shy.
“Good heavens,” Persephone whispered. Could the angry, snapping, aloof man actually be covering his own shyness? It seemed absurd, and yet . . .
“Adam!” she called out, clutching the riding habit to her as she hurried down the path she’d seen him take. “Adam!”
Only a few feet from the garden’s entrance she saw him. He’d stopped and looked over his shoulder in her direction. She could make out the very edge of the scars that crossed his right cheek, Adam having presented her with his left side as always.
Embarrassed, she thought, with an inward shake of her head. Why hadn’t she seen it before? He had at least a touch of shyness—she would be willing to wager a thousand pounds on it, more even.
“Adam,” she said, just a little breathless from her run.
He didn’t reply but watched her with that same aloof expression that she had begun to doubt was completely sincere.
“Thank you, Adam,” she said quickly. “For the habit. I—”
Adam shook his head. “You needed one.” He dismissed her gratitude. “No duchess should ride around the countryside with her ankles exposed.”
So he was uncomfortable with gratitude, was he?Interesting,Persephone thought as Adam walked back toward the house.Very interesting.
Persephone watched Adam at dinner that night and in the drawing room afterward. He acted the same as he always had, no hint of discomfort or embarrassment. Why was that? Did she alone make him uncomfortable? Or was it the gifting that had unnerved him? Perhaps she had misinterpreted his mood.
How she wished Harry were back. He would be able to advise her.
“You seem thoughtful, Your Grace,” Mr. Hewitt said, breaking into her thoughts.
“I suppose I am.”
“Have you heard from your family?” He spoke with as much gentleness as any woman could desire when the weight of a lost sibling and an unreachable husband sat on her heart. “You must certainly wish for their nearness at such a time.”
Persephone answered with nothing more than a small smile and retook the book she’d been pretending to read all night. While she appreciated Mr. Hewitt’s attempts at solicitude, she found that he had the uncanny ability to bring tears to her eyes with his kindnesses. She had no desire to cry at that moment.
“I believe you are distressing the duchess.” Adam’s voice came quite suddenly from near Mr. Hewitt’s chair. Persephone looked up. Adam stood at Mr. Hewitt’s arm. “I suggest you take yourself off.”
Mr. Hewitt cleared his throat nervously and rose hastily from his seat. “I am a little weary, at that.” He eyed Adam with obvious apprehension. “Perhaps I should retire for the night.”
“Excellent notion, Hewitt.”
Mr. Hewitt scurried away—Persephone couldn’t think of another word for the way he hied himself from the room—and Adam took the seat he’d vacated. They were now occupying chairs directly opposite one another. He would be forced to look at her, Persephone realized.
She lifted her eyes once more from her book only to find his gaze fixed, as always, to his right. “Look at me!” she felt like screaming. She was miles from her family, in a castle that felt nothing like a home to her, with no one to talk to, to feel a connection with, and he would not so much as look at her.
