Adam rubbed his eyes. Maybe it was a temporary illness, something that would pass.
“Adam?”
Why was it that when Persephone said his name like that, quiet and uncertain, his heart seemed to thud a little harder? He shifted his eyes enough to look at the talking ball of blankets. As usual, she faced away from him.
“What?” he asked, managing not to snap at her in his frustration.
She hesitated. For a minute Adam thought he had offended her, and it bothered him. Giving offenseneverbothered him. What the blazes was happening to him?
“Why did you decide to get married?” She whispered the question, but without tears, without any threat of erupting emotions. It seemed almost as if Persephone was truly just curious about his motivation.
“At the time it seemed like a good idea.”
“Does it now?”
How did he answer that? In a lot of ways it had turned into a horrible idea. Married life hadn’t turned out the way he’d anticipated. His plans had been for a wife desperate enough to marry that she wouldn’t care one way or another what her husband was like. And when a man married a desperate, uncaring woman, reciprocating those feelings was easy.
But he had married Persephone. Instead of life as usual at Falstone, he wondered about her and worried about her. She was supposed to have been plain and unappealing, but was pretty—more than pretty, really, with an aura of determined joy about her that was unlike any person he’d ever encountered. She attempted to smile through tears. She stood up in adversity. She wasn’t cowed or browbeaten.
She wasn’t what he’d wanted. A lady like her, he was discovering, could not be easily dismissed.
“Mrs. Adcock said you would.” Persephone’s reply caught Adam off guard. In his reflection, he’d almost forgotten her there.
“Said I would what?” It felt strange talking to a pile of bedclothes.
“Regret marrying me.”
Adam felt his jaw tense.
“At the Pointers’ several days ago, Mrs. Adcock said to Miss Greenburrough that most gentlemen who pay for a wife regret the purchase in the end. It was blatantly obvious she referred to our marriage settlement.”
Adam’s entire body tensed. He knew Mr. Adcock was a jack-a-napes but hadn’t realized how well suited he and his wife really were.
“Mrs. Adcock had mentioned her sizable dowry at least a dozen times, so I happened to ask Lady Hettersham, loudly enough for Mrs. Adcock to hear, whether or not it seemed odd that some ladies found it necessary to offer money to a prospective bridegroom in order to bring him up to scratch. No gentleman would accept a horse so ill-recommended that he had to be bribed to accept it.”
He laughed. Adam Boyce, Duke of Kielder, actually laughed out loud. He could not remember once, in the past twenty years, laughing out loud at anything.
“I thought Mrs. Adcock’s tea would come flying out her ears—she looked so livid.” Persephone laughed as well. “Mrs. Pointer was hard-pressed to maintain her countenance. She later informed me that Mrs. Adcock had been singularly proud of her dowry for years. Lady Hettersham very much doubts Mrs. Adcock will be as fond of mentioning that as she has been—at least amongst the ladies of the neighborhood.”
“You compared her to a horse? I doubt even I could have produced such a cutting retort.” He chuckled again. “Well done, Persephone.”
“I have not pulled caps with anyone in years.” Persephone giggled.
Giggled?Somehow Adam had never pictured that sound coming from a grown woman. And, stranger still, he found himself smiling at it.
“I felt like a regular warrior.” Laughter rang in her tone. “Perhaps before I next call at the vicarage, I should try on one of the suits of armor for size. I could check the armory for a jousting lance and simply unseat my adversary as she rides up to the vicarage. I would be the terror of the neighborhood.”
She laughed at that. So did Adam. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how good it could feel to simply laugh. And at what? A fanciful picture of his wife riding around the neighborhood knocking people off their horses.
“If it comes to full combat, let me know.” Adam heard the smile in his tone. “I am rather handy with a crossbow.”
Persephone laughed. Knowing he’d made her laugh was, for Adam, a strangely satisfying experience.
“Maybe Harry could be our page, and we could go conquer Adcock Manor.”
“Harry would make an abysmal page.” Adam shook his head. “But he might be trusted with a battle ax.” It was, beyond a doubt, the strangest conversation Adam had ever had: lying in the dark, talking to a lady wrapped cocoon-like in a blanket, planning a medieval-style siege of a neighboring estate.
“Mr. Hewitt could be page,” Persephone said, then burst out laughing.
