“I am sorry your family could not come,” Adam said and looked as though he meant it.
“It is fine, really.”
But it wasn’t. She’d been devastated when Athena’s letter had arrived the day after the disaster in the forest. Artemis and Daphne had contracted chicken pox, and though both were progressing without complication to recovery, the family would not be able to make the journey to Northumberland. Linus would travel to Shropshire with a manservant from Falstone in one of the Kielder carriages.
“Do you miss them?” Adam asked quietly.
Persephone felt her chin quiver. No amount of willpower could prevent her emotions from showing, though she managed to hold back the tears. She more than missed her family. She mourned them, in a way. They felt so distant, so far. If she had some future date to which she might look forward—the knowledge that a reunion was only a short while away—the separation might not sting so acutely.
She dropped her eyes. Far too much had happened recently. The wolves, the pain of her injuries, the shock and joy of seeing Linus again. But far and above all of that was the immense change in Adam. He’d been attentive and kind and tender in a way she could not possibly have dreamed possible. He had become in his own way very much the sort of gentleman she had always dreamed of falling in love with. She could no longer deny that he touched a vulnerable place in her heart.
She was irrevocably and inexplicably in love with her husband. It was, perhaps, not the all-consuming passion of which most schoolgirls dream nor the earth-shattering emotion one often equates with love. It was a sensation of safety, contentment, and the feeling that she was, in an unexpected way, cherished.
Adam had made her feel that way, and she couldn’t say precisely how. It was looks, words, a hint of a smile, a suppressed laugh. It was his arm supporting her when she attempted to walk, his eyes studying her in those first days of her recovery, his immediate acceptance of her brother. So many little things.
She ought to have been happy, satisfied with the turn in her marriage, and yet she felt as though something was still missing. She felt isolated and, at times, painfully alone. He had shown that, to a degree, he cared for her. But Adam never gave any indication that his feelings ran deeper than caring regard. She needed more than that from him.
“Cook has sent up some liniment,” her abigail said as she entered the dressing room.
Persephone looked up, wondering what she would see in Adam’s face. She saw nothing, for he was no longer there.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Persephone was far more at ease in society than Adam, despite his prestigious position and her years spent confined to the wilds of Shropshire. He watched her from the moment the first guests arrived.
Mother had ever been an anxious and energetic hostess. She held a great many events in Town, and Adam always felt obliged to at least put in an appearance. Her intensity penetrated her gatherings, giving them a feeling of barely leashed energy.
Persephone was completely different. She exuded calm and reassurance. The guests, almost without exception, arrived at Falstone noticeably worried and concerned. Persephone set them immediately at ease, not with soothing words but by her own tranquil demeanor.
She looked beautiful, despite her bruises. In honor of the evening, Mother had convinced her that half-mourning would be appropriate. Her lavender gown lent her eyes a hint of blue. Vitality lit in her face once more. She smiled as she introduced her brother to the guests. Her eyes twinkled as she greeted each arrival. Persephone never wanted for company—the entire assembly seemed drawn to her.
Adam appeared to be the only one not enjoying himself. For once, it was not the looks and whispers that bothered him, though he certainly endured a great deal of both. The memory of Persephone’s expression the night before still unsettled him. He’d asked about her family, and she had all but dissolved in front of him. She was unhappy at Falstone. She missed her family, and nothing he did seemed to relieve that longing.
She had seemed genuinely pleased by the decorations in the great hall. Sheer white fabric draped the ceiling and dropped like waterfalls down the walls. The floor had been chalked in elaborate white flowers and pale green leaves. Bundles of flowers from the succession house filled the corners and niches of the expansive room. It looked just like winter brought indoors.
“Beautiful,” Persephone had whispered as she looked over the preparations in the moments before their guests arrived. “Simply beautiful.”
Still a look of longing hovered in the back of her eyes.
Adam stood on a deserted end of the terrace leading off the great hall. He had hoped the ball would bring a change to Persephone, that she would show by a look, a word, a gesture that she could be happy at Falstone. She seemed to be enjoying the evening, but her happiness was noticeably incomplete.
“The evening seems a success.” In the twenty-four hours Linus had been at Falstone, Adam had learned to recognize his voice as quickly as that of his closest associates.
“Indeed,” he answered noncommittally.
Linus, quite impressive in his deep-blue naval uniform, leaned against the terrace railing, his gaze focused somewhere between straight ahead and Adam’s face. “Persephone seems to be wondering where you are.”
“Has she asked after me?” Why had that question come out sounding desperate?
Linus shook his head. “Just a look in her face. We could always tell growing up when she was worrying about one of us.”
“Your family?” Adam knew the answer already.
“Persephone was always the glue in our family,” Linus said. The seasoned seaman seemed to melt away, and Adam found himself faced with the thirteen-year-old boy, a look in his eyes so like Persephone’s: concerned, reminiscent, and yet hopeful. “After Mama died, Persephone became the mother, the nursemaid, the governess. She took over the accounts—Papa never had the attention span for things like ledgers and bills. Persephone took it all on.”
“How old was she?”
“Twelve.” Linus sounded as though he truly felt the disproportionate nature of that burden compared with her age. “She lost her chance to be a schoolgirl, to be a child for a few years more.”
