She wasn’t about to smile, however. Instead, she leveled a fulminating look on him from time to time, obviously blaming him for this marriage.
He gave some thought to teasing her from her mood, but he didn’t know enough about her to gauge her sense of humor or what she considered amusing. All he knew for certain was that the Duke of Herridge was a cruel and overbearing tyrant, and she carried so much pain in her eyes that when he’d first looked at her, he’d felt some of it.
He studied the documents from his case, finding himself quickly wrapped up in the formulas he’d written the night before. His new carriage was remarkably smooth riding, and he didn’t experience the usual disconcerting dizziness when trying to read. To this day, however, he couldn’t read aboard ship. The rolling waves made him ill, and since he’d spent a decade traveling the world, his illness was a remarkable waste of time.
For those journeys, he’d employed a secretary, the young man’s main task to transcribe Douglas’s thoughts and musings so time itself wasn’t lost. Not that everything he thought was a gem of wisdom. However, substantial progress had been made on a new astrolabe, the advancement resulting from a single question he’d posed after dinner one night.
He glanced over at Sarah. She studied the stars. Was that an idle boast? She hadn’t spoken of a telescope. Did she even know what a telescope was? He decided he wouldn’t test her knowledge. If she’d been boasting, he didn’t want to embarrass her.
The ceremony linking him to the Duke of Herridge’s daughter had been mercifully brief. He knew, however, that if he pressed his memory, he could recall the words, just as he could remember the listless sound of Sarah’s voice repeating the vows.
Sarah. A commonplace enough name, and one that garnered little attention. Not unlike his bride. Still, there was something about her that intrigued him. Not wholly, but slightly, as if it were a whisper of sound beneath a greater quietness. Some difference that incited him to watch her without seeming to do so.
Was she given to long silences? Or did she, when freed of her father’s influence, laugh with abandon? He doubted the latter because her mouth fell naturally into somber lines. Yet there were faint lines at the corners of her eyes tempting him to believe she was amused often.
“Shall I commission a sculpture of me?” she suddenly asked. “Doing so will allow you to study my features with greater freedom. You needn’t be pressed to pretend otherwise.”
He smiled. “Why should I want to study a statue?Stone can’t reveal what flesh does, either in character or mood.”
She turned her head and looked directly at him. He abandoned the pretense and studied her openly.
“Very well, what have you gauged of my character and my mood?”
“I wouldn’t presume to discuss either,” he said, burying his smile. “I do not know you well enough. However, I do anticipate the journey of acquaintanceship.”
She looked as if she wanted to say something but then thought better of it.
“What were you about to say?”
She raised one eyebrow but didn’t answer.
“Have you always been so imperious?” he continued.
The second eyebrow joined the first.
“Have you always been so…direct?” she asked.
“Do you think so?” He leaned back against the seat, his papers forgotten. “Is it direct to want to know what my wife is thinking?”
She looked away, her attention on the landscape. “A ceremony occurred, Mr. Eston. It may convey the title of wife upon me, but it doesn’t mean that I’ve accepted it.”
“A month?” he asked. “A year? Or less? When do you think you might be able to accept it? Or will you be able to at any time, given that you’re a duke’s daughter, and I’m a mister?”
“I am not disdainful of others,” she said.
He didn’t reply.
She turned her head and regarded him with a frown.
“My antipathy to this situation is not personal, Mr.Eston. I do not dislike you. I do notknowyou. I dislike being pressured to marry, but my main concern is not suddenly having a husband. My thoughts are with my mother. It has been three days since I’ve seen her, and I frankly do not know if she has survived in the interim.”
“Forgive me,” he said, a moment later. “I allowed my sentiments to overcome the facts of the situation.”
Her frown deepened, but she didn’t respond.
He returned to his papers but discovered that the formulas written there didn’t capture his attention as much as they should have. He flipped open the curtain over the window and studied the passing scenery instead.
“Good God,” he said, staring off into the distance. “What is that?”
