“As are you, Your Grace.” She accepted the cup of tea he poured, their fingers grazing in the exchange. “Though I confess, I preferred the view earlier this morning.”
“Fiona.” A flush crept slowly up his neck—he still blushed, she noted with wicked satisfaction, even now. “You cannot say such things. The servants—”
“You are right,” she said lightly, settling onto the settee and smoothing her skirts with deliberate composure. “I shall endeavour to compose myself.”
He sat beside her—closer than strict propriety required, their knees nearly touching—and gave a quiet shake of his head. “You will be the death of me.”
“Nonsense.” She lifted her cup. “I intend to be the life of you.”
His mouth curved despite himself.
“Now,” she continued, “what are your plans for the day? I assume you have tenants to intimidate, or perhaps correspondence to neglect.”
“I had thought…” He faltered, and that flicker of uncertainty returned. “That is—I wondered if you might—if it would not be presumptuous—”
She set down her cup and took his hand.
“Christian. We have surpassed the realm of ‘presumptuous.’”
A reluctant laugh escaped him, easing the tension from his shoulders. “Very well. I had hoped we might spend the day together. Properly. Not only tea and stolen glances. I should like to show you the estate as it truly is—the mill by the river, the tenant farms, the folly on the eastern ridge. I want—”
He stopped, searching for steadier words.
“I want to share my life with you. Not only my chamber.” A faint, telling pause. “Though that, too, I value very highly.”
“Very highly?” she repeated, one brow lifting in gentle challenge.
“Immeasurably,” he corrected, with dry precision.
She squeezed his hand. “I should like nothing more than to see it. On one condition.”
His expression turned solemn at once. “Name it.”
“Tonight, you allow me to brush your hair.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your hair.” She reached up and let her fingers graze the dark waves falling past his shoulders. “It is magnificent. And quite determined to resist your efforts each morning. I have watched you wage war upon it with admirable persistence.”
“You wish to—brush it.”
“I wish to tend to you.” Her tone softened, losing its teasing edge. “You have spent so many years armouring yourself. Guarding yourself. Seeing to your own needs because no one else did. I should like, for once, to be the one who sees to you.”
The change in him was subtle but profound.
“No one has done that,” he said quietly. “Not since I was very young.”
“Then it is long overdue.”
He studied her for a moment, as though testing the reality of her. Then, slowly, he inclined his head.
“Very well. After dinner. You may brush my hair.”
“And while I do, you shall tell me stories. The good ones, if such exist.”
“There were a few,” he admitted, almost shyly.
He lifted her hand and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles.
