“Then go on and tell her,” Roman answered.
“Are you coming in?”
“In a moment. I need to see the horse to the stables.”
“Very good.” David hurried into the house.
Roman started down the path leading to the stables. Lawrence fell into step beside him. “This new wealth doesn’t have anything to do with your wife, does it?”
Here was the conversation Roman was dreading. “A bit.”
Lawrence chewed on that a moment and then said, “I never saw you as the type to marry for money.”
Roman stopped. “And why is that?”
“Not in your character.” Lawrence started walking again. At the stable door, he said, “Then again, Leonie is one of those women it is hard not to notice.” He hung his saw on a peg with other tools by the door.
“That she is,” Roman said.
Whiby, an old codger who had been in the employ of the earls of Rochdale since he was seven, greeted him and took the hired horse. “You go on, my lord. Whiby has this.”
“Thank you, Whiby.” The post lad was busy cleaning his tack, a jug he was sharing with Whiby beside him.
Roman gave him a nod and left. Lawrence followed him a few feet to where the path led to the village. He stopped and Roman paused with him. Apparently, he had something to say and he didn’t waste time in speaking.
“There is a saying in my family that I have found to be true.”
“What is that?” Roman asked.
“You can marry money but you can’t live with it.”
That might well be the case, but Roman didn’t want to admit it. “As you said, she is a beauty.”
“Will that be enough?”
Roman hadn’t quite decided whether to tell his family about Leonie’s dowry. As his acting steward, Lawrence had gleaned enough information to form his own conclusions about the estate’s finances.
However, the question was: Would Leonie be enough?
He thought of last night before the attack, of how good it had felt to be inside her, how willing she’d been. “It must be,” he answered his brother-in-law. “I will see you on the morrow.” He headed to the house.
Bonhomie’s first floor was fairly well intact. Some of the rooms had been filled with the mildew after years of neglect but others had been dry. He and his family had worked hard to make them livable. Most of the furniture, especially the pieces with upholstery, had to be thrown out, but the rest was solid and good.
The house was laid out in the manner of all great country houses—a huge, welcoming front hall and then side rooms for reception and dining. Because of the damage to the south wall, the dining room was not used, but soon Roman planned to have a beehive of workers making things right.
His family and wife were in the reception room sitting in a circle of wooden high-back chairs.
Roman entered the room, his eye going straight to his wife. To his relief, she was sipping a steaming cup of tea while his mother painted her bruises with her salve.
His mother looked up. “Would you enjoy a glass of my wine, Roman? I offered it to your wife but she said she would prefer my chamomile.”
Leonie had been watching him. She’d seen his gaze go to her cup and she now silently laughed as she toasted him with it.
“I will take a cup of the tea,” Roman said. Earlier, he’d been so angry he’d baited Leonie with ale—but now? He was tired and happy to be home.
Home. This was the first one he’d known. His stepfather had been a private tutor and they had traveled with him, always living in rented houses.
Dora poured him a cup of tea. His mother sat back, surveying Leonie and proud of her work. “Does the salve sting?” she asked.
