Perhaps it wasn’t her words. Perhaps intimacy between husband and wife meant that one lover enjoyed the coupling and went on his merry way, and the other... the other did the same. Withnoprofessions of love.
She mustn’t cling; this much she knew. Her sister, Ana, clung; Ana wailed and begged, and the entire household was miserable for it.
Drew’s eyes filled with tears again. She was embarrassed and confused and lonely. She was sitting on her husband’s lap and she feltlonely.
She glanced at him again. Now he was staring at her face. She gave an awkward smile and looked quickly away.
Would it be reasonable, she wondered, to ask him? To inquire as to what, exactly, he preferred in these heavy moments between rapturous embrace and daily life?
Even the most reserved, measured person was allowed to ask questions about things they did not understand. Not now, of course, not after she’d already said too much of entirely the wrong thing. But eventually.
She’d transformed herself on the principle that saying less was generally better. If ever the opportunity to ask questions presented itself, she would plan in advance what she might say—no more blurting out declarations—and she would sum it up in one or two simple questions.
This plan did nothing for her disappearing heart but it gave her brain something to do. And it motivated her to carry on with the day. She could hardly remain, mortified and heartless, on the stump. He was correct about the twins. It had been selfish and careless to leave them unattended with a groom.
He was shifting now, fidgety on the stump. She unhookedher ankles and slid her legs from his haunches. He loosened his hold and settled his hands on her waist.
“There you are,” he mumbled, catching her eyes. She cast a quick glance at his face but couldn’t look at him for long.
The coronet braid in her hair was loose, she could feel it sliding to one side and see orange wisps in her periphery. She released his shoulders and felt about for loose pins.
Her gloves were in the way, her palms perspired in the leather, so she peeled them off.
He watched her smooth her hair, saying nothing. She gave a small smile, not looking at him. She cleared her throat simply to puncture the silence. She kept her gaze fixed on the horizon.
The front of her skirts was bunched at the waist, and he gingerly untucked them, pulling them to first one side, then the other.
Her cloak hung in a limp column along her spine and he reached for it, spreading it over her shoulders, shielding her.
“If I hold you steady, can you stand?” he asked, his first words in minutes.
“Probably,” she said.
He took her about the waist and she glanced at him. He licked his lips and her gaze fell to his mouth. She wanted him to say more—to sayanything—but she also wanted to kiss him again. Just a peck. Kissing him had been so very lovely. She’d wanted to kiss him the moment he’d walked into the ballroom with his apple. She would kiss him every time she encountered him, given her choice.
She wanted too much.
“Drew?” he prompted.
“Forgive me,” she said, and she stepped from his lap, found balance on shaky legs, shook out her skirts.
When she was steady, he rolled from the stump and turned away, fastening the fall of his trousers, tucking his shirt, running brisk hands over his waistcoat. He stooped to the ground and recovered his gloves and hat.
Drew was reminded of her own gloves. She was too overheated to put them on, but she would squeeze them. She needed something on which to take hold.
She glanced back to him. He was settling his hat on his head, giving his coat a shake.
“Shall we?” he said, and he held out an arm.
Another touch. He wasn’t angry with what she’d said. He seemed to feel...nothing. There was no other way to put it. She’d said the most important words, and he’d said and done... nothing.
She went to him, forcing herself to walk smoothly. She looped her arm through, and he turned them toward the narrow trail.
“Oh look,” he said.
Drew lifted her head. A medium-sized green bird, its feathers shockingly bright against the dull, worn-out tones of autumn, was perched on a low-hanging branch not three yards ahead.
“Oh,” she whispered, laughing a little. “A ring-necked parakeet.”
