He went to his study and forced himself to read his letters. There weren’t many. He had expected to be gone for much longer, to travel all the way to London and spend some weeks there. But he had difficulty attending to what little correspondence had accumulated. His mind kept wandering to Henrietta and the journey they had just taken together.
It had been a trial to spend three days in such close quarters with his new wife’s physical charms. And, of course, there had been his own bruising self-reproach about how he had ruined Henrietta’s life and done something unforgivable to his only friends, the Staffords.
But there had been delight in that carriage, too. Delight in her company and her questions about the place that would become her home, what he was reading, whether he preferred this, that, or the other. No one, besides Crispin, had ever taken such an interest in him.
Again, he should not be surprised. Like father, like daughter.
She had been uncomplaining and full of good humor even when she had crossed a muddy stable-yard in the rain or when the wine at an inn had been sour with bits of cork floating in it or when they had been far from anywhere and she had asked for the carriage to stop in a woods.
“For what reason?” he enquired, not thinking.
“For a necessary reason,” she said. Simple, straightforward, unblushing.
He found it refreshing a young woman would be unembarrassed about her bodily functions. But, still, he should have anticipated, been more solicitous of her needs. He must pay better attention to her.
While alsonotpaying attention to her.
He was betwixt the devil and the deep sea.
All of his letters at last read and answered in a somewhat coherent fashion, he did what he always did when he was in his study and had some spare minutes. He went to his table and unrolled his map of the area surrounding Woldenmere, weighing down the corners with his ink pots.
He had left his study door open, but absorbed in looking at his creation, he did not hear Henrietta’s approach and was startled by her “Good evening.”
He straightened from his bent-over posture. “Good evening.”
Her lady’s maid and most of her things would not arrive until the following week, so she must have enlisted a chambermaid to help her change out of her muslin and into a blue woolen dinner dress. Plain for a duke’s daughter, but suitable for a Mrs.Hartwell. Her face was a little flushed and her locks were pinned neatly, but the smallest curls imaginable had formed along the hairline at her forehead and neck. Had she bathed and the steam from the water created those tiny, soft coils? The thought of her voluptuous, bare body in a tub, her skin pink and fragrant, made him tremble.
She came over to where he stood. “What is this?”
He steadied himself by gripping the edge of the table. “A map.”
“Oh, I didn’t know maps could be so pretty.” Her attention was drawn to a place name and she pointed. “Crossthwaite.”
“Yes.”
Then she saw the pots of different colored inks and the range of quills spread out on the table, and she turned to him, her eyes wide.
Those beautiful eyes. He might drown in them.
“Did you draw this?”
“Yes.”
“How long did it take you?”
“It’s not yet complete. It takes time to acquire the information. But it gives me an excuse to wander about the district, measuring and sketching.”
She turned back to the map. “It’s wonderful.”
She was sincere. He doubted she could be anything else. A warmth spread over him. Neither Violet nor Emily had ever been interested in his avocation. And he had not known how hungry he was for Henrietta’s good opinion.
He offered her his arm, and they went into dinner. He was glad to see she ate well and with pleasure, just as she had at home, just as all the Staffords did.
After the meal, Oliver stood. “In the evenings, I read in the drawing room. You are welcome to join me if you wish. Or you could find your own amusement.”
A startled look on her face. She glanced around the dining room and then back to him. “May I take a book from the library?”
He bowed his head. “This is your house.”
