Well, Cecilia would accompany Felton. Would the outcome have differed if he’d brought snacks? Would some Stilton cheese for his soon to be wife-no-more do, or had her taste changed to Tramel’s illicit French treats?
He groaned, knowing it was Tramel who’d fed those lips. Who knew what smuggled delights he’d used to entice her?
He stole a glimpse of her, up again on that rickety scaffold, of her figure beneath her smock—fuller hips, thicker backside. Cilia was always a handful, wonderfully graceful, but she’d gained a little weight, making her shapelier.
Was the gain from cheese or pregnancy?
Fussing with his buttons, he breathed the faint honey scent on his fingertips—her face lotion. That smell reminded him of how she curled upon his shoulder as they slept at Warwick with the sound of the sea gentling them.
Gazing at Cecilia working at her passion, he calmed more. There was something magical, something wondrous about watching his wife lean and stretch with the poise of a dancer as she painted the larger-than-life landscape.
Beautiful.
The arch of her hand gliding and turning colors into a fence and meadows—life.
Agreeing to allow herfriendsto accompany them was the worst. How would that be romantic? The week-and-a-half trip was supposed to give them time to talk, time for him to dazzle her again.
Unless the friend was a son or daughter with her eyes.
His anger dissolved. Nothing mattered but her love. Absence and longing made him want her more.
His feelings had been frozen, put away since that December morn when he realized that he was in love with Cecilia. He should’ve been brave enough to say it. Why was it that a man who survived war and hundreds of dangerous engagements around the world feared admitting the truth?
“Are you bored yet, my lord?”
“Only of you being so formal, Cilia.”
“You don’t have to stay and watch. I said I’ll go with you. I’ve given my word.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t seem to apply to vows. That ‘till death do us part’ the minister encouraged—I don’t recall it being optional.”
“Lord Gantry, I don’t recall an exception for the Department of War and the Colonies either.” She dropped her paintbrush. “I’m losing my concentration.”
Felton rushed to the stage, picked up the fallen bristles and cleaned them with his handkerchief before climbing up. “I’m at your service, my dear. I’m glad to help. Tramel shouldn’t be the only helpful one.”
Grasping the handle, Cecilia caught his gaze, but her wary one made him look away. Attacking Tramel would win nothing.
It might make Felton lose everything.
“I’m glad that you went to him. Tramel kept you safe. I can’t quibble with that. I merely wish that I knew how to make my wife as loyal to me as she is the duke.”
“But I did go to him or leave you for him, as your sister or Gladstone would say.”
He put his boot on the base of the scaffold and leaned on it. “Are you saying they are right?”
“I’m not going to convince you of anything.”
“Cecilia, you truly should try to convince me of something.”
“I did, but you’re still here.”
“That doesn’t sound very generous.” He released the scaffold support and it swayed. “Doesn’t sound like you at all.”
“Did a lot of growing up whilst I was away,” she said with a laugh. “See things more as they are, not what I hope to paint.”
That sounded like Tramel’s influence. Ten months away did this. Couldn’t love and care change her back?
She turned to her paints. “I suppose I’m done living as second place.”
