Page 125 of The Language of Love

“I shall be at Stoke all day,” he said, taking a sip of coffee and almost groaning in pleasure at the black, oily brew. “I want to speak to you about the servant situation.”

“Her ladyship meets with me at eleven, but I have nothing after that, my lord.”

“Her ladyship? You mean my wife?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Hmm, interesting. Annis hadn’t mentioned that to him. But then he’d hardly seen her other than to bed her or eat dinner with her.

“Come to my study at noon and bring a list of what we need.”

“Her ladyship and I have been conducting an inventory, my lord. I shall be ready.”

It pleased him that Annis was taking matters in hand.

“You may go,” Henry said, knowing she was content to stand and stare if he allowed it. He turned to the pile of mail, not really relaxing until he heard the door close behind her. The way she looked at him—so worshipful and needy—made him anxious. How should he respond?

He’d spoken with her his third morning at Stoke and offered to pension her off and she’d looked stricken.

“But… I wish to stay here and work, my lord. Please, don’t send me away,” she’d begged.

Henry had felt like a bloody ogre at her response and had allowed the matter to drop. But he felt strange every time he had to give her an order, something he had to do often as she was his housekeeper.

He sighed and turned his attention to his mail, most of which was business-related, either having to do with his shipping company or the many properties he’d acquired over the last two years.

The only private correspondence that came was for Annis. Today there was a letter from Lady Sedgwick. Henry smiled at her copperplate handwriting, so proper and lovely, just like the woman herself.

There was another letter for Annis and he had to squint at the messy frank in the corner to decipher it.

He scowled; it was from Avington. Wasn’t it unusual for men to write to women who were not related to them? Henry glared at the envelope, as if it would give him answers.

He knew Avington held a special place for the female teachers from the Stefani school. He’d seen first-hand how at least four of them—Annis, Lady Sedgwick, the Countess of Broughton, and that little termagant Lorelei Fontenot—had all treated Avington as if he were a special pet.

To say that Henry was annoyed that Avington was writing to his wife was an understatement. Henry seethed with jealousy.

His first reaction was to send the man an angry letter demanding that he stop corresponding with his wife—and also to forbid Annis to write back to him.

Not only was he disgusted by his primitive impulse, but he was wise enough to know it would be exceedingly ill-advised. Yes, she was his wife and legally bound to obey him. Henry could use every method short of murder to discipline her. But the thought of making her unhappy was viscerally repugnant to him. She was his wife, dammit, not his serf.

Henry scowled at the letter; he would say and do nothing. She could exchange letters with whomever she bloody well chose.

The door opened, and Henry looked up. He must have been glaring because Harold, the young footman, froze in the doorway, clutching a tray of food to his chest like a shield.

“Come in,” Henry barked, not helping the lad’s composure.

He tossed Avington’s letter onto the pile for Annis and turned back to his meal, shoving Miles Bloody Ingram from his mind.

An hour later he’d gone through all his mail and was just finishing his second pot of coffee—and also the Times, which he had delivered along with several other newspapers—when Edmund drifted into the room.

Drifted. That was an excellent word to describe his cousin. And heir.

“Henry—haven’t seen you about this early.” Edmund’s face was wrinkled and red, as if he’d hastily packed it into a too-small box the night before.

Henry glanced pointedly at his watch: it was after eight. He rarely lingered so late in the breakfast room, but since he would spend the day at Stoke, he’d decided to take his time.

“I would like you to come to the library at nine.” It was too bloody early to cock up his day by having to speak to his cousin, but he might as well get it over with.

Edmund hesitated, the milk pitcher paused above his tea, which he was systematically destroying with both milk and sugar. “Is ought amiss?”