Page 106 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

He withdrew and closed the door carefully behind him. His room seemed colder than before. He stood for a moment, looking at the closed door.

Roman undressed and went to bed alone.

The moment Tamsin woke, she knew Roman had not crept in beside her.

She knew it before she opened her eyes. The bed felt different to how it did when he had joined her. Undisturbed. There had been no gradual stealing of blankets in the night, no warmth at her back, no faint movement of the mattress when Roman rose earlier than she did.

When she opened her eyes the other side of the bed was smooth. She reached for the undented pillow, laying her hand flat on its surface. She stared for a moment, her mind catching up to why this was significant, why she had hated retiring to bed before he arrived home.

Then she remembered.

The vote.

Tamsin sat up quickly enough to make herself dizzy. She had meant to wait up for him; remembered taking a book to bed and reading the same page three times, listening whenever she heard movement somewhere in the house.

She must have fallen asleep.

Perhaps he had come home very late. Perhaps he had thought it better not to wake her. That sounded like Roman.

Tamsin pushed the covers aside and rang for her maid, rushing through the process of dressing for the morning, ignoring the tray brought up. “I will breakfast with the baron, if he is still at table?”

“Yes, my lady.” Eliza helped her tie her short stays with wide eyes, but precise movements. “He has been there a quarter hour.”

“Then I must make haste. I can tidy up after, if I go out.” Though decently dressed when she left her room, Tamsin knew she was barely put together, hiding most of her hair beneath a lace-trimmed cap.

In the dining room, Roman sat in his usual place with a cup of coffee near one hand and a folded letter in the other. The newspaper lay beside his plate.

He looked entirely himself: as put together as ever, not even a wrinkle in his cravat or a hair out of place. He rose as she entered the room, nothing in his expression giving away his thoughts. “Good morning, my lady wife.”

“Good morning, my lord.” Tamsin took her seat and waited until the footman had poured her tea to speak.

She did not know why she waited. The servants had certainly heard the result by now. Half of York had probably heard it. But she watched her husband, trying to read his eyes, the line of his lips, the set of his jaw.

Nothing.

Roman folded his letter and set it aside, lifting his cup of coffee to his lips and driving her utterly mad with suspense.

Finally, she asked timidly, “What was the result of the vote?”

A pause in his movement kept the rim of his cup an inch from his lips. He did not so much as blink as he said, “The council voted to remove the barbican.”

No. “Oh, Roman.”

“The bar itself is to remain.” He spoke as though consoling her, rather than himself.

Her heart squeezed painfully on his behalf and she reached her hand across the table. “Oh, Roman. I am sorry.”

“Thank you.” No inflection colored his tone, no easy rise and fall in the words told her what went on behind his calm facade. Surely he masked his feelings?

Tamsin watched him drink his coffee. His movements were precise and ordinary. He did not look angry or sad, exactly. He looked like…Roman. Which meant almost nothing at all. “Did Mr. Holly and the others accompany you?”

“They did. Afterward we went to the Black Swan for a time.”

“I am glad your friends were with you.”

His gaze lifted to hers then, and something in it softened. His lips twitched. “So am I.”

Tamsin relaxed. She wanted to ask more. What had happened? Had Patchett spoken? Had anyone defended the preservation? Was Roman angry? What would his next action be? Surely, he had not given up?