Page 107 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

But he had come home late enough that he had chosen not to disturb her, and this morning there were shadows beneath his eyes. He had been living and breathing the preservation of the barbicans for weeks. Surely he was entitled to one breakfast in which he did not have to pick through the remains of it for her benefit.

So Tamsin instead asked, “Do you want more toast?”

By the third night, something had changed.

Not dramatically, of course. The first night after the vote, her husband worked late and told her not to wait for him. The second, she woke once in the darkness and reached instinctively toward the other side of the bed before remembering he had not come in before she fell asleep. The third night, she did not wait up for him.

That seemed more practical.

Roman was busy. He had neglected other matters while Micklegate’s barbican occupied his attention; now there were letters to answer, estate business to review, accounts requiring decisions.

He explained as much when she asked whether he would join her in the drawing room after dinner the fourth night. “I am afraid I have some parliamentary business to look over. It might be some time before I seek rest.”

“Of course.” It was completely understandable, and she reacted as an understanding woman.

Her husband did not appear to understand this. “You need not wait up for me.”

“Very well.” Showing her disappointment would be selfish. She made herself smile. “Thank you for telling me.”

His expression changed at that. Slightly. Tamsin wondered afterward whether she ought to have said something else. She could hardly think what.

So she read for an hour, spoke with Matilda when she called the following afternoon, helped Daphne decide whether the pale blue ribbon or the cream better suited her gown for the Christmas assembly, and went about the hundred small occupations that filled a day whether a husband was present for them or not.

Roman was at home, in any case.

That was what made her feeling of discomfort difficult to name. He was at breakfast nearly every morning; he asked what she intended to do with her day; if she mentioned an errand, he remembered it later and asked how it had gone. When a note came from Anne concerning Daphne, he raised an eyebrow and asked whether Tamsin required anything from him before she had even broken the seal.

She had smiled. “No. But thank you for asking.”

He had nodded and returned to his paper.

They were learning. That was what Tamsin told herself.

When they dined, Roman listened when she spoke. When they had company, he sought her eyes across the room with the same quiet familiarity which made her feel the two of them shared some private language. Once, passing behind her chair, he rested his hand briefly against her shoulder.

The touch remained long after he’d removed it.

And every night, sooner or later, Roman went to his room and stayed there. Sometimes she heard him enter and she waited, but he did not breach the doorway. Tamsin stopped expecting otherwise.

She wanted to ask him why; she had nearly opened it herself, but then heard her husband sigh on the other side. She did not want to be a bother. Not when he spent his days as busy as he did.

It was astonishing how quickly a person could become accustomed to something she did not like.

After all, she had been doing it all her life.

The thought came to her one evening nearly two weeks after the vote, and it disturbed enough that she put down her book. The drawing room was quiet, her mother-in-law yet to return from Leeds. Roman had gone to his study after dinner. He kissed her cheek before leaving, a brief touch of his lips accompanied by an apology about correspondence.

She had told him there was no need to apologize. And there wasn’t. What sort of wife would she be if she expected such a thing? She certainly would not want to become a woman who demanded every hour of her husband’s company. Roman had important matters of his own to attend to, along with obligations to many others. He had interests which did not include her, as she had friends and occupations of her own.

After all, Matilda had visited twice that week. Tamsin had spent an afternoon with her sisters. There had been calls made and calls received, household things requiring her attention, and the new novel she had been enjoying until approximately ten minutes ago.

She was not neglected. That was important. She picked up her book again and read half a page before realizing she took not a single word. Her gaze flickered to the clock on the mantel, ticking on with extraordinary confidence.

What might Roman be doing at this instant? Writing, presumably. Perhaps still disappointed about the Micklegate issue.

She did not know if he was disappointed still. Or hurting, or angry.

Her stomach twisted unpleasantly. Athena raised her head from Tamsin’s foot, attentive as always.