Page 123 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

Matilda did not hesitate. “Whether it is or is not, I fail to see why such a thing would matter to you, sir.”

The man’s speech was proper, but there was something about the tilt of his lips and his relaxed stance which made him seem somewhat out of place. He shrugged one shoulder carelessly, and did not so much as blink when he said, “I intend to take up residence in York, and I will need to fill a home with a great deal of things, or so I am told. Apparently a gentleman requires a chest of drawers and a bed, when I’d prefer making do with a locker and hammock.”

Matilda’s jaw dropped. “I most certainly am not at all interested in the furnishings of your bedchamber, sir.”

He looked delighted. Matilda did not, and she hurried away.

Arthur Sterling watched her go, looking no less amused. He then looked at Tamsin, touched his forelock and bowed, stepping in the opposite direction.

She watched him go with growing interest. She would ask Matilda about all that later. Much later. Possibly after extensive fortification with tea—or if the situation warranted, a small glass of ginger wine.

Across the room, Roman looked over his shoulder toward her and their eyes met. He tilted his head in silent question; Tamsin gave the smallest shake of hers. Nothing was needed at the moment. Roman’s attention returned to his brother.

Tamsin looked around at Matilda who had taken up a place beside her mother, Frances across the room with Mr. Fairfax, Emily laughing with her sisters, Roman standing beneath a winter-gray window with his shoulders relaxed in a way they had not been for weeks.

Everything felt…right in the world. Her heart was easy, without any knots or stones in chest or stomach to weigh her down. Her feelings were quite different than they had been scant weeks before. She was quite content. Happy, too. Tamsin took another sip of punch, then went to her husband as another Member of Parliament came to speak of the coming Season.

On the ride home in the carriage, she leaned her head against Roman’s shoulder, her body relaxed and her smile growing, even though they were to prepare for the Christmas Assembly ball in the evening. “You do realize Mr. Conyers is courting your mother.”

Roman turned his head to look at her, his shoulder stiffening. For several seconds the only sounds inside the carriage were the wheels over the street and the faint jingle of harness. “I beg your pardon?”

Tamsin tucked her hands more deeply into the fur-lined muff resting in her lap. “Mr. Conyers.”

“I know who Mr. Conyers is,” he said, a scoff following his statement.

“Then you ought to know precisely what I mean.” Tamsin waited, tilting her head back to look at him.

His forehead furrowed. “No.”

“No?” She bit the inside of her cheek.

“No!” Roman’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

Oh, this man. “I am attempting to decide whether you truly have not noticed.”

“Noticed what?”

“That he is, in point of fact, courting your mother.”

“He is her friend.” Roman was shaking his head slowly.

Men really could be dolts. “Yes. He has been for years.”

“He accompanied her to York from Leeds, to visit his family here,” he said slowly.

A smile crept across Tamsin’s face. “Yes. What a marvelous excuse.”

It did not appear that her husband agreed. “He has been attentive to her because he is a gentleman who has known her a long while, that is all.”

“Roman.” Tamsin laughed and pressed her shoulder against his. “You are too intelligent for this.”

His expression changed. Tamsin waited as the pieces rearranged themselves in his mind.

“No,” he said again, but this time without conviction. “No?” Then, frowning deeply, “My mother? And Mr. Conyers?”

Tamsin smiled up at him. “Yes.”

Roman tilted his head against the carriage. He appeared genuinely stunned: jaw clenched, brow furrowed, eyes glaring at the ceiling. Tamsin had rarely seen him so entirely without a ready opinion on something. It was fascinating.