Page 72 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

“While that has previously been the case, today I have reconsidered.”

Matilda laughed outright at that. “Very well. Let us mix truth and reassurance together.” She took her closed parasol and tapped the tip of it on Tamsin’s knee. “You can like being needed by Henry, and still dislike your family acting like everything concerning Henry is your responsibility.”

That was an unexpected conclusion. Tamsin leaned more heavily against the back of the bench, scrutinizing her friend. “I am not certain I know how to tell the difference.”

“Between being needed and being used?”

The word made Tamsin flinch. “Anne does not use me.”

“If you say so.”

Goodness, their conversation was proving frustrating today. “Oh, stop. Do not agree like that!”

“How would you prefer I agree?”

“Convincingly.”

A giggle flew from her friend’s lips, and a matron walking along the path sent a glower in their direction. Athena huffed at the matron, though the woman was unlikely to have heard it.

Petting the loyal dog, Tamsin couldn’t help but grin, unused to being as open as her friend was with her emotions. Married women were afforded more leeway with such things as public displays of emotion, but Tamsin was still quite new to it.

She cleared her throat and resumed a more appropriate public posture. “I mean it, Tilly. How am I supposed to know? If I do something because I love someone, but they also expect me to do it, which is it?”

An easy shrug accompanied Matilda’s answer. “Both, sometimes.”

“That is singularly unhelpful.”

She sighed. “I thought it rather wise.”

“I came to you for answers,” Tamsin protested, scratching Athena behind one pointed ear. The dog was watching ducks waddle from beneath a tree toward the water.

“No.” Matilda tapped her parasol on the side of the bench, like a judge with a gavel. “You came here because you knew I would not give you orders.”

That silenced Tamsin rather abruptly.

It was true. Matilda would never tell her what to do, but she would listen. Matilda always listened. And that was, Tamsin realized, what she had hoped to find in her husband. Someone who cared enough about her to pay attention. To truly know her.

How painful to discover that truth within herself over a month after her wedding.

Her friend’s gaze sharpened. “Are you unhappy, Tamsin?”

“No.” The answer came so easily, Tamsin didn’t have to examine it. No. She wasn’t unhappy with Roman. Even now, after their first disagreement, the thought felt wrong.

“That sounds instinctive, and truthful. Then the next question I must ask is this. Are you happy?”

That answer took longer to put together. Tamsin thought of Roman sitting beside her with a book. Roman’s dry observations arriving so unexpectedly, she sometimes laughed aloud. The warmth of his mouth when he kissed her. The weight of his hand at the small of her back. The dogs following her about. Frances greeting her with delight every time she entered a room. The peculiar pleasure of hearing someone announce Lord and Lady Hartwell and realizing the ‘lady’ was her.

The key turning in the lock.

“I think,” she said slowly, “I could be very happy.”

Matilda raised her eyebrows. “Now we are getting somewhere.”

Tamsin frowned. “I did not say that I am currently happy.”

Another little sound, not quite a hum, came before Matilda’s answer. “No. You did not.”

“You are breathing in that judgmental way again⁠—”