Thirty-one
It was as if she’dalways been there, Ethan decided one night after dinner, which he and Francesca had taken in his library as had become their habit. In the two and a half weeks she’d been at Winterbourne Hall, she’d become such a part of the house, insinuated herself so well into the inner workings of its each and every aspect, that he was beginning to have difficulty remembering what it was like before she’d been there.
Coldandlonelywere two words that came most readily to mind as he gazed at her now. She was curled in her regular spot—a crimson-and-gold armchair—and her hand was wrapped around her cup of tea. Her eyes were on the fire and her mind was probably a thousand miles away.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked quietly, unable to resist.
She glanced up at him, and he took his seat in the matching armchair beside her, glass of wine in hand. She gave him a sheepish smile that intrigued him. She seemed quiet and pensive tonight, whereas her custom was to greet him at the end of the day full to bursting with all that she’d seen and done. Lately he’d found himself watching the clock on his mantel as evening neared, waiting for the sound of her tentative knock. She always waited for him to ask her to enter—though he’d told her half a dozen times that she needn’t even knock—then poked her head around the doorframe to ask if he was busy.
He never was, having made sure to complete his work and send his steward away well in advance of her predictable arrival. But he would set down the papers he was pretending to peruse anyway, and tell her no, he was never too busy for her. Each evening, from her first night at Winterbourne Hall to the present, had begun in this same fashion.
After dinner they’d talk more, play at cards, or read. Sometimes Ethan would look over more accounts, but he never became so absorbed that he wasn’t aware of Francesca. He was achingly aware of her—the book she perused, the sigh that escaped her dusky lips, the way the tips of her fingers rested on her teacup as she traced the rim absently. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he’d go to her—or when her resolve reached its limit, she’d come to him—and they would make love. Sometimes they managed to hold off until they reached her bedchamber, but at times the rug in front of the fireplace served as their temporary bed. Then he’d carry her to her white bower, tuck her under her ivory sheets, and they’d begin all over again, savoring each other well into the early morning hours. The next morning they’d wake, still tangled in each other, and the day would begin again.
His life, as far as Ethan was concerned, was perfect. Francesca was beside him, safe and protected. She loved him and, though he hadn’t yet told her, he was growing to love her more each day. Growing to trust her more. Ethan was beginning to believe that this happiness could last, that he might have found the one woman who would not betray him.
He took a sip of his wine and wondered at the enigmatic expression now on her face.
“I was thinking about Mary,” Francesca said. She set her teacup on the tray Grendell had left on the table between them. As a matter of habit, Ethan glanced at it, noting it was still half-full of sweet, milky tea. He insisted on pouring her tea and doctoring it as he knew she liked it. She rarely took a second cup, but he was prepared to be of service if she were so inclined tonight.
“Mary?” It wasn’t an idle question. He knew half a dozen Marys.
“Mary the still-room maid,” she clarified. “I was thinking that when my hospital is built I might train her to help me care for the animals.” She looked quickly into his face. “If that’s acceptable to you, that is. I know it will take her away from her duties in the still room.”
Ethan took another sip of wine. “It’s your hospital,cara. You don’t need to ask my permission for anything you do there.”
She beamed at him. As usual, her smile warmed him through, made him want to take her into his arms and sink down into the plush Turkish rug and her lush body right then and there.
“Mr. Brown says construction on the building can begin next week, if the weather holds.” He heard the familiar eagerness in her tone. “And Mr. Johnson and I discussed the best flowers and shrubs to plant outside when spring comes.” She frowned. “I do like Mr. Johnson’s ideas, but Pocket disagrees with a few of his selections. I think I’ll write to Mr. Rogers at Tanglewilde ask his opinion.”
“Pocket disagrees with my gardener?” Ethan asked, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.
She nodded. “Mr. Johnson suggested planting daffodils, but Pocket says they are far too mundane. He recommends primroses.”
He tried not to smile at the serious look on her face. “I see.”
Perhaps the strangest turn of events since Francesca’s arrival had been the bond she’d forged with his valet. As he’d anticipated, she had won his staff over in a matter of hours, the really stodgy servants capitulating after a day, but his valet, it seemed, had become Francesca’s constant companion.
Apparently, her efforts at persuading Mrs. Priggers to be more generous with her cleaning supplies at Tanglewilde had gone a long way in raising Francesca in Pocket’s esteem. The valet had become Francesca’s most devoted follower and, though Ethan still found it slightly jarring when he saw the stiff-necked valet bending to speak to his free-spirited wife, he had to admit that he liked the arrangement.
When they’d arrived at Winterbourne Hall, Ethan immediately began to consider who to assign to protect Francesca when he was not with her. Ostensibly, she was safe here in Yorkshire, but Ethan wasn’t taking any chances. He couldn’t be with her all the time, which made Pocket’s attachment to Francesca convenient. He had not relished the task of explaining a bodyguard. She seemed so happy at Winterbourne Hall now, and he didn’t want to frighten or alarm her.
And there was probably no need for him to do so. She’d been at Winterbourne Hall for two and a half weeks, and nothing had happened. He’d quietly instructed his staff to watch for anything unusual, any unexpected visitors or arrivals in the nearby town, but nothing had been reported. He had no reason to believe anything other than that she was safe.
He was cautious by nature, which was one reason he felt uneasy having accepted an invitation to Lord and Lady Nitterling’s ball two nights hence. He didn’t want to expose her to any dangers by having her appear in public and, up until this point, he’d declined every other invitation they’d received from the local gentry. Indeed, he could have continued to do so for probably another month as newly married couples were expected to go into seclusion for a time, but Ethan knew he was only putting off the inevitable.
Furthermore, he had other reasons to attend the Nitterling affair. Lord Nitterling had ties with the Foreign Office, and Ethan was anxious to know if his fellow spy had heard any news. Alex had gone to France, and from the missives Ethan had received it appeared the investigation of the smuggling operation was progressing well. Perhaps his fears that Alex hadn’t been ready were unfounded. Meanwhile, Ethan’s other operations in the department had been quietly taken over by other members. He could give up his role as a spy without guilt. And he intended to. Right after he spoke to Nitterling.
Besides, he told himself, he would have to introduce Francesca to Yorkshire Society at some point. This was as good an opportunity as any.
“What do you think of attending a ball Thursday night?” he said, changing the subject from Pocket’s choice of flowers for her hospital.
“A ball?” She sat forward in her chair and gasped with pleasure. “I’d love it! Whose ball is it?”
“Lord and Lady Nitterling.”
She creased her brows. “Hmm. Nitterling. I know Mrs. Carbury mentioned them.”
