“Do not dare!” She chuckled, amazed at how quickly his presence, his support, had swept away her woes.
“Very well.”
With his arm around her, he guided her a few paces forward. Music drifted out from the manor at the top of the steps, but he made no move to continue up to the ball. Instead, he turned to face her, slipping one hand into hers as his other hand pressed her closer to him.
“What are you doing?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Dancing with my wife,” he replied simply, swaying her from side to side in a slow circle as if they were the only two people in existence.
She rested her hand upon his shoulder and shooed away the awkwardness inside her, choosing to ignore the stares they might receive from those on the terrace. She concentrated solely on him, gazing up into his melancholy eyes, delighting in the smile that was fighting to break across his face.
Moonlight illuminated them, night birds chirped their encouragement, and out of the corner of her eye, Matilda saw ladies leaning against the terrace wall, chins balanced on their palms, watching in quiet admiration.
He raised her hand, held in his, to his lips and kissed it gently. Yet, his gaze never left hers.
In that moment, she could no longer deny what she had suspected for a while: she was falling in love with this man, and no amount of education had prepared her for it.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
Albion cursed as the summer house doors attempted to swing back in his face, nearly knocking the pile of dossiers out of his arms.
Across the main space of the summer house, at the writing desk that looked out on the glittering fishpond, Matilda jumped and whipped around. “Goodness, you frightened me! I thought it was Mr. Algernon, coming to ask me for the fiftieth time if I would like anything.”
“Wouldyou like anything?” Albion readjusted the dossiers in his grip and stepped further into the summer house.
Matilda laughed. “Peace and quiet though you have rather decimated that.”
“It isn’t my intention to disturb you at your work,” he told her, crossing to the empty writing desk with a view of a pretty wildflower patch. “I’ll only be here for a day or two while my study is being dealt with.”
She frowned, pivoting in her chair. “There is a problem with your study?”
“The chimney flue,” he replied. “Pigeons have been roosting, and I had the good fortune to discover it when a large nest and about two tons of soot exploded into the room. I haven’t lit a fire since my return, and my brother used a different study, so the birds made use of it in my lengthy absence.”
In truth, the soot had been minimal, and a sweep had already been summoned to tend to the flue, but he had considered it an opportunity to spend some more time with his wife during what was left of their honeymoon. After the ball last night, he felt ever more compelled to be near her.
“Oh dear,” Matilda said, stifling a laugh. “How angry those poor pigeons must be to have a grand duke disturbingtheirpeace and quiet. I can sympathize.”
Albion settled at his own desk. “You won’t even notice I’m here.”
“We shall see.” She turned around and picked up her quill, hunching over as she began to scratch the nib across the paper with startling vigor.
But whether it was that scratching or the humid heat that thickened inside the summer house or the buzzing of the bees that drifted from flower to flower outside the window or just having his wife so close, Albion could not concentrate.
He attempted to read the ledgers and correspondence he had brought with him, but the words kept blurring, and he had to begin again, reading the same sentence ten times. He tried to begin his own correspondence, to confirm a new meeting he had arranged with the business associate of Isaac’s after the honeymoon, but the nib kept breaking, meaning he had to strip and cut a fresh quill each time.
“That is too high,” he muttered, returning to the ledgers that detailed the tithes that his tenants were paying. “That can’t be right if a portion of what they grow and raise comes to the household anyway. Shouldn’t that count as part of the tax?”
Matilda sat back, huffing out a breath. “If you are here to work, Albion, then you must work in silence.”
“Apologies.” He cast her a tight smile and went back to the ledgers, the numbers and names swimming in his boiling skull.
He must have been huffing and puffing without realizing it, for a shadow suddenly stretched across him. He glanced up to find Matilda standing beside him with her hand on her hip, glowering at him.
“Too loud?”
She rolled her eyes and moved behind him, leaning over his shoulder to observe the ledgers. “Thatistoo high. Are these from your father’s time as duke or your brother’s?”
“I don’t think Isaac had time to make any changes,” Albion replied.
