Abigail gasped. “Are you calling me complicated?”
“I’m calling you layered, Dearest,” he said smoothly. “Like a particularly opinionated trifle.”
Cecilia let out a laugh, the sound light and open. It was a good day. One of those golden, ordinary days that somehow felt extraordinary.
The meadow beyond the estate rolled out like a patchwork quilt, dotted with wildflowers and the lazy shimmer of afternoonsunlight. A white blanket was laid beneath a tree in full bloom, upon it a cheerful disarray of strawberry tarts, chilled lemonade, and a scandalous amount of jam Cecilia had packed herself because for some reason…a particular reason, she could not get enough of it.
“You ate the last of the cherries,” Cecilia said flatly, eyeing him.
He looked entirely unrepentant. “I saved you the lemon.”
“I loathe the lemon.”
“Then I saved you from the lemon.”
“Valentine.”
“Yes, my love?”
“That was the last of Cook’s cherry jam until next week.”
He tilted his head toward her, eyes narrowed. “If I recall correctly, you declared last week that you were done with cherry.”
“I was in a mood,” she muttered, plucking a blade of grass and winding it tightly around her finger. “A temporary one.”
“All your moods are temporary. Some just return with suspicious regularity.”
Cecilia rolled her eyes and lay back on the blanket, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand. “You are insufferable.”
“Mm,” he hummed, reclining beside her. “But entertaining. Which is arguably better.”
She gave a snort, but it lacked heat. Her heart was thudding, just a little. She had a secret, but she wasn’t sure how to tell it to Valentine. He hadn’t noticed, he never noticed when she was truly out of sorts. Or perhaps he noticed and pretended not to until she came out with it. She could never tell with him.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked, nudging her knee with his. “You keep fidgeting.”
She turned her head toward him, one brow arching. “What are you now, a physician of moods?”
“No. Merely a man attempting to court his own wife.” His voice dropped slightly. “Is it working?”
Her breath caught. He had that effect on her, even now. Especially now. She reached over and flicked a crumb from his sleeve, a feeble distraction. “You’ll know when it works. There will be applause and perhaps a medal.”
“I’ll settle for a kiss.”
Her cheeks flushed crimson as she leaned in and pressed one to his cheek. “There. You are now decorated.”
He made a show of sighing. “How gallant, thank you. Yet, I sense a deeper disturbance beneath your general tart-related grievances.”
Cecilia bit the inside of her cheek. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt, then smoothed it out again. She took a breath, glanced at the trees, the clouds, the plate of forgotten biscuits.
Valentine sat up slowly, as if instinctively sensing the shift. “Cecilia,” he said quietly. “What is it?”
She turned her gaze to him, her eyes bright and a little uncertain. “I was thinking about the season next year. About Dorothy’s debut and all the events we’ve promised to attend.”
He frowned slightly, puzzled. “Yes? We’ll manage it. I can cancel half the things we have to do and concentrate on what you think it important. We will prioritize. If it’s too much, we don’t have to go.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s just it. I may not be able to escort my sister to any of it. It’s her debut season, and I feel terrible.”
His brows lifted. “Why on earth not?”
