She ran his comments through her mind one last time, studying them through the prism of her new insight, and nodded decisively. “That fits.”
Feeling as if she’d finally fought free of a constricting web, she set down the teacup and turned her mind to her day.
In reviewing her schedule, she had to admit that in terms of the material and concomitant benefits of marriage, by any yardstick, as Devlin’s wife, she had no grounds for complaint—and he’d never suggested he was in any way dissatisfied, either. Overall, in all ways, her life was proceeding exactly as she’d fashioned it, with the reins firmly in her grasp.
Except, of course, for Devlin himself. Somehow, he always contrived to remain just beyond her managing reach. She knew it and knew he did, too. Sometimes, she surprised a look on his face that made her think he viewed her efforts to manage him—for of course, she still tried—with fond amusement, as if her seeking to direct him made him strangely content even while he thwarted every attempt except for those with which he agreed, to which he readily acquiesced.
She huffed and sat up. One thing she’d learned over the past five years was that her handsome husband was a law unto himself. She’d concluded that she simply didn’t understand him well enough to properly manage him, yet he always treated her, their children, the staff, and all their people well, and regarding his overall behavior, she had no wish to change anything.
She frowned and pushed back her chair. She just wished he hadn’t spoken so cryptically. She’d wasted a great deal of time and energy puzzling over a comment that, now she understood it, would normally have caused her not a moment of bother.
At least all that was behind her. As Portland drew back her chair, she rose, smiled her thanks, and headed for the morning room to deal with the first duties of her day.
As she often did, Therese joined the children in the nursery while they ate their luncheon. She didn’t manage it every day, but the children looked forward to her being there so they could share the excitements of their morning’s activities while, under Nanny Sprockett’s instruction, they attempted to feed themselves with something approaching acceptable table manners.
Balancing little Horatia—named for her great-grandmother and known as Horry by all—on her knee, Therese gently guided the eighteen-month-old poppet’s hand as she stubbornly fought to master a fork.
“My hoop went fastest!” Spencer, a robust four-year-old, declared, puffing out his chest.
Rupert, Spencer’s junior by a year, smiled at his brother and amiably added, “Mine was right behind.”
Therese smiled at her sons. Along with their nursemaids, the trio had returned from an outing in the park only minutes before, and their chubby cheeks were still rosy from the cold, and their hair was tousled and windswept. Both boys had inherited their father’s coloring—hazel eyes and dark-brown hair—while Therese had been informed by her mother and aunts that Horry was an exact copy of Therese at that age, with still-baby-fluffy golden-blond curls, porcelain cheeks, and large pale-blue eyes.
While encouraging the trio to eat, Therese listened to their prattle and endeavored to keep her attention fixed on them and not allow her mind to slide sideways and continue to poke and pick at her conclusions regarding Devlin’s irritating comment. It was driving her demented. She’d solved the puzzle, so why wouldn’t her mind simply let the exasperating incident go?
Suddenly, the boys looked across at the open door, and their faces lit with eagerness. Therese knew what caused that look; she turned her head and watched as Devlin, smiling at them all, strolled into the room.
It truly was unfair; even after five years of marriage, he still effortlessly compelled her awareness. Her gaze skated avidly over his face—the aristocratic planes and distractingly mobile lips—and down over his tall, lean frame, dwelling on the ineffable elegance of his coat, waistcoat, and trousers and drinking in the predatory grace that was an intrinsic part of him.
He crossed to where she, the children, and Nanny Sprockett sat about the low table. He directed a vague nod at the hovering nursemaids, then ruffled both boys’ hair before crouching beside them.
He grinned at Horry, who was bouncing up and down in Therese’s lap, chanting, “Da, da, da” and manically waving her chubby, sticky hands. Devlin reached out and, adroitly avoiding her grabby fingers, ran the back of one finger down his daughter’s soft cheek, setting the little girl gurgling with happiness, then he turned to his sons and asked what adventures they’d had that morning.
Therese seized the moment to encourage Horry to finish her chicken and chase down the last of her peas.
After listening to his sons’ report, Devlin glanced at Therese, then said to the boys, “Eat up now, because I’ve been sent to steal your mama away for her own luncheon, and you know she’ll be happier if you can show her clean plates before she leaves.”
Both boys shot Therese a grin and obligingly fell to, quickly polishing off their main courses before moving on to devour their puddings.
Therese concentrated on helping Horry spoon the gooey blancmange into her small mouth while wondering if Devlin’s words meant that he would be joining her for luncheon. She assumed so. He didn’t often eat luncheon at home but, apparently, intended to do so today.
She considered using the opportunity to confirm her conclusions regarding his exasperating comment and what had occasioned hisoops, but perversely, given her continuing obsession with those comments, something in her shied from addressing his meaning directly with him—as if questioning him on that subject might make him think that she was wondering anew about the basis of their marriage. About whether that had changed.
But she knew it hadn’t, and she didn’t need to hear him say so.
Thrusting all such thoughts deep, she beamed at Horry, who was delighted to have uncovered the bottom of her pudding bowl and was hitting it enthusiastically with her spoon. Therese cooed and deftly removed the spoon and dropped it into the bowl, then she pressed a kiss to Horry’s curls and, catching the eye of one of the nursemaids, hefted Horry up and handed the little girl, now happily squealing, into the nursemaid’s care.
While chatting with his sons, Devlin had been watching Therese closely. He’d seen the shifting hues crossing the silvery blue of her eyes; like shadows passing over a reflective surface, they indicated that, despite her occupation, she was thinking of other things.
He hoped she was thinking of his comment of yesterday and, most especially, hisoops.
Across their sons’ heads, he met her eyes and smiled, then he rose, patted heads all around, and offered her his hand.
She placed her fingers in his, and he reminded himself not to seize too firmly. He closed his hand and, in ordinary, gentlemanly fashion, drew her to her feet. Once upright, she retrieved her hand, and he was forced to release it. After shaking her skirts straight, she farewelled the boys, blew a kiss to Horry, then preceded him to the open door.
He followed her into the corridor, and they strolled side by side toward the main stairs. “Portland assured me that the soup would remain warm, but I gather he and the staff are waiting.”
“I hadn’t realized it was so late. I’d forgotten that, given the season, I’d moved the time for luncheon forward.”
