insane happiness. Gorgeous early summer days when everything around them had basked in sunshine just because she was here with him.
Then, after a fortnight, he had to return to London. Sarah refused to go. Later, he would always regret that he had not insisted on taking her along. Those two weeks of separation changed her somehow.
Over the years, she grew increasingly distant and cold. He had spent countless nights since her death, lying awake and trying to understand what he had done to contribute to their falling apart and the terrible end that followed. If only they had had children, none of this would have happened.
Percy glanced at Letitia again. A week had passed, and he had done nothing more than touch her hand when required by etiquette—if he excluded her little misstep on the stairs. Even if she could be trusted, he would be wise to keep his distance. He did not want to be again in the same place where trusting Sarah had led him in the end.
Percy returned to the desk, sank into the chair, poured more wine into an almost-empty glass and opened one of the ledgers.
Soon his attention was focused on the layout of crops for the next year as he marked the appropriate locations on a crude map of Wycombe Oaks land he had drawn for himself.
When some half an hour later, distracted by a calculation he was trying to complete in his head, Percy glanced again at the sofa, his absentminded gaze met a scrutinizing one of wide-open, green eyes.
Chapter Ten
Letitia awoke in a blissful comfort. The warmth and softness around her were so inviting she didn’t want to move just yet. Instead, she kept her eyes closed, hoping to fall asleep again.
A rustle of paper made her snap out of that nebulous state and gaze around.
A discomforting sense of suspension enveloped her when all she could see was an unfamiliar carpet surrounded by bookcases. Bookcases… She had come down to the library in search of her husband and then… Her gaze followed the pattern of the carpet all the way to the fireplace and landed on a pair of masculine legs under the desk. She shifted her gaze higher. Above the surface, Sir Percival’s head was bent over some papers, a quill bobbing in unison with the movement of his hand.
The fuzzy remnants of sleep retreated in an instant. How long had he been at his desk? Had he noticed her? She moved a hand and discovered where the warmth had come from. Reluctant gratitude spread, like the blanket’s warmth, through her heart.
Unsure what to do next, Letitia watched him engrossed in writing. Damp curls framed his face, his expression thoughtful. In the gloomy daylight, he appeared tired, but no less fascinating. How would it feel to run her fingers through that still-damp hair? Or to kiss his decisive mouth, now slightly pursed in concentration?
She shuddered with self-disapproval. Foolish musings. How could she even let such thoughts enter her head?
Just then, Sir Percival dipped his pen in the inkwell and glanced ahead, without focusing on anything in particular, clearly preoccupied with his thoughts. His absent gaze skimmed over the sofa.
And then it sharpened immediately and wandered back to her.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Good afternoon,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. “How long have you been here?”
There was that quick quirk of his mouth again. “Long enough to discover,” he said, “that you beat me to the food I asked Slater to send up here.”
So the delicious refreshments were not for her? Letitia removed the blanket and sat up.
“I beg your pardon,” she mumbled, embarrassment burning her cheeks. “I hope I left enough to forestall your demise from starvation.”
Sir Percival chuckled. “So, did you find what you were looking for?” He changed the subject and rose to his feet.
Oh! How did he guess she’d searched for Sarah’s portrait? Letitia put on her slippers and stood as well.
“You have a fine library here,” she offered.
“At your disposal whenever
Then, after a fortnight, he had to return to London. Sarah refused to go. Later, he would always regret that he had not insisted on taking her along. Those two weeks of separation changed her somehow.
Over the years, she grew increasingly distant and cold. He had spent countless nights since her death, lying awake and trying to understand what he had done to contribute to their falling apart and the terrible end that followed. If only they had had children, none of this would have happened.
Percy glanced at Letitia again. A week had passed, and he had done nothing more than touch her hand when required by etiquette—if he excluded her little misstep on the stairs. Even if she could be trusted, he would be wise to keep his distance. He did not want to be again in the same place where trusting Sarah had led him in the end.
Percy returned to the desk, sank into the chair, poured more wine into an almost-empty glass and opened one of the ledgers.
Soon his attention was focused on the layout of crops for the next year as he marked the appropriate locations on a crude map of Wycombe Oaks land he had drawn for himself.
When some half an hour later, distracted by a calculation he was trying to complete in his head, Percy glanced again at the sofa, his absentminded gaze met a scrutinizing one of wide-open, green eyes.
Chapter Ten
Letitia awoke in a blissful comfort. The warmth and softness around her were so inviting she didn’t want to move just yet. Instead, she kept her eyes closed, hoping to fall asleep again.
A rustle of paper made her snap out of that nebulous state and gaze around.
A discomforting sense of suspension enveloped her when all she could see was an unfamiliar carpet surrounded by bookcases. Bookcases… She had come down to the library in search of her husband and then… Her gaze followed the pattern of the carpet all the way to the fireplace and landed on a pair of masculine legs under the desk. She shifted her gaze higher. Above the surface, Sir Percival’s head was bent over some papers, a quill bobbing in unison with the movement of his hand.
The fuzzy remnants of sleep retreated in an instant. How long had he been at his desk? Had he noticed her? She moved a hand and discovered where the warmth had come from. Reluctant gratitude spread, like the blanket’s warmth, through her heart.
Unsure what to do next, Letitia watched him engrossed in writing. Damp curls framed his face, his expression thoughtful. In the gloomy daylight, he appeared tired, but no less fascinating. How would it feel to run her fingers through that still-damp hair? Or to kiss his decisive mouth, now slightly pursed in concentration?
She shuddered with self-disapproval. Foolish musings. How could she even let such thoughts enter her head?
Just then, Sir Percival dipped his pen in the inkwell and glanced ahead, without focusing on anything in particular, clearly preoccupied with his thoughts. His absent gaze skimmed over the sofa.
And then it sharpened immediately and wandered back to her.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Good afternoon,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. “How long have you been here?”
There was that quick quirk of his mouth again. “Long enough to discover,” he said, “that you beat me to the food I asked Slater to send up here.”
So the delicious refreshments were not for her? Letitia removed the blanket and sat up.
“I beg your pardon,” she mumbled, embarrassment burning her cheeks. “I hope I left enough to forestall your demise from starvation.”
Sir Percival chuckled. “So, did you find what you were looking for?” He changed the subject and rose to his feet.
Oh! How did he guess she’d searched for Sarah’s portrait? Letitia put on her slippers and stood as well.
“You have a fine library here,” she offered.
“At your disposal whenever
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