it.
Only after she’d left her office for the day did she realize that she’d put Hastings’s smutty novel on top of Andrew’s love letters.
Y ou had some tough questions for poor Mr. Cochran today, Millie,” said Fitz.
His comment broke the silence inside the brougham. They were on their way home from a tasting at Cresswell & Graves’s offices. Or rather, Millie would go home when the carriage stopped before their town house, but he wouldgo on elsewhere, no doubt to call on Mrs. Englewood again.
“I asked very few questions. You, on the other hand, were much too undemanding today.” Her voice was testy.
She
was testy—eight years and still a distant second best. “Usually you do not approve of a product until you’ve sent it back to be refined and improved upon three times. The new champagne cider has never undergone such rigors and yet you approved it right away.”
“It tasted charming. Effervescent without being too gushy. Sweet with just the right amount of tartness.”
He could have been speaking of Isabelle Englewood.
“I thought it was passable, nothing to be excited about.”
“That’s odd,” he said quietly. “Our tastes tend to converge, not diverge.”
She’d been looking stubbornly out of the window. Now she glanced at him. A mistake—he gave the impression of a man deeply content with his lot.
The signet ring she’d given him glistened on his hand. She wanted to rip it off and throw it out of the carriage. But then she’d also need to throw away his gold-and-onyx watch fob and his walking stick, the porcelain handle of which was glazed a deep, luminous blue. Like his eyes.
So many Christmas and birthday presents. So many practically transparent attempts to stake her claim on his person, as if pieces of metal or ceramic could somehow change a man’s heart.
“I trust your judgment more when you aren’t so—buoyant,” she said.
“Buoyant, that’s a weighty charge.” He smiled. “No one has accused me of being buoyant in years.”
His smiles—she used to think them signposts pointing theway to a hidden paradise, when all along they were but notices that said, “Property of Isabelle Pelham Englewood. Trespassers will have their hearts broken.”
“Well, things have changed recently.”
“Yes, they have.”
“I’m sure you’ve been to see Mrs. Englewood again. What does she think of the six-month wait? I dare say she hates being made to wait.”
“You are my wife, Millie, and you step aside for no one. Mrs. Englewood understands this.”
Something in his tone made her heart skip two beats. She looked away. “I will gladly step aside for her.”
He rose from the opposite seat and sat down next to her. As spouses, it was perfectly proper for them to share a carriage seat. But when they were alone in a conveyance, he always took the backward-facing seat, an acknowledgment that he was not truly her husband.
He draped an arm over her shoulder. His nearness, which she had never become accustomed to, was now almost impossible to endure. She wanted to throw open the door of the carriage and leap out. Her agreeing to honor their pact did not give him the right to touch her before it was time.
“Don’t look so put out, Millie. Something wonderful might come of this: We can have a child.” His other hand settled on her arm, the warmth of his palm branding her across the thin fabric of her sleeve. “I’ve never asked you, would you like a boy or a girl?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’d make a wonderful mother, kind but firm, attentive but not smothering. Any child of yours would be a fortunate child indeed.”
There had been a part of her, however small, however circumspect, that had always hoped perhaps when they at last consummated their marriage, their lovemaking would be the final alchemical ingredient to give wings to their friendship. But now it would serve only a biological function. Their friendship would remain earthbound—never to take flight.
The
Only after she’d left her office for the day did she realize that she’d put Hastings’s smutty novel on top of Andrew’s love letters.
Y ou had some tough questions for poor Mr. Cochran today, Millie,” said Fitz.
His comment broke the silence inside the brougham. They were on their way home from a tasting at Cresswell & Graves’s offices. Or rather, Millie would go home when the carriage stopped before their town house, but he wouldgo on elsewhere, no doubt to call on Mrs. Englewood again.
“I asked very few questions. You, on the other hand, were much too undemanding today.” Her voice was testy.
She
was testy—eight years and still a distant second best. “Usually you do not approve of a product until you’ve sent it back to be refined and improved upon three times. The new champagne cider has never undergone such rigors and yet you approved it right away.”
“It tasted charming. Effervescent without being too gushy. Sweet with just the right amount of tartness.”
He could have been speaking of Isabelle Englewood.
“I thought it was passable, nothing to be excited about.”
“That’s odd,” he said quietly. “Our tastes tend to converge, not diverge.”
She’d been looking stubbornly out of the window. Now she glanced at him. A mistake—he gave the impression of a man deeply content with his lot.
The signet ring she’d given him glistened on his hand. She wanted to rip it off and throw it out of the carriage. But then she’d also need to throw away his gold-and-onyx watch fob and his walking stick, the porcelain handle of which was glazed a deep, luminous blue. Like his eyes.
So many Christmas and birthday presents. So many practically transparent attempts to stake her claim on his person, as if pieces of metal or ceramic could somehow change a man’s heart.
“I trust your judgment more when you aren’t so—buoyant,” she said.
“Buoyant, that’s a weighty charge.” He smiled. “No one has accused me of being buoyant in years.”
His smiles—she used to think them signposts pointing theway to a hidden paradise, when all along they were but notices that said, “Property of Isabelle Pelham Englewood. Trespassers will have their hearts broken.”
“Well, things have changed recently.”
“Yes, they have.”
“I’m sure you’ve been to see Mrs. Englewood again. What does she think of the six-month wait? I dare say she hates being made to wait.”
“You are my wife, Millie, and you step aside for no one. Mrs. Englewood understands this.”
Something in his tone made her heart skip two beats. She looked away. “I will gladly step aside for her.”
He rose from the opposite seat and sat down next to her. As spouses, it was perfectly proper for them to share a carriage seat. But when they were alone in a conveyance, he always took the backward-facing seat, an acknowledgment that he was not truly her husband.
He draped an arm over her shoulder. His nearness, which she had never become accustomed to, was now almost impossible to endure. She wanted to throw open the door of the carriage and leap out. Her agreeing to honor their pact did not give him the right to touch her before it was time.
“Don’t look so put out, Millie. Something wonderful might come of this: We can have a child.” His other hand settled on her arm, the warmth of his palm branding her across the thin fabric of her sleeve. “I’ve never asked you, would you like a boy or a girl?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’d make a wonderful mother, kind but firm, attentive but not smothering. Any child of yours would be a fortunate child indeed.”
There had been a part of her, however small, however circumspect, that had always hoped perhaps when they at last consummated their marriage, their lovemaking would be the final alchemical ingredient to give wings to their friendship. But now it would serve only a biological function. Their friendship would remain earthbound—never to take flight.
The
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