“Dropped in on James and Patience, but the ladies were out doing their part on Bond Street.”
“You rode two hours each way to drop in on people we saw at the wedding breakfast?” As soon as the question was out of her mouth, Thea wished it back. “I’m sorry.” She set her teacup down and rose. “I have no right to ask you that.”
“You don’t,” Anselm agreed, getting to his feet as well, “but when I’m in the saddle, I find it easier to think things through. Come have something to eat. Dinner won’t be for another two hours at least.”
So what was the duke thinking through, and had he also met with his solicitors?
“I’ve asked that after tonight we move dinner up,” Thea said. “I hope you don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” Anselm extended a hand to Thea, but when she thought he’d merely seat her again, he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her closer. “How is it you’ve been racketing around here all day, and you still smell so sweet?”
A husbandly question that went well beyond civilities.
“It’s the soap I use,” Thea said, her arms vining around his waist. “It lingers.”
“Wonderfully.” He bussed her cheek. “I am keeping you from your sustenance, and me from mine.”
“You’re hungry?” Thea slid away, and to her relief, Anselm let her go. What was he about, kissing her that way?
“Peckish. You?”
“The same.” She sat to assemble meat, cheese, and buttered bread on a plate, casting around desperately for a conversational gambit. “When did you acquire the idea of botany as a profitable venture?”
For every appearance said the Anselm finances prospered handily.
“My grandmother loved her gardens, and my grandfather kept a botanist on his staff for her. The plants became a hobby for them, though Grandfather also sold his excess inventory, and I developed it from there.”
Thea passed the duke a plate and started fixing her own. “Did your father share the same interest?”
“He was more of a Town man. Move over, Thea, and we’ll share a plate.”
She obliged, because to refuse her husband would seem standoffish, if not…cowardly.
They ate, but the silence grew and grew and grew some more.
Anselm set the empty plate aside, his long legs ranged beside hers, and sat back to regard her.
“Is something on your mind, Your Grace?” Thea asked, for her mind had become a hash of anxieties, fears, and the odd, stray hope.
Also a few regrets.
In response, Anselm gathered Thea’s hand in his and brought her fingers to his lips.
“I cannot sustain enough anger at you to make it convincing.” He sounded puzzled or perhaps relieved.
“A very small display will usually convince me,” Thea said. “You are entitled to your temper, in any case.”
His grip was warm, almost comforting.
“But if we’re both angry”—Anselm gave her back her hand—“can you imagine the eventual intimacies? I’ve thought about this for much of the day.”
Thea did not ask: Why would I be angry? Because in a small, defiant corner of her soul, she was angry, and at him, among others, not only at herself.
Though she had materially misrepresented herself to Anselm. There was that.
“Other couples struggle through significant differences,” she said.
“We’re not other couples.” Anselm rose and stood frowning down at her. He was an accomplished frowner, though he had cause to be. “We’ll have to make a go of this, or at least give it a good try.”
There he went, being not nice again, though he probably didn’t even realize it.
“I’m not sure what to say.” Thea got to her feet, but the duke moved to assist her, and so she was right next to him without planning to be there. “One expects to try to make a go of one’s marriage, I hope.”
He searched her eyes for heaven knew what and touched one of the pearl earrings Thea had inherited from her mama.
“We’ll have to try particularly hard,” he said. “I’ll have to.”
“I don’t
“You rode two hours each way to drop in on people we saw at the wedding breakfast?” As soon as the question was out of her mouth, Thea wished it back. “I’m sorry.” She set her teacup down and rose. “I have no right to ask you that.”
“You don’t,” Anselm agreed, getting to his feet as well, “but when I’m in the saddle, I find it easier to think things through. Come have something to eat. Dinner won’t be for another two hours at least.”
So what was the duke thinking through, and had he also met with his solicitors?
“I’ve asked that after tonight we move dinner up,” Thea said. “I hope you don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” Anselm extended a hand to Thea, but when she thought he’d merely seat her again, he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her closer. “How is it you’ve been racketing around here all day, and you still smell so sweet?”
A husbandly question that went well beyond civilities.
“It’s the soap I use,” Thea said, her arms vining around his waist. “It lingers.”
“Wonderfully.” He bussed her cheek. “I am keeping you from your sustenance, and me from mine.”
“You’re hungry?” Thea slid away, and to her relief, Anselm let her go. What was he about, kissing her that way?
“Peckish. You?”
“The same.” She sat to assemble meat, cheese, and buttered bread on a plate, casting around desperately for a conversational gambit. “When did you acquire the idea of botany as a profitable venture?”
For every appearance said the Anselm finances prospered handily.
“My grandmother loved her gardens, and my grandfather kept a botanist on his staff for her. The plants became a hobby for them, though Grandfather also sold his excess inventory, and I developed it from there.”
Thea passed the duke a plate and started fixing her own. “Did your father share the same interest?”
“He was more of a Town man. Move over, Thea, and we’ll share a plate.”
She obliged, because to refuse her husband would seem standoffish, if not…cowardly.
They ate, but the silence grew and grew and grew some more.
Anselm set the empty plate aside, his long legs ranged beside hers, and sat back to regard her.
“Is something on your mind, Your Grace?” Thea asked, for her mind had become a hash of anxieties, fears, and the odd, stray hope.
Also a few regrets.
In response, Anselm gathered Thea’s hand in his and brought her fingers to his lips.
“I cannot sustain enough anger at you to make it convincing.” He sounded puzzled or perhaps relieved.
“A very small display will usually convince me,” Thea said. “You are entitled to your temper, in any case.”
His grip was warm, almost comforting.
“But if we’re both angry”—Anselm gave her back her hand—“can you imagine the eventual intimacies? I’ve thought about this for much of the day.”
Thea did not ask: Why would I be angry? Because in a small, defiant corner of her soul, she was angry, and at him, among others, not only at herself.
Though she had materially misrepresented herself to Anselm. There was that.
“Other couples struggle through significant differences,” she said.
“We’re not other couples.” Anselm rose and stood frowning down at her. He was an accomplished frowner, though he had cause to be. “We’ll have to make a go of this, or at least give it a good try.”
There he went, being not nice again, though he probably didn’t even realize it.
“I’m not sure what to say.” Thea got to her feet, but the duke moved to assist her, and so she was right next to him without planning to be there. “One expects to try to make a go of one’s marriage, I hope.”
He searched her eyes for heaven knew what and touched one of the pearl earrings Thea had inherited from her mama.
“We’ll have to try particularly hard,” he said. “I’ll have to.”
“I don’t
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