Chapter Eight
Rosalind stepped carefully between patches of moss and clover, lifting her skirts to avoid the damp as she followed Alexander along the shaded path behind the stables.
The morning sun filtered through branches overhead, its light cool and pale across the forest floor. She breathed in the mingled scents of earth and green growth, feeling the calm that always came when she was far from town drawing rooms.
“You must promise not to laugh,” Alexander said, glancing back at her with a smile that lacked its usual teasing glint. “But I always forget which fork leads to the old dovecote and which ends at the orchard fence.”
Rosalind tilted her head, studying the two narrow tracks as though she were an expert surveyor.
“Then it is fortunate you have engaged my guidance,” she declared with mock gravity. “For I am almost certain the left must lead to the orchard.”
His brow lifted in playful suspicion.
“Almost certain?”
She lifted one shoulder, feigning composure while his amusement made him all the more distractingly handsome.
“Moderately so,” she admitted. “But confidence, I find, is often as persuasive as accuracy.”
Alexander gave a low laugh.
“A maxim worthy of Parliament,” he said. “One might mistake you for a statesman in disguise.”
Rosalind giggled.
“Oh, spare me the notion,” she said. “I should far rather wander orchards than endure debates.”
They chose the left path, and within minutes, the orchard broke into view through a gap in the hedgerow. Rosalind cast him a sidelong glance, her voice quieter now, touched with candour.
“I have enjoyed these walks more than I anticipated,” she said.
Alexander’s expression shifted, his levity giving way to something steadier, more intent.
“As have I,” he said. “It is no small rarity to find company that does not weary me within ten minutes.”
Rosalind looked away, uncertain how to answer. She felt the warmth of his gaze linger on her, and when she glanced back, she saw something unguarded in his expression. There was no disingenuous, coquettish banter, but real interest and sincerity.
Nervous, she gave him a broad smile, as if it could hide her blushing cheeks.
“I can refrain from exhausting you for at least a full quarter of an hour,” she said.
They both laughed.
***
That afternoon, Rosalind joined Catherine in the morning room, where papers lay arranged in orderly stacks and a list of guests was held in place by a brass paper knife. Catherine glanced up from the names and smiled.
“You have been out?” she asked.
Rosalind seated herself beside her and reached for the teapot.
“I have,” she said. “Alexander and I walked beyond the orchard. We ended at the overlook above the stream.”
Catherine’s brows lifted, the corners of her mouth twitching.
“And did all go well?” she asked lightly.
Rosalind hesitated before answering.
“I find I enjoy his company,” she said at last. “He speaks well, but listens better. There is a steadiness in him unlike anything I ever encountered in London.”
Catherine paused, her eyes studying Rosalind with quiet interest. When she spoke again, her tone was certain.
“I believe he observes more than he declares,” she said. “And I believe he likes what he observes in you.”
Rosalind glanced down at her cup.
“Do you think such a thing possible? He is a baron, and I—merely a companion to a newly-made countess.”
Catherine looked at her cousin as though she had spoken nonsense.
“I think we have both seen the limits of social advantage,” she said. “Marcus and I married for practical reasons, but I have come to value what cannot be arranged by title. Do not close your mind to possibility, not if it brings you joy.”
Rosalind looked more closely at her cousin, noting the softened expression in her eyes as she spoke of her husband.
“Catherine,” she said with quiet astonishment, “are you saying that you are developing feelings for Marcus?”
Colour rose in Catherine’s cheeks as she shook her head quickly.
“I am saying no such thing,” she replied, refusing to meet Rosalind’s gaze. “Only that the unexpected has a way of surprising us when least looked for.”
Rosalind arched a doubtful brow but let the matter rest. Still, she wondered: could the marriage Catherine had once dreaded be leading both women toward something neither had anticipated?
***
“Positively extraordinary, Marcus,” Alexander said, musing. He stood with Marcus near the hearth in the study. Books lined the shelves, and the faint scent of parchment and tobacco clung to the corners of the room.
Marcus looked up from the letter in his hand, brow faintly arched.
“Extraordinary?” he asked. “I cannot see what is so unusual in the Society’s request for additional notes on the coin catalogue.”
Alexander gave a low chuckle, shaking his head.
“I was not speaking of the Society,” he said. “I was speaking of you.”
“Of me?” Marcus set the letter aside on the desk, his frown deepening.
“Of your manner around your wife,” Alexander clarified, almost lazily, though his eyes were sharp with amusement.
A rush of heat crept up Marcus’s neck.
“What of it?” he asked, tone more defensive than intended.
Alexander regarded him steadily, his arms folding across his chest.
“You look at her,” he said, “as though she holds the answers to questions you have not yet dared voice. It is… uncharacteristic of you.”
Marcus turned away, feigning interest in the fire.
“I am not certain what you mean,” he said coolly.
“Come now, Marcus,” Alexander said with a short laugh, moving toward the window. “I have known you too long to be deceived. You do not gaze at ledgers or manuscripts with that particular expression. Admiration, yes—but also something warmer. Surely even you must know it.”
Marcus said nothing. His friend’s words had struck too near the truth.
Outside, the clatter of a groom’s rake carried from the courtyard as a footman brushed gravel back into order. Alexander glanced down at the scene before continuing, his voice less teasing now.
“You admire her,” he said. “That much is plain to everyone with eyes. But admiration is not always enough. If you feel more, you would do well to tell her.”
Marcus turned, intending a denial, but the words stalled. Instead, he asked, low and uncertain,
“And if I have mistaken her kindness for something it is not?”
Alexander shrugged, but without flippancy.
“Then you will recover,” he said, “to the credit of that respect you bear her. But—” he looked back, one brow raised—“I should be very much surprised if you are mistaken.”
Marcus drew in a slow breath, unsettled. The notion that Catherine might return his regard both steadied and unnerved him. He had grown accustomed to solitude, to the safety of distance. Yet Catherine disarmed him at every turn—her confidence, her warmth, her quiet discernment of things unspoken.
His gaze fell again to the letter upon the desk, but his mind conjured only the memory of her hand upon his in the library, the brush of her fingers lingering far longer in his thoughts than on his skin.
Could it be more than an arrangement of convenience?
Could she look upon him not merely as a husband chosen for circumstance, but as a man she might come to esteem—perhaps even more?
***
The day before his scholarly guests were to arrive, Marcus sat in his study. The window beside him allowed afternoon light to highlight the table strewn with notes, reference texts, and several carefully labelled fragments of Roman pottery.
Beyond the terrace, the clipped hedges of the east garden stood in perfect order, no doubt the result of Catherine’s commanding direction. The entire household moved with a purposeful rhythm she had established with such apparent ease.
He lifted a page of his presentation draft and studied the opening paragraph for the third time. It still felt cluttered. Catherine had suggested trimming the unnecessary background from the first section and beginning directly with his thesis.
He crossed the room with pages in hand and opened the door to the smaller drawing room, where he knew she had temporarily relocated her planning efforts to allow the staff uninterrupted access to the dining room.
She stood beside a side table covered in seating charts, place cards, and a stack of linen lists.
A pencilled schedule lay open beside her, its columns neatly filled with arrangements for meals, musicians, and valet services.
She held a sheet of vellum in one hand and was quietly instructing a footman on rearranging the floral display.
Marcus waited until the man withdrew before speaking.
“You were right about the opening paragraph,” he said. “It reads more cleanly without the chronology.”
She turned toward him, her smile immediate but not distracting.
“It seemed to me that your argument struck more directly when not delayed by context,” she said. “May I read the revision?”
He handed her the paper. She read it with focused attention, brow slightly drawn as her fingers moved to underline one phrase with approval.
“This portion where you say ‘The domestic arrangement of rural Roman settlements offers more insight into their cultural adaptation than monumental remains’ is your strongest line,” she said.
Marcus barely suppressed a beam of pride.
“It was buried before,” he said. “I believe you have an instinct for emphasis.”
She glanced down at the rest of the paper.
“A scholar’s tendency is always to explain rather than persuade,” she said. “You are not wrong to value the context, but your audience tomorrow will include those who judge by structure as much as by substance.”
Marcus nodded emphatically.
“Precisely why I rely upon your judgment,” he said. “You bring clarity to what I too often obscure.”
She looked pleased, though not vain.
“Then let us call it a fair exchange,” she replied. “For you have taught me to read objects rather than merely to catalogue them.”