Chapter 20
“You must be punished for your insolence.” Henry’s voice was low, a thunder rumble that sent a not-entirely unpleasant shiver up Thalia’s spine.
“I do not see how I can be called insolent, when you told me that this manor was mine, for all intents and purposes. Am I not permitted to read in peace wherever I choo—”
The words of objection became a yelp as a strong arm grasped her around the waist, another sweeping her, quite literally, off her feet. Her eyes shot open, too shocked to say anything else for a moment as she realized Henry was carrying her toward the lake.
“Unhand me!” she shouted, finding her voice. “You set me down at once!”
“I told you,” he replied, continuing onward. “I do not care to be ordered around on my own estate. A lesson must be taught and learned. There is nothing else for it.”
She kicked her legs, wriggling to try and free herself. “Do not dare! I am serious, Henry! Do not dare! Frances is coming later, and I will not be covered in lake slime!”
But Henry carried her down the sloping shore, and as his feet entered the water, her protests became rather more colorful.
“You brute!” she howled, no longer kicking and writhing in case he dropped her directly into the lake. “Oh, you are a devil indeed! Take me out of here this minute, you beastly thing!”
Henry shook his head. “You must accept your punishment, Thalia. It is the only thing you can do.”
“There might be leeches in there!” she shrieked, now clinging to him rather than fighting against him, practically climbing him to avoid meeting that surface of the lake. “Do not put me in that water! If you do, I shall be—”
She gasped as he suddenly dipped her, the surprisingly tepid water soaking through her dress to her skin. Holding her tightly, he began to turn her in a circle, ruining her peace completely.
“You beast!” she shouted, though it was surprisingly difficult to force anger into her voice when she was being twirled around in the water.
Something about the movement, the rotation of the sky above her, and the water giving way to her body, made her want to close her eyes and smile. But she would not do that. No, she would not give him any sort of indication that she was not absolutely apoplectic with fury.
“I am all wet!” she snapped. “Look what you have done! This dress is ruined now, and I daresay I shall find all manner of creatures hiding in my skirts. Tadpoles and the like. I meant to wear this for luncheon with Frances!”
But as she glared at him, and he looked down at her, she noticed an odd expression upon his face, a look that appeared almost… playful. Humor shone there in his blue eyes, his lips quirked in a smile so endearingly boyish that she did not know how much longer she could hold onto her anger.
As it turned out, she lost her grip on her fury a few seconds later, as he spun her around for a second time.
Laughter bubbled up unbidden, pealing from her lips before she could hope to stop it. And as she held his gaze a moment, she saw the light in his eyes brighten in return, his smile widening into a grin.
Her heart fluttered at the sight, for that pure joy upon his face transformed him from an unfairly handsome man into a supernaturally handsome man.
Otherworldly in his masculine beauty. Indeed, was there anything more appealing in all the world than a handsome gentleman who also had a playful sense of humor?
And this is why he is to be avoided, why he is dangerous for me…
“Very well, I have learned my lesson,” Thalia said, as her laughter ebbed, and she pushed her way out of Henry’s powerful arms and that dizzying spin. “I cannot read my book now that I am soaked anyway.”
He released her and, on unsteady legs, she turned and began to wade back to the safety of the shore.
Seconds from dry land, she gasped as she felt his arms around her once more, his bare chest pressed against her shoulders, his body so close that she would have stumbled from the shock if he had not been holding her already.
Yet, she did not try to wrench herself away; rather, she felt herself lean back into him, savoring the protective sensation of his arms locked around her, and the comforting rise and fall of his chest against her. As if they had done this before, or she had wanted to, at least.
Why do I feel so… at ease?
Even as he dipped his head and whispered softly, “I apologize for getting you wet,” the wild pounding of her heart was not a beat of panic or fear, but of a desire to remain exactly where she was.
“I will find a way to repay you for this,” he added, his breath tickling the curve of her neck. “Another dress, certainly, if it cannot be salvaged. Although, I hear the laundry here is exceptional.”
Though she could not see his face, she could feel that he was smiling…
and longed to scream from the torture of it.
How was it possible that he, a husband of convenience, could be so unbelievably inconvenient, making her heart race and her breath catch and her skin tingle like this?
How could he tell her that her appeal was a problem for him, and then do something like this?
How could he look at her as if he meant to kiss her, then hold her this close and not kiss her?
It was torment, plain and simple. A devil’s game that had her reeling.
“I should… change into something dry before Mrs. Fisher has a conniption about me catching cold,” she managed to croak, though it took every shred of willpower that she possessed.
Slowly, Henry withdrew his embrace, the distance as she stepped away from him like a physical pain, aching in her chest.
“I believe you have clothes in the boathouse,” he told her. “I will swim a while longer; you will not be disturbed.”
Thalia did not dare to turn, her heart sinking at the sound of him turning aloof again. Only when she heard a splash did she glance back, watching as he disappeared beneath the water.
Still trembling with the intensity of his embrace, her skin feverish where his breath had caressed it, she hitched up her sodden skirts and ran for the protection of the boathouse.
Behind those walls, she would be able to catch her breath and try very hard not to think about Henry out in the lake, that athletic body gliding through the water.
The moment she closed the door behind her, she leaned back against the wooden walls and exhaled a shaky breath. This cannot be. I think… I think I am in love with my husband.
It was what she had always wanted, was it not? So, why did she feel so anxious? Surely, this was a good thing?
Shaking away the thought, she looked around at the unfamiliar building… and was struck by a familiar scent of pine, her gaze drawn to a staircase just ahead. Golden light spilled down the steps, as if inviting her upward.
Why would I keep clothes here? she wondered, only now realizing the weirdness.
But, considering the lower floor had nothing in it but three rowboats and two sort of wharves running down each side, and closed doors that presumably opened onto the lake, she figured upstairs might hold the answer.
Still shaking slightly, conscious that her and stairs were not the best of friends of late, she ascended.
A soft gasp slipped from her throat as she looked upon a beautiful, airy space, rafters adorned with colorful garlands, walls decorated with what appeared to be children’s drawings.
To the right was a small wardrobe, to the left was a crammed bookcase, and straight ahead, silhouetted in the heavenly light that shone in through a large window, was a writing desk.
I should write a letter! Confess my feelings! For there was no possible way she would be able to form a coherent sentence if she tried to confess to him in person.
Perhaps, if those feelings were returned, this might be her happy ending after all. Married to a man she loved. A fulfillment of her mother’s last wish, even if it had begun as an arranged match.
Giddy with excitement, and a small quaver of nerves, she rushed forward to the writing desk and sat down. She grimaced as her wet skirts squelched on the seat, but no matter… This could not wait.
“Now, where would the duchess put paper?” she murmured aloud, tugging open the top drawer of the desk.
A leather-bound book lay within it, a snowdrop embossed on the cover as if it had been a gift.
Puzzled, she reached for it, drawing it out with tremendous care, as though it might disappear if she moved too quickly. Just as slowly, she opened the cover… and almost cried out at the sight of the writing inside.
Her writing.
This is where I have been hiding my things…
Her eyes devoured the first page hungrily, realizing that it was her diary, her journal, her account of all of her innermost thoughts; not lost but right here, in a room she could not remember visiting.
But the days of the diary passed too slowly for her desperate curiosity, prompting her to rush ahead, nearer to where the pages lay empty. Not yet filled by her hand.
Tea with Frances… a ball with Frances… reading by the lake…
Dorothy visited… I went to the schools to see how they were progressing…
It seemed mundane, but the more Thalia read, the more her head began to hurt.
Beginning as a dull ache behind her ears, she ignored it at first, but the discomfort spread quickly, traveling up the back of her skull and over the crown.
Hoping to delay it, she skipped pages, skipped great chunks of her personal history, but the pain kept coming. As if it were directly linked to the movement of her eyes as they absorbed the words in front of her.
Long before she reached the last sentence she had written before her accident, the pain became unbearable: a white-hot nail being driven directly between her eyebrows.
Gasping in agony, her eyes blurred, she strained to read one more passage, like sucking in a last gulp of air before drowning: The silence in this house is deafening, but this was part of the deal.
With that, she slammed the diary shut and slid off the chair, curling into a ball on the floor of her secret domain, praying she was not about to forget everything all over again.
And though Henry had said he would not bother her, as she lay there with her eyes scrunched shut and her brain on fire, she fervently wished that he would. So she could at least remember a moment of affection before her mind betrayed her again, shutting her out of herself.