Chapter Eight #2
I know, Wilfred almost said. I know everything about you. There is not a single thing that I do not know about you and I love every single part of you.
He did not say this. Not aloud. “Do you wish to return home?”
“Home? When it’s snowing?” Irene looked outraged. “And miss out on some excellent snowflakes?”
It was picturesque, even Wilfred had to admit.
Bath was always beautiful: it did not require further adornment, with its yellow stone buildings and tall windows, the arching bridges and the delicate, little streets.
But though it did not need adornment, it almost glowed under the yellow wintry sun and flutters of snow.
“Besides, we have not finished our Christmas shopping. You have not even started,” Irene pointed out, gesturing for him to join her at another stall.
“Here, it’s Mepham and Sons, isn’t it? From down on Milsom Street.
I did not know they were a part of the Christmas Fair.
Look, this might be good for Wharton. Or my sisters. What do you think?”
It was a jewelry stand. The planks of wood were covered with a sort of dark-blue velvet, though it was so worn, it was hard to tell if it could still be called velvet any longer. Upon the fabric was jewelry. Necklaces, and bracelets, and earbobs—
“And rings,” Irene pointed out unnecessarily. “Do you think I should get Jessica one?”
“You already bought her that shawl,” Wilfred managed.
He was standing in front of rings with Irene. True, none of them looked much like the sort of wedding band he would wish to select for her, but that did not signify.
Himself. And Irene. Jewelry—rings.
Breathe, man. Don’t forget to breathe.
“What do you think?” Irene asked quietly, touching his arm.
Wilfred could feel the burn of her touch at his wrist; despite her gloves, his greatcoat, his jacket, his shirt, through all of that, he could feel Irene’s touch. It was like honey and sunshine and a burning need to be even closer to her and—
“Or this one?” Irene picked up an earbob, a sapphire or something like it, and held it up against Wilfred’s ear. “Stay still, will you?”
It was a statement, not a question, and Wilfred thought he would never move again. Irene was so close to him, leaning up to almost fall in his arms, her exhale warm on his face as she stared seriously at him.
She is attempting to ascertain whether she likes an earbob, he tried to tell himself. This isn’t about you.
It was easy to forget that, to fool himself into thinking that Irene was leaning this close to him because she was remembering that kiss. That moment when he had been certain she returned his affection. That they were going to be happy together, forever.
Wilfred swallowed. “I-Irene…”
“You’re right. I’m not sure I like the silver with the blue,” Irene said with a sigh, moving away and replacing the earbob onto the stand, much to the stall owner’s evident disappointment. “How about this one, then? For Gwen?”
She had returned to him and was pressed even closer against him this time—or perhaps that was just Wilfred’s wild imagination. This time, an emerald earbob, a pendant drop thing, Wilfred was not quite sure, was being held up to his ear.
Surely, she could hear his pulse this close. Wilfred was surprised Irene had not mentioned it, but perhaps that rosy glow in her cheeks was nothing to do with the snow and everything to do with their proximity.
No. No, he was being foolish.
Disappointment flowed through him as she moved away.
“Yes, I think I shall get a pair of these green ones, and that red pair too. Oh, and that silver bracelet is very pretty,” Irene said lightly, as though she had not just been pressed up against a gentleman in public.
“I’ll have that too, for Wharton. She has triple the work now that Teddy and Gwen are more out in Society.
Gwen will make her debut this upcoming Season. ”
“You are very generous,” said Wilfred hoarsely. Damn it, man! He cleared his throat before adding, “To your servants, I mean.”
“Wharton deserves it, with the runaround I give her so frequently.” Irene grinned as the stallholder carefully wrapped up her purchases in boxes and brown paper. “And you are not generous yourself? Your Mrs. Ansley has a completely free rein, as far as I can tell.”
“She’s more a mother to me, really,” said Wilfred with a laugh, looking at a few of the necklaces.
“And what are you getting her for Christmas?”
He hesitated, the truth somehow shameful now that he had to say it aloud. “I’m not.”
“You’re not getting your housekeeper anything?”
“I mean, she gets her own present,” Wilfred amended hastily, wondering why his additional statement actually made him feel worse, not better. “She has always done that. She knows what she likes and I trust her to figure it out.”
Irene’s eyes narrowed. “Wilfred Matthew—”
“Fine, fine, I’ll get her something,” he said hastily. A man can only be full-named so many times in his life. “How about…this?”
He picked up an elegant necklace, a string of pearls.
Irene examined him carefully. Then she smiled. “You have rather good taste in jewelry, you know.”
Wilfred could not help but puff out his chest. “Well, I—”
“And I am sure Miss Fletcher appreciates that quality,” continued Irene, her cheeks red.
That redness could surely have little to nothing to do with the snow continuing to fall around them, could it?
Wilfred could not tell. It was so strange, not being able to read Irene, and yet he could not help but feel gratified that his plan had worked.
Well. His and Michael’s plan.
Because she was jealous, wasn’t she? It was Irene who continued to bring up Miss Fletcher; he had not done so. She was the one who kept attempting to ask leading questions about the woman, questions he had carefully either not answered or answered, truthfully, that he did not know.
So why was this playing on Irene’s mind to this extent? Why else, but that she was jealous?
And that has to mean, Wilfred thought wildly, that she loves—
“I think the pearls will do very well,” Irene said with a nod, and the stallholder brightened up even further, starting to carefully place them in a blue velvet box that looked in far better shape than the stall.
A glow was sparking in Wilfred, and it took him a moment to realize why it had started.
He had done something nice for Mrs. Ansley.
It sounded awful when he thought about it like that, but he could not deny that it was gratifying, indeed, to think that he had done something pleasant for the woman who had been such a constant support and companion for him.
And he did think of her as a mother, more so than even Lady Pernrith.
She had been there for him during the most difficult time in his life, offering a shoulder to cry on when things had been too much, always there to welcome him home from school, holding his hand and guiding him into manhood…
And he had never told her. Well, he simply would have to. Maybe he could write it in a card, to go with the pearls.
The stallholder put the brown-papered parcel that contained the pearls into his hands. “Anything else?” asked the man eagerly.
Wilfred had opened his mouth to say that they had spent quite enough, thank you, before he realized…
Oh, bother.
“I don’t have any money,” he said blankly.
The smile disappeared from the jeweler’s face.
“With me, I mean. With me. I’m a duke. I have a great deal of money.”
“Don’t you worry. You can pay me back when you get hold of some—or maybe Mrs. Ansley will do it, which will mean she’ll pay for her own Christmas present, poor thing.” Irene grinned, handing over a folded note to the clearly relieved stallholder.
“She gets the money from my accounts. I’ll still be paying for it,” Wilfred said awkwardly.
That was the trouble with being a duke. Being a gentleman at all. One simply didn’t carry around money. Not more than a few coins.
Ladies did: mothers and daughters and sisters with their pin money, choosing what to spend it on.
But someone like himself? The very idea!
It would, however, have been easier to buy the jewelry from the man at his actual shop, Wilfred could not help but think. All he would have to do there is hand over his card and the whole problem would be put on his account, which Mrs. Ansley could sort out later.
Blast. She really did do a great deal for him.
“And what,” Irene asked him as they meandered away from the jewelry market stall, grasping their most recent purchases, “are you going to buy for the most important person in your life?”
Wilfred’s pulse skipped a beat. “I… I don’t know. I’m not sure what would suit.”
He was about to ask whether she would like to return to the jewelry stand, and pray to God that she did not select one of the pretty rings when he knew she wouldn’t have marriage in mind when she looked at them like he did, when—
“I suppose you will have to ask Miss Fletcher what she likes, if you do not already know,” Irene said primly. “I would have thought you’d know, though.”
The reproof was light, but it fell like a weight upon Wilfred’s shoulders.
The most important person in his life. Miss Fletcher.
Without wishing to give offense to the lady, he could not think of many people less important in his life than Miss Fletcher.
No, it was Irene beside him whom he wished to shower with jewels, real jewels—there was a duchess’s coronet in the safe and plenty of fantastic diamonds in his family’s possession and he could pour them into her lap.
Irene giggled as she swung around, staring up at the sky. “Snow!”
Wilfred smiled. Not that Irene wanted diamonds. She was happy with a little wintry weather. She truly was the most wonderful woman he had ever met.
“The real question is,” he teased, his pulse fluttering as he did so, “what are you going to get the most important person in your life?”
Irene tilted her head down to look at him. “Who?”
The pain was exquisite, but Wilfred did everything he could not to let it show. “Me, of course!”
He laughed as though it were the best joke he had ever told, and after a moment, Irene giggled and slipped her hand into his arm and muttered something that could have been, “Of course it’s you.”
Wilfred could not quite tell. His lungs were heaving so heavily with the pain of Irene not immediately choosing him as her most important person that he could barely hear anything. His ears stopped up with pain and his heart breaking.
Which is ridiculous, he tried to tell himself as Irene pulled him toward a stall that sold the most delightful bookmarks.
She had a father, a mother, a brother, and three sisters.
More cousins than you could shake a stick at.
It was foolishness to the extreme to think that he outweighed all of them.
Still. He had hoped.
Perhaps it was the hope that was going to hurt him the most.