Chapter Sixteen #2
Earlier Dulverton had marched into the library as if he were entering a gladiatorial ring, offering Katie and Betje the most minimal of greetings before striding resolutely to his desk.
When the dowager had suggested the three of them play a game of widow whist, he had given his mother a look of horror and tonelessly, but firmly, rejected her offer before settling down at his desk.
For the most part he ignored them, but from time to time he would glance up at his mother’s louder expostulations or laughter and regard her with a furrowed brow, looking both perplexed and irritated.
Exactly the sort of look he was giving the dowager right now.
“—and there is one of my gowns,” the dowager happily chattered, blissfully unaware she was the focus of her son’s scowl, “that is the most delightful shade of pink. Not pink pink, you understand, but more of a rose pink. Although not a common sort of rose, but one that is less of a pinkish-red and more of a… well, a pinkish pink perhaps. Quite my favorite shade of—”
Katie caught her lower lip to keep from laughing at Dulverton’s revolted expression as his mother rabbited on. The woman could talk, but as she rarely required a response Katie found her company quite soothing.
Obviously, her son did not feel the same way.
Katie set down her tambour to root through the dowager’s hideously untidy needlework bag, searching for more periwinkle blue floss to finish the hydrangea she had mostly unpicked.
Never in her life had she seen needlework as poor as the dowager’s.
Not even her sister Hy—who’d viewed needlework as a worse punishment than being stretched on the rack—had produced such dreadful work.
How could a woman Betje’s age be so very bad at it?
And why would she persist in a hobby when the result was so atrocious?
Now that Katie had volunteered to finish the work, she would have to unpick the rest of the flowers, and also the vase itself.
Indeed, she’d have to start afresh. As she untangled a ball of thread, she reflected that this was the first time she had picked up a needle since last October when she had reluctantly agreed to embroider several handkerchiefs Phoebe had begged her to make for Needham for Christmas.
“Your monograms are even lovelier than Stacia’s,” Phoebe had said. “But please never tell her I said so.”
Katie did not think her work was nicer than Andrew’s wife’s exquisite illuminated letters, but she was a good deal faster.
“—and then Dove did the cleverest whitework around the puffed sleeves. Although I suppose one must call it pinkwork as it was done with pink floss on pink muslin. Regardless, it resulted in the most delightful border on my second favorite morning gown. No, my third favorite, now that I think more on the matter and—”
Smirking to herself, Katie found the color of floss she needed but had to untangle it from a half dozen others. Indeed, every single thread in the dowager’s basket was snarled and knotted. It was rather an achievement to have created such utter chaos.
“What a mess my basket is!” Betje tittered as Katie painstakingly untangled the blue floss. “I cannot seem to keep it tidy, no matter how hard I try. And now that my vision has become so poor it is such a dreadful chore.”
Katie could see where this was leading. “Would you like me to organize it for you?”
“Oh, would you?” Betje clapped her hands—one of her favorite ways to express happiness. “I would be excessively grateful. Dove usually sets it all to rights but grumbles and wears the most cross expression while doing so.”
Katie imagined that she, too, would be cross after untangling such messes for forty odd years.
“It would be my pleasure,” she said, not entirely lying this time. She hated to admit it but having something to think about—even something like tangled threads or needlework—was better than endlessly pondering Dulverton and their marriage.
She had tried several times to think about Betje’s advice from earlier that day about how Katie could pierce Dulverton’s wall of reserve, but most of her suggestions—insisting that he bring her to his dig, asking him to take her to the theater in Lyme Regis, or thrusting her company on him during the morning rides he apparently took most days, to name but a few—had sounded like recipes for disaster to Katie.
She failed to see how forcing him to be around her would do anything but alienate him more.
Katie would need to ponder the matter, but not now. She glanced at the clock, wondering what time she could respectably retire and prepare for her nightly visit from her lord and master.
An unmistakable frisson of anticipation caused her thighs to clench at the thought of another night with him. She bit her lower lip, profoundly grateful the contents of her head were private.
Betje had not suggested it, of course, but perhaps Katie might ask Dulverton to stay longer tonight rather than leave the moment they’d finished coupling. Was there some rule that said they could only do it once per night?
You are a whore!
Katie scowled at the voice—her mother’s, of course—and hastily shoved the matter from her mind and turned back to the basket, laying out the snarled contents on the coffee table.
Betje yawned. “Do forgive me, my dear.”
Katie merely smiled.
“I don’t know why I’m so tired.” The dowager babbled for a few more minutes before yawning a second time.
Katie could not help thinking it sounded feigned.
“How rude I am, dear Katie. Would you mind terribly if I retired for the night? I’m afraid I am not accustomed to rising so early.”
Katie looked from the threads she’d just spread out everywhere. “No, of course not. I will accompany you if you wait a moment until I put all this—”
“No, no, no. You don’t need to go to bed.
It is far too early for you.” She nodded to the contents of the basket.
“I am so grateful to you, my dear.” The dowager got to her feet.
“Good night, Gerrit,” she called to her son, who got to his feet, still holding his quill in one hand, an openly impatient expression on his face.
“Good night, my dear,” the dowager said as she leaned down and kissed Katie’s cheek.
“Good night, Betje.”
Katie was rather surprised when Dulverton left his desk long enough to open the door for his mother before immediately striding back to resume his work.
At first the library seemed oppressively quiet. But at some point, she sank into the near-fugue state that took over her mind when she engaged in what had once been her favorite hobby.
“Kathryn?” The way Dulverton said her name made her think it wasn’t the first time.
She glanced at the mess of threads—which she had loosened and was carefully untangling—and looked up to find her husband only a few feet away. “I’m sorry. I was off in my own world.”
“It is kind of you to set that to rights for her.”
“I don’t mind.”
For a change, he did not look impatient or arrogant, but thoughtful, his gaze resting on the tangled threads in her hands.
“Did you say something to me?” she prodded when it seemed he would just stare.
“It is time for bed.”
Her breathing hitched, not just at his words, but at the unmistakable flare of heat that warmed his cold eyes.
“Er, just let me put all this back into the basket.”
“Would it not be easier to leave it out until you have finished?”
“Yes, it would. But”—she gestured to the mess— “it is unsightly.” She didn’t feel it was necessary to point out just how much he disliked clutter.
“Leave it for tonight. I will not work in here until tomorrow evening. You can finish it then.”
She was about to tell him that she would probably work on it tomorrow because…what else did she have to do. But instead, she merely nodded. After all, it was the first time he had indicated a willingness to spend time with her, even if they didn’t actually converse while they were in the same room.
He held out his hand and she set hers in his large warm palm and allowed him to help her to her feet. They did not speak as they made their way to their rooms.
He stopped at her door, opened it, and said, “I will come to you in half an hour.”
For once, Becky was not bustling around Katie’s chambers.
Rather than ring for her, Katie removed her jewelry and began to undress, gazing around as she did so.
Jeremy and Jacob had removed the landscapes from her bedchamber, but they had found places for them in her private sitting room, which was not at all as spartan as her bedchamber.
Among the many suggestions Betje had made was that Katie should resist Dulverton’s reordering of her private space.
That seemed needlessly combative, especially as it was not a matter she cared enough about.
Just the thought of confronting her cold-eyed husband about his decorating requirements, not to mention demanding that he discharge his mistress—Betje’s most outrageous suggestion—left her feeling exhausted.
Katie was tired of arguing and rebelling; she needed time to rest and recoup and then—maybe—she might take some of Betje’s suggestions.
Katie had unbuttoned two of the six buttons on the back of her gown and was twisting it around so that she could reach the rest when the door opened and Becky bustled into the room.
“Oh, I am sorry, Your Grace!”
“I undressed myself for years, Becky, it is hardly a catastrophe if I have to do so again on occasion.”
Becky clucked her tongue and speedily and efficiently stripped Katie down to her chemise.
“Where were you?” Katie asked as her maid pulled the pins from her hair.
“Oh. Er, Mr. Court was showing me his special method for laundering bed linen.”
Katie blinked. “What?”
But Becky had gone into the dressing room to fetch a nightgown and didn’t hear her.
“Does the duke not employ washerwomen?” she asked when Becky came out a moment later, bustling around her and refusing to meet Katie’s eyes. “Are you blushing?”