Chapter Three
Harbury leaned his shoulder against his library’s arched entry, observing his wife in silence.
Cassandra had shed the bright yellow morning dress she’d been wearing at breakfast for a nondescript brown one made of coarse fabric.
But rather than rendering her common, the simple dress enhanced her features, contrasting her skin’s soft tone and accentuating her slim figure.
Judging by the lamentations his housekeeper had subjected him to on his return from his ride, as well as by the state of his library, Cassandra’s sartorial simplicity was part of a plan to turn herself into a cyclone and rampage through his books.
At this end of the library, some shelves were bare, while others were haphazardly arranged. Springing up from the floor like multifaceted stalagmites were—he counted—fourteen piles of books. Twenty, if he included the stacks of folios filled with paper.
What had possessed her to take on this task?
When Mrs. Pratt had accosted him, he’d steadfastly defended the havoc his wife had wrought, even going so far to imply he’d previously agreed to whatever changes she intended to make.
The duchess, he insisted without having seen the mess she had made, was not destroying the collection, but improving the organization. And she was doing so, he said, simply because the occupation pleased her.
Defense had been his duty. But when it came to his wife, he could only guess at her motivation. At least she appeared less unhappy, now.
Her upset last night, as well as her anger this morning, had weighed on him as he rode both to and from Rose Cottage.
Though he had not, as hoped, found Anderson at home—in fact, no one had even answered the door—his excursion had been fruitful.
He’d been able to think through their current situation without his wife’s distracting presence.
Two things had become apparent: one, he and Cassandra must establish a mutual accord and two, until they had established a solid, mutual accord, they would be wise to abstain from the temptations and complications of the marriage bed.
The next time he crossed the threshold between their chambers, he wanted to be sure of his welcome.
Gazing at her now, he became ever more aware that his sacrifice was not going to be easy.
She was halfway up a ladder, piling her left arm full of books she would, no doubt, place on top of one of the many stacks. If she knew she’d sent Mrs. Pratt, a woman who prided herself on reserve, into an apoplectic frenzy, she remained unperturbed.
In fact—he leaned forward—she was humming.
A light feeling expanded in his heart. Very little humming had graced the spaces of Harbury Hall. At least not in the prior duke’s earshot.
He cleared his throat.
Cassandra turned abruptly, setting herself and the pile of books in her arms awobble.
Harbury bounded across the room to grab hold of the rails and steady the ladder.
“Goodness!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide. “Is it already time for tea?”
“I’m a bit late, actually.” He waited a breath for his heartbeat to slow. “Would you like me to help you down?”
She shook her head. “I can manage.”
Nonetheless, he kept a white-knuckled grip on both siderails while she descended, willing himself not to imagine the possible consequences of a fall.
“You weren’t jesting.” She eyed the mantel clock. “Why it’s almost three! Where did the time go?”
Into wrecking his library, apparently.
Oddly enough, he found himself amused rather than angry. Because he’d already come to her defense? Or because she looked so delighted and flushed?
“Well, clearly, you’ve been busy.”
She deposited the last book atop a shorter stack and then faced him, a martial glint in her eye. Oh yes. She knew exactly how much consternation she had caused.
Sweet, docile Cassandra had a contrarian side.
And though he’d been worried her marriage to him had harmed her, at present, she was happy—a profound relief to his conscience. And, oddly enough, he liked this surprising new aspect of his wife. She identified something she wanted, and she set out to accomplish her vision.
“Tea is set out in the red salon. Can you spare the time to join me?”
Her eyes flashed with challenge. “If you recall, I invited you.”
“So, you did.” He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Would you prefer another location?” He asked even though he knew, as well as she did, she was not yet familiar enough with the rooms to judge which would be most comfortable this time of day, which was why he’d chosen the red room.
But if she insisted on moving the tea to a west-facing chamber, he decided he was willing to suffer the heat.
Her lips contracted into an enticing little pout. “The red salon will do.”
He held out his arm. She hesitated for a moment then placed her hand against his sleeve. While she didn’t need an escort in their own home, he hoped small civilities like this one would lead to more substantial trust.
Together, they headed toward the parlor.
Over his lifetime, he’d walked like this most frequently either with his mother or with his sister. Occasionally, in private, with Viv.
Walking with Cassandra was a different experience all together. Their intimacy last night must have increased his awareness of her femininity.
She clung to him closely. So close, in fact, her breasts occasionally brushed him. Naturally, this caused a rather uncomfortable reaction, a reaction he subdued by raising his gaze and silently counting the buttresses along the corridor. One…two…three…
“Were you quite behind in your correspondence?” she asked lightly.
Too lightly.
“Pardon?” he queried, glancing askance.
“You must have written a great many letters.” She blinked rapidly, her face fixed with an expectant expression. “A letter to be sent abroad, perhaps? Translation would add difficulty, I presume.”
He tilted his head, frowning.
“French, was it?” She suggested. “Italian? Finnish? Finnish, I hear, is extraordinarily challenging to master.”
“I don’t speak Finnish. I wouldn’t know.”
“Nor do I. Which is why I specifically said I’d heard Finnish was a difficult language.”
He frowned. “Are you acquainted with someone who has attempted—”
“I know!” she interrupted. “You had to write the letter in Latin. To a scholar. One from your Oxford days.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said as politely as he could. “I am not following.”
“No? You told me you had to take yourself off to write letters.”
“Ah, yes.” Vaguely, he recalled having used letter writing as an excuse to depart. He held open the door and she passed by into the room.
“Well?” She folded arms in front of her chest. “Did you?”
“No. I decided to visit the steward in person. Anderson, however, was out somewhere on our estate.”
She turned her head sharply at our. Her martial expression softened a degree.
He’d used the word accidentally, but he didn’t regret the slip. Somehow, he had to convey his desire to move forward…together. Whatever their difficulties, they were now joined.
For better. For worse. Until death.
She stared at him for a moment before sitting on the settee. As she moved to spread out her skirts, he took a place by her side, a place close enough to feel the subtle jerk of her body as she tensed.
“Isn’t”—her voice cracked—“sitting across from one another customary?”
“We have yet to establish what’s customary for us.”
Her lip-biting gesture both revealed her fluster, and, inadvertently, increased his carnal frustration. Pretending he had not noticed, he set out preparing the tea.
He didn’t have to ask how she took hers. He remembered. Rich and dark with only a dollop of cream, just enough to increase the pleasure without spoiling the full-bodied taste.
She lifted the cup, her long, slender fingers wrapped around the delicate handle. When she sipped, her brief expression of closed-eyes bliss told him he’d done well.
If he weren’t careful, he could lose himself in the search for other ways to inspire such a satisfied expression.
She opened her eyes only to narrow them suspiciously. “You remembered how I take my tea.”
“My duty is to see to your comfort.” He took a sip from his own cup before returning both cup and saucer to the tray. “My duty and my delight.”
Her brows disappeared beneath the edging of her cap.
Perhaps delight had been layering on too strong.
Wishing he had a greater talent for conversation, he busied himself with rearranging the pot. Then, he sent her a sidelong glance before adding just a touch of cream to his own brew.
“Lessens the tartness, no?” he asked.
“To my taste, yes,” she replied still staring at him as if he were an indecipherable riddle.
“Please don’t take what I am about to say as criticism of your efforts,” he changed the subject, “but did you consider consulting with our librarian before you took on the library reorganization?”
“I understand you—or rather, we—no longer have a librarian.”
“We don’t?” News to him.
“He left four months ago and has yet to be replaced.”
“Left?” Harbury may have been in London for much of the year, but he was certain he’d seen the man’s salary on Anderson’s last quarterly statement.
“Yes.” She hesitated. “Not to unduly criticize your staff, but—”
“Our,” he interrupted.
“In this case, not ‘our.’ Because your librarian decamped before we married, leaving the books in no order I could discern.”
“No order?”
“Mrs. Pratt suggested they might have been accidentally rearranged when the library was thoroughly dusted during the wedding preparations.” She lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug. “My intention is to shelve them first by subject and then by author.”
His eyes met hers over the rim of his cup. Again, the martial look.
“Are you angry?” she asked.
Were you trying to make me angry? “Whyever for? If you wish to catalog the books, by all means, catalog the books.”
She exhaled, he thought, just a little deeper. One point to him.
Finally.
“Is the library at Willowhurst organized in the same fashion?”