Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Thomas fretted as he waited for Harry outside her aerie. He had been impatient all afternoon. He felt enormous relief when she finally emerged even though he had been assured several times by Smythe that Harry was well and working on the conjecture.
Wordless, he held the book out to her. She seized it eagerly with her left hand and put it down on a narrow table and opened it and began to pore over it.
Finally, he spoke. “It’s a very late wedding gift from Lord Daventry—no, pardon me, he’s now the Duke of Middlewich. James. My friend. Who came for Christmas, you remember?”
“Wedding gift?” She stopped turning pages. “Do you want to look at it first, my lord?”
She called him my lord. Not Tommy.
“No, he means it for you alone. I’m sure he thinks you’re owed some compensation for putting up with me.”
Harry shook her head and continued reading.
Thomas knew it was an inadequate apology.
He stood as close to her as he felt he could.
He longed to put one hand on the back of her neck and bring her bent head around to him and turn her face up and kiss her.
No, Harry didn’t allow mouth kissing. Well, then he longed to put one hand on the back of her neck and lightly stroke the skin with the tips of his fingers, play with the tendrils of her softest and finest hair that had coiled there before he ran his hand down her spine towards the dimples above her—
She held her right hand behind her back, bandaged in stark white except for some spatters of ink. She held it there as if to remind herself not to use it.
He took a step back.
Harry read on, muttering, flipping back to the table of contents and then forwards to other chapters in the text.
“Perhaps you could continue reading the book with dinner.”
Harry blinked. “With dinner?”
“Yes, it’s time, we must eat. But we dine alone. I see no reason why you shouldn’t read while you eat.”
Harry closed the book, and Thomas picked it up. He went to offer her his arm, but she was already four steps down, holding the banister with her left hand.
Thomas could tell Whitson was scandalized by Lady Drake reading at the dinner table. His posture, his sniffs conveyed his disapproval.
Thomas didn’t care. His wife could read her book anywhere and anytime she wanted. And maybe she might look up between chapters and acknowledge him. He would settle for that, at this point.
After the soup course had been cleared, one of the footmen brought the meat course, taking it first to Whitson, who stood at Harry’s elbow.
Whitson placed several pieces on a plate before the footman brought the serving platter to Thomas, who helped himself.
Whitson began to cut the meat on the plate.
Oh. Yes. Of course. Harry could not cut her food herself.
“Here. Stop.” Thomas stood. “I’ll do that.”
“My lord.” Whitson bowed. Thomas walked down to Harry’s end of the table and began to cut her meat.
“Move my plate, too,” Thomas said. “I’ll sit here, on Lady Drake’s right.”
After he had finished cutting her meat and sauced it and put the potatoes on the plate as well, he went around Harry’s chair and put her plate at her left elbow.
“Thank you,” she said, not looking up.
Thomas went back around and sat and ate and watched his wife mutter and chortle to herself as she read. He cut the fish for her as well as the spring lettuces. The dessert was an ice, which Harry ate with a spoon.
Thomas asked for coffee.
“Whitson, Lady Drake and I will stay in the dining room for a time. I will ring when we are done.”
This cleared the room of footmen and the disdainful Whitson.
Harry nodded to herself and turned pages. She let her coffee grow cold.
After half an hour, he allowed himself to speak. “Will this book help with your proof?”
Harry looked up as if she had woken from a dream. “This is a book about the calculus.”
“Yes?”
“Fermat’s conjecture involves the natural numbers, not the calculus.”
“But it is the right book, is it not? The book you asked for?”
“Yes.” She went back to reading.
The candles in the chandelier burned lower. Finally, Thomas suggested they leave the dining room. She agreed, and he trailed her up the stairs, carrying the book with his two good hands.
At the door to her bedchamber, she opened the door first and then took the book from him with her left hand and put it under her right arm.
He held a slender hope she might issue an invitation to come and sit by the fire and read. He had a small book of verse in his trousers pocket, ready for just such an eventuality. What an optimist he had been to put it there this afternoon upon his return to Sommerleigh.
We can sit in two separate chairs, Thomas promised in his head.
Or you can sit in my lap, and I won’t touch you.
Or I can touch you, if you want, however you want. You can be as my queen, and I will be your faithful slave, worshipping at the altar of your body.
Or we can sit in two separate chairs, and I won’t touch you.
She looked just over his left shoulder at the wall behind him. “Miss Dunbar came to call today.”
“Oh?” He tried to express a polite interest.
“I think she really came to see you, not me.”
“We’ll have to return the call—”
But Harry waved her good hand at him and turned towards her open door, saying, “I think I’ll be far too busy . . . ”
As her words trailed off, she disappeared into the room. Smythe appeared, curtsied, and waited. Finally, Smythe smiled apologetically and said, “Good night, my lord,” and closed the door while Thomas still stood in the passage.