Chapter 21 #2
“You have it,” she said too quickly and smoothing her skirts with hands that were not nearly as steady as she wished them to be. “That is exactly the shape. I am certain Kit will understand you perfectly, whenever the day comes that you wish to say it.”
“Louisa—”
“I ought to see to the household accounts before luncheon,” she declared, already moving toward the door, not trusting herself to look back. “Mrs. Whitfield will have questions about the linen order, and I promised her an answer before noon.”
She left before he could say anything further, her heart beating far too quickly for a woman who had done nothing more than teach her husband a single sign. She kept her gaze fixed ahead as she walked down the corridor, resisting the temptation to glance back.
She could feel his eyes on her all the same, following her as she crossed the room and disappeared into the corridor.
There had been puzzlement in his expression, but that was not everything she had seen. Warmth had been there too, and that made her pulse stumble.
* * *
The better part of a week had slipped quietly by, each day settling into the comfortable rhythm that was beginning to define life at Ashvale.
“Only a few lines, and then I will stop bothering you,” Louisa murmured to herself, dipping her pen and smoothing the paper flat against the desk in the blue morning room.
Dear Father,
I hope this letter finds you and Mother well. I write with an odd request, and I trust you will forgive its oddness, given how little I have troubled you with such things since my marriage.
Do you know anything about the Whitmores, Thomas Whitmore’s late father in particular, who I understand was ruined some years ago in a matter involving false allegations?
I have reason to believe the circumstances may bear looking into, and I would rather have your honest recollection than rely on secondhand gossip.
I trust your discretion in this above anyone else’s.
Your loving daughter,
Louisa
She sealed it before she could second-guess the wording, and had scarcely set it aside for the post when Mrs. Whitfield appeared in the doorway to announce that Lady Fiona Blackwood’s carriage had been sighted coming up the drive.
Tea was laid in the drawing room by the time Fiona swept in, her golden curls coming loose from their pins within the first quarter hour exactly as they always did, and greeted Louisa with an embrace fierce enough to rattle the teacups on the tray.
“You look positively glowing! Whether it’s married life or the air in Kent, I cannot tell,” she gushed, settling herself into the nearest chair with the ease of a woman entirely at home in any room she chose to occupy.
“And where is your Duke? I confess I have been dying to properly examine him since the wedding, when I was rather too occupied crying into your mother’s handkerchief to form any useful opinion. ”
“He will join us shortly. He had some business with his steward that could not wait.”
“How dutiful of him.”
Julian appeared not ten minutes later, and Fiona, Louisa noted with some private amusement, conducted herself through the whole tea with the sharp attention of a woman determining whether a man deserved her approval or not.
“Your Grace,” Fiona said pleasantly as he accepted the cup offered him, “Louisa tells me that Kit has taken rather well to his lessons.”
Julian inclined his head. “He has. Better than I expected, if I am being honest.”
“And when he does not cooperate?”
“Then we wait until he is ready to try again.”
Fiona regarded him over the rim of her teacup. “You do not compel him?”
“No. He has already had enough of being compelled.”
Something softened almost imperceptibly in her expression. “A sensible answer.”
There followed a brief discussion of the estate before Fiona, with studied casualness, set down her cup.
“Tell me, Your Grace, have you heard that Lady Marchmont has dismissed an otherwise impeccable suitor because he sneezed three times during dinner? Society insists it was a sign of weak character.”
Julian blinked once. “I cannot say I have.”
“And your opinion?”
“That if a gentleman is to be judged by his sneezes, I am grateful I move in quieter circles.”
Fiona’s lips twitched. “An admirable answer.”
Louisa was almost certain there had never been any Lady Marchmont, nor any unfortunate gentleman whose constitution had ended an engagement.
Fiona had invented the entire affair simply to see whether Julian possessed vanity enough to join in ridiculing a stranger or wit enough to escape the trap without offending anyone.
He had managed the latter with remarkable ease.
By the time the tea things were cleared, Fiona had apparently reached her verdict, offering Julian a warm, genuine smile entirely different from her earlier scrutiny.
“I like him,” she announced to Louisa the moment they had retired to Louisa’s rooms, dropping onto the chaise with a sigh.
“I did not expect to, given how thoroughly you described the whole arrangement as practical rather than personal, but I like him regardless. He has a dry humor that creeps up on you if you are not paying attention, and he looked at you no fewer than six times during tea in a manner that had nothing whatsoever to do with practicality.”
“He is simply observant, Fiona. He notices things other people overlook.”
“Is that truly all you took from what I just said?”
Louisa reached for her teacup, affecting a composure she did not entirely feel. “You are impossible.”
“I am observant.”
She shook her head. “You are determined to turn every kindness into a declaration. He has been unfailingly considerate from the beginning, but that does not change what this marriage is. It is a practical arrangement, nothing more.”
“If you say the words practical arrangement to me one more time, so help me God, I shall scream loudly enough to bring the whole household running, and then you shall have to explain to Mrs. Whitfield why her mistress’s friend has taken to shrieking in the middle of the afternoon.”
Louisa laughed despite herself.
Fiona smiled too, though it faded almost as quickly as it had come. She watched Louisa for another moment, her expression softening as her amusement gave way to something quieter.
“You know,” she said gently, “for a woman who insists she wants nothing more than exactly what she bargained for, you look remarkably troubled whenever his name comes up.”
Louisa’s smile faltered.
Fiona leaned forward, resting her elbows lightly on her knees. “So, let me ask you something else instead.” Her voice had lost its teasing edge entirely. “What are you really afraid of?”
Louisa opened her mouth to deflect the question, some easy, practiced answer already forming, and found that she did not have the heart to offer it.
She was quiet for a long moment instead, turning the true answer over before she trusted herself to say it aloud.
“I was the one who asked for this,” she said finally.
“I proposed the arrangement across his desk and told him plainly that I expected nothing beyond respect and a name for Eleanor. He agreed because I set those terms.” She twisted her hands in her lap, unable for once to hold Fiona’s eyes properly.
“I am afraid of wanting something I never asked for, Fiona. More than that, I am afraid of finding the courage to ask for it and looking into his eyes only to find kindness there instead of anything more.”
“Has he ever given you reason to believe that he does not care for you? Truly. Think carefully before you answer, and do not simply reach for the easy reassurance you have been offering yourself these past weeks.”
Louisa considered it properly, turning over every evening at the too-large dining table, every quiet moment in his study, the warmth that crept into his voice whenever Kit’s name was mentioned, the stillness in his eyes this very morning when her hand had rested over his, correcting the shape of a sign.
“No,” she admitted quietly. “He has not.”
“Then perhaps the only person standing in your way is you,” Fiona said gently.
Louisa had no answer for that.