Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was strange how seamlessly Malcolm slotted back into life at Huntfield.
Octavia had assumed it would be another difficult period of adjustment, but, after a few days, it was as if he had never left: he was there at breakfast, listening intently while Simon chattered away at him; he was there to teach Simon to ride; he was there in the gardens of an afternoon while Simon napped, taking a walk; he was there at the dining table of an evening, and in the drawing room after that, to read and have a glass of port or brandy.
Yet, he did not push Octavia to speak to him or even to be civil to him.
Mostly, if they happened to be in the same room, they existed in a surprisingly comfortable silence.
Then, once it got dark, Malcolm would make his way back across the lawns to the Dower House…
and Octavia would watch him, wondering what he might do when he was over there.
“Where is the young master this afternoon?” Mr. Lincoln asked, as he set down some tea and a tart for Octavia.
She had taken herself to the library to read a novel that Frances had sent to her, enjoying some peace and quiet. “I believe he is in the woods with his father. They are fishing, or so I am told.”
The butler smiled, a knowing look on his face. “You must be pleased to have him back, Your Grace?”
It might have seemed like an impertinent question from someone else, but she and Mr. Lincoln had become such dear friends over the past five years that it was almost like talking to Evelyn or Frances or Joan.
“I am not… displeased,” Octavia replied. “Simon certainly seems happier. Perhaps, I should feel insulted by that, but I am not; I am just glad that he has his father again.”
The butler paused. “But are you pleased?”
“Simon is my joy, Mr. Lincoln. Whatever makes him happy makes me happy,” she said, more sternly.
The butler was not the only one who had tried to coax out her true feelings on the matter of Malcolm’s return. Millicent, too, kept asking not-so-subtle questions. Why, even the cook had asked if Octavia felt more content, now that her husband had returned.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Mr. Lincoln said, a note of apology in his voice. “There is a letter for you, just arrived.”
He took out the letter and placed it on the side table beside the tea things.
“Will that be everything, Your Grace?” he asked, but she was already reaching for the correspondence, too distracted by the handwriting to answer.
Considering she had been something of a hermit over the past five years, she had learned the handwriting of everyone who was likely to send her correspondence. This one was not so familiar, though she knew it.
“It is from Selina,” she said in pleasant surprise, opening it up.
“Selina, Your Grace?”
Octavia nodded. “Evelyn’s dear friend. Goodness, I have not heard from her in an age! She must have returned from her travels.”
The former diamond of the season, adored by every man she encountered, and almost-bride to Hugo, once upon a time, Selina was happily married now, to a gentleman who took her to the most wondrous places.
Indeed, it was more common for Selina to be out of the country than in it, living her extraordinary life.
Inside the letter was an invitation to a ball in three days’ time at the couple’s country pile: a grand place that was at least a day’s carriage ride from Huntfield, nestled on the edge of the striking Dorset cliffs. A beautiful residence, but rather a long way away for a ball.
Then again, it was the end of summer, and everyone would be convening in London soon enough to escape the cold weather. And, knowing Selina, it would not be a ball to miss.
“It is an invitation,” Octavia said, tapping the edge of the letter against her lip, brimming with uncertainty.
“How wonderful.” The butler smiled. “Is it the last party of the summer?”
Octavia nodded. “Indeed, but… what do you think?”
“Think, Your Grace?”
“Should I attend?”
Mr. Lincoln chuckled. “I don’t know if it’s my place to decide that, Your Grace. If you’re worried about Simon, he will be in good hands, as always.”
“But, if I were to attend, I would have to extend the invitation to Malcolm, would I not?” she said, a flurry of nerves making her stomach flip.
“Although he does not like such gatherings. He probably would not want to come, even if I asked him. That might be better, actually, because then Simon would have his father here while I went to this gathering.”
The butler softened his voice as he said, “Your Grace, I think you’d have to ask His Grace if he wants to attend with you or not.
” He hesitated. “That being said, if it’s not too bold of me to say, it’s common enough knowledge now that His Grace is here at Huntfield.
People might gossip if you were to attend all alone. ”
Octavia chewed her lower lip in consternation. She certainly did not want a scandal, or anyone whispering about her. And she had felt so much better at Joan’s ball, with Malcolm at her side, fending off the stares and the mutterings with his mere presence.
But I cannot force him to go, and we would have to stay there.
Being husband and wife, that meant they would have to share a bedchamber… unless, of course, she could send her reply immediately and request separate chambers. Then again, if there were a great many people coming to stay, there might not be room for such an accommodation to be made.
Her nerves were rising, and she had not even asked Malcolm to attend with her yet.
“You are quite right, Mr. Lincoln,” she said, getting up. “I should speak to him about it before I make any decisions.”
She was halfway to the door when the butler called her back.
“I can fetch His Grace to you, instead of you traipsing into the woods to find him.”
Octavia shook her head, deciding that she would probably need the walk to clear her head before she spoke to Malcolm. “That is quite all right. I am quite capable of finding him myself, and I am most interested to see how Simon has fared in his fishing.”
She continued out into the hall, her heart already hammering wildly in her chest. Although she and Malcolm had shared the same spaces over the past few days, she had not truly spoken to him since he returned.
Right now, she doubted she would be able to get a single word past the tight feeling in her throat.
Outside, it was a lovely, mild day with just the faintest chill of changing seasons in the air. The leaves had not yet begun to turn, and would not for some weeks, but the promise of colder weather was there in the breeze.
Octavia marched across the lawn, wishing she had thought to put on sturdier boots before she left, and headed for the woods in the distance. The woods beyond the Dower House, where Malcolm led his mysterious existence whenever he left Huntfield of an evening.
By the time she found the path that she knew her husband and son had taken to reach a small stream, for Malcolm had been reluctant to take Simon back to the larger river, Octavia was breathless.
“Simon?” she called out, her shout muffled by the towering oaks and spongy moss.
“Mama?” the boy shouted back, her heart swelling as it did whenever she heard his sweet voice.
Hitching up her skirts so they would not trail in the mulch, she followed the path until she came to the stream in question.
Perched on a rock, her husband and son were dangling fishing rods into the crystalline water, shoulder-to-shoulder—or, rather, shoulder-to-ribs—looking so perfectly content that she wished she could have captured the moment to keep forever.
“Did you catch anything?” Octavia asked, beaming.
Simon nodded proudly. “Two trouts.”
“Will that be enough for our supper?”
The boy pulled a face. “They’re swimming again.”
“We have been catching them and putting them back,” Malcolm explained, his mouth quirked in a tempting half-smile, his green eyes meeting hers with an intensity that left her more breathless than the walk.
“Well, that is… very kind of you. I am sure they are glad of it,” she said, finding her voice again. “Malcolm, I wondered if I might have a word with you?”
Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Of course, lass.”
Lass… It had been weeks since he called her that, and she had not realized how much she missed the endearment. There was something about the way he said it that caused her heart to somersault and her skin to flush.
“Simon, why don’t ye find me some good skimming stones, so we can show yer mama what I’ve been teaching ye,” he added, as he took both rods and set them down.
With great enthusiasm, the little boy slid down from the rock and crouched on the pebbled shore of the stream, sifting through the array for the promised stones.
Meanwhile, Malcolm walked toward Octavia, moving slowly as if he feared she might bolt, his eyes never leaving hers.
Goodness…
When he was not near her, it was easy to forget just how tall and powerful he was.
It did not help the flush of her skin to notice that he had returned to his former uniform of a white shirt and his kilt, the teasing shape of his muscular chest and the sight of his bare calves drawing her eye quite against her will.
“Should I brace myself?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling through her.
“Pardon?”
“For whatever ye want to speak to me about,” he said. “Is the Dower House too close? I ken there’s a house nearby that I could buy, if it is.”
She blinked. “What? No, no, that is not… The Dower House is sufficiently far enough.” She gathered herself as quickly as she could, struggling to ignore the frantic thud of her heart. “Although it is a matter of distance.”
“What do ye mean?” He pulled on the front of his shirt, unsticking it from his broad chest.
Fishing with a child had its perils, and being splashed was clearly one of them, the white of his shirt having turned almost transparent. Translucent, certainly.
She forced herself to keep her eyes up. “An invitation came just now, from an acquaintance of mine. She has a country residence in Dorset. Rather beautiful, right there on the cliffs. It is, however, quite far, and there would be a requirement to stay at her home.”
Wishing she had something to fan herself with, she waited patiently for his reply. Instead of speaking, he just gazed into her eyes, his brow slightly furrowed as if he was the one waiting for her to speak.
At last, with the ghost of a smile, he asked, “Are ye asking me to come with ye, lass?”
“What?” She squinted up at him… and realized she had not actually asked.
“Oh, well… most of society are aware that you are in England, here at Huntfield. There might be some raised eyebrows if I were to attend without you. Not to mention, there will probably be gentlemen there who would be interested in meeting you, to speak of business. It might be of great benefit to you if you were seeking new associates and investments.”
She did not know where that had come from. She had no idea who would be at Selina’s ball, though her husband would likely be a valuable associate.
Malcolm chuckled, his eyes bright. “If ye want me to escort ye, all ye have to do is ask. Ye don’t need to make up excuses.”
“I am not,” she protested, her cheeks feverishly hot.
“I am not keen to see my name in the scandal sheets, that is all. Society talks. It is what they love to do more than anything. But if it would be too much of an inconvenience, then perhaps it is better if we do not attend. Yes, it likely is too much, and it will mean being away from Simon for too long.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t go,” he told her, with that maddening smile of his.
A smile that she had thought belonged only to the amnesiac version of him.
“I’ve never been to Dorset,” he continued, taking a step closer. “And I wouldn’t mind seeing the sea, though I’d wager yer English coast is nothing compared to Scotland.”
“Actually, it is incredibly beautiful,” she remarked, flustered.
He moved closer still. “Och, well, how can I refuse then? I’ll have to see it for myself.”
His hand reached for her, and all the breath abandoned her lungs. Wide-eyed, she stared up at him as his fingertips brushed her hair, just above her ear.
She was about to ask what he was doing when he pulled his hand back, a slightly yellowed leaf pinched between his fingers.
“Seems the forest wants to adorn ye,” he said, as he blew the leaf from his hand. “Can’t say I blame it.”
Octavia gulped. What is he doing? Why is he saying such things?
“I will not make you attend,” she said thickly, “but I must reply very soon, as we shall need to leave in two days. So, do let me know your opinion.”
He smiled. “Ye can write to tell her we’ll be there.”
“You… wish to join me?”
“Why would I nae? Like ye said, I wouldn’t want any raised eyebrows or gossip. Nae for the wrong reasons, at least,” he replied, and she almost choked on her own shock.
What did he mean by that? What were the ‘right’ reasons for gossip? She stared at him in confusion, almost certain that her husband, who had been so quiet and respectful of her peace for the last few days, was… flirting with her.
And I am about to travel alone to a ball with him, to stay with him in Dorset? If it were not for the little thrill that shivered through her, she might have abandoned the idea altogether.