Page 15 of The Marquis, the Minx, and the Mistletoe
"I imagine your cat is none too fond of that." Sheldon chuckled, shaking his head. "He was a territorial little bastard, from what I remember."
"He is persnickety," Callum confirmed, "but I have also caught him grooming the dog, when he thinks no one is looking, so who can say what is really going on there."
Sheldon gave a short huff of laughter, remembering something his mother had said once to him, during the bad times before she'd left. "The only people who know the truth about a marriage," she'd said, stroking his hair as he lay his head in her lap, all those years ago, "are the two people who got married."
It was a strange thought for household pets, but perhaps relevant nonetheless.
They stayed on the green, transitioning to a game of catch with an old leather ball as the sun moved across the sky. It was a shame that the days were so short during this time of year, when the sunlight was so brilliant during its sparse appearances. By the time they headed back into the manor, both children had rosy cheeks and red-tipped noses, both caught in the whirlwind between exhaustion and giddiness that marked a successful day of play.
Their nannies swooped in the instant they crossed into the foyer, with Callie's nanny looking particularly smug opposite Reggie's. Pretty girls, Sheldon thought, and yet he could not bring himself to raise the rake he knew lay dormant in his soul.
Again that flash of shapely, pale legs sprawled on lush carpet rose uninvited in his mind's eye. Again he shook his head to dislodge it.
At dinner tonight, or perhaps after, he would introduce the iron stars. He had it on good authority that the smell of lemon curd had been coming from the kitchens today, which only sweetened the anticipation of the evening to come.
He was lost in thought, sealskin boots covered in a layer of melted ice, which was still a fine, crystalline crust on the leather covering his shins. He had walked nearly all the way to the door of the green room before remembering that he was rooming elsewhere this Christmas.
If Miss Everstead herself hadn't appeared, leaving the bedroom that had always been his, he might have gone so far as to enter it again, unannounced. She exited backwards, pulling the door silently shut behind her, as though she had lived all her life shutting doors that must make no sound. He watched her, frozen in place in this abandoned hallway, and wondered what sort of life teaches a girl to close doors that way.
Her long, glossy black hair had been styled into curls and pinned at the crown of her head, despite how fetching she had looked with it streaming down her back this morning, and she wore a heavy woolen gown, meant to keep one warm in the colder months.
She turned to make her way down the hallway and stopped short, her eyes widening and cheeks flushing pink. She began to speak twice before managing to get a sentence out, at which point she said, "Lord Moorvale! I hardly recognized you."
Sheldon's hand went self-consciously to his jaw, smooth and alien under his fingers, and he gave a sheepish smile. "Aye, I hardly recognize myself," he confessed.
"Oh, and your cheek," she added, frowning at the glossy ointment that had hardened in the cold over the split in his skin. "I truly am remorseful for startling you so."
"Likewise," he said. "Though I would be lying if I said I wasn't pleased to see you, even at the expense of my beard."
"And a few drops of blood," she added, twisting her hands together, the shadow of a smile playing behind her lips. "I am pleased to see you too, Lord Moorvale. I thought I would encounter you during last Season, but I never did see or hear of you in London."
"Ah, I know." He frowned, cursing himself again for his tardiness. "It was poor planning on my part."
She lowered her eyes, those dark lashes resting on her pale cheeks while she drew in a fortifying breath. “It seemed to me a clear message, regarding last we saw one another. After all, you did not write.”
“Nor did you, my dear,” he said with a raise of his eyebrows. “Am I to take it that this was a clear message from you as well?”
“Women are not obligated to clarity in communication,” she quipped. “After all, we can’t go around kissing men in dark corners until we find one we like.”
“Well, you could,” he pointed out with a chuckle, “if you were very careful to avoid detection.”
"Sadly, I have never managed to master the art of keeping my own secrets. Speaking of which, I suppose everyone knows by now the reason I am here."
"Only vague impressions," he assured her, though he could not help flicking a glance to her hands, where yet still, no wedding band had found its place. "No one will cast stones at Somerton. That I can promise you."
"I am not worried about stones," she said, releasing her intertwined hands from one another under his gaze and smoothing down the wrinkles in her woolen skirt. It was calculated; a deliberate movement to display each finger to his inspection, all bare of bands and gems and claims on her as a wife. "Not yet, anyhow. That will be a concern for when I've left the safety of this place and returned for judgement to those I fled."
Sheldon's brows drew together, a dark thought passing through his mind. "Is that why you ran?" he asked, taking an instinctive step forward, as though to guard her from even the memory of such danger. "Was he a threat to you?"
Her big, dark eyes blinked up at him, their color so deep it looked almost purple, and the wry amusement in her expression melted away. "No!" she breathed, reaching out a hand to touch his chest, perhaps in reassurance or perhaps to stop him from coming any closer. "No, it was nothing like that. It was ... well," she looked away, giving her curls a little shake, "it was an impulse," she decided. "Perhaps a poor one. Certainly not a very smart one."
He reached up and placed his large hand over the dainty one sitting over his heart, drawing her focus back to him so that he might search her face for fear or pain. She did not look afraid, instead holding his gaze with an unreadable, if not curious expression on her face.
The warmth of her hand soaked through his shirt, drawing a faster heartbeat beneath her fingertips. The thought passed his mind that at any moment, a maid might pass this hallway and observe them in yet another compromising position. Still, he could not bring himself to break away.
She lowered her eyes to their connected hands, to the rather scandalous placement of her fingers on a man’s chest, and just when he thought she would recoil in embarrassment, she instead gave a bit of a smirk and met his eyes with what might have been a challenge.
“I was coming for you,” he said darkly, lowering his head so that his voice would not carry. “You simply were not patient enough.”
