Page 17 of A Secret Correspondence
Besides, the man clearly had no interest inher. He only wanted to hear about her cat.
“Claude returned home.” She turned toward Harewood as she spoke, implying she would welcome his company on the walk. He fell in beside her, leading his horse at an unhurried pace. “I found her not long after you tried to bring me the wrong cat. She appeared in the window, waiting to be allowed in.”
“Did you permit her in?”
“Of course.” She reared her head in surprise. “You believe I would abandon her?”
“She could have brought an entire litter of kittens with her. You won’t know yet.”
Marguerite considered how to answer this. “It was not the kittens that worried me. Claude nearly died the last time she had to give birth, and I fear losing her.”
Mr. Harding observed her quietly, making her wish to put his attention on anything else. His blue eyes were darker than hers, but deep, and had a strange habit of penetrating when they wished to.
Marguerite cleared her throat. “How does your cat fare?”
“Well.” His smile grew. “I have named her Marcel.”
Marguerite coughed. “You’ve what? That is a man’s name.”
“So is Claude.”
“Yes, but my situation came about unintentionally. You will recall that by the time I realized Claude was not a male, she would answer to nothing else.”
Mr. Harding shrugged. “Marcel felt…right.”
She laughed, unable to hold the sound in. It released a glowing feeling in her chest, something she had not had in quite some time. When she glanced at Mr. Harding, he was not holding back his grin.
“Perhaps our cats are sisters,” he mused. His coat flapped over his legs as he walked, his boots loudly hitting the gravel. He was elegantly rigged out, his Hessians shining and shirt points pristine, but he had a way of moving that proved how little he cared for maintaining his perfection after he left his looking glass behind.
Marguerite suspected that if he was to muddy his boots, he would not be forlorn, as some fops were wont to be.
“Sisters?” She shook her head. “They do not look that similar, monsieur.”
“It was dark when I saw Claude,” he muttered. “You did not even know I held the wrong cat in your shop until you were closer.”
“That is true.”
The gravel drive curved onto the dirt road, curling around a bend of trees toward town. They followed the road, skipping the footpath that would have passed through the kissing gate and taken them to town faster. Mr. Harding would never be able to pass through with his horse, and Marguerite did not wish to bring his attention to it while she was nearby.
Now that she’d learned his identity, she had spent the last few weeks deciding how she wished to proceed. Every letter she attempted to write felt strange. She knew the secret, but he did not. If she said the wrong thing, would the puzzle pieces slot together for him, too? They could never be together—they were worlds apart. But they could possibly be friends.
She missed his friendship immensely.
“Those gowns were incredible,” he said. “Did you have any help?”
“No. I have considered taking an apprentice, but I appreciate my solitude.”
Mr. Harding seemed to muse over this. “I can see how it would be difficult to change your habits after being accustomed to independence.”
“What of you, Mr. Harding?” she asked.
“While my toilette does take a good deal of effort, I have not considered taking on an apprentice. Perhaps if my valet needs some additional help in the future?—”
“You know very well that is not what I meant.” She laughed.
He grinned, his teeth on wide display. Smile lines bracketed his mouth, giving his handsome face a more attractive edge until it turned rueful. “You heard Lady Faversham’s request, I take it? Everyone feels it is their responsibility to help me find a wife, it seems. It is as though they sense I am about to reachthirty years of age, and they worry I will forever remain a bachelor.”
“Would that be so terrible?” Her heart picked up speed. Indeed, she knew very well, through his own pen, that he desired companionship.
