Page 114 of The Scandalous Love of a Duke
John threw a look at Phillip which said,follow, and headed upstairs. His heart was thumping. He had not realised until this morning just how much he cared what Katherine thought. But her judging him poorly over Wareham had hurt. Yet he had no intention of explaining, let her think what she wished, he was not bringing anything from his official life into his bed; they were different lives. She had called him John Harding this morning. He wished to just be John Harding with her.
God, he wished to laugh at himself. He was such a bloody fraud. Here he was, pretending he could manage an empire of land and people and businesses when the thought of a scrawling infant, his own, sent him running a mile.
He heard his mother’s voice, and Mary’s, and some of the children’s. His heart pumped harder. He did not hear Katherine’s. He longed to hear it. He had missed her today.
When they entered the room Mary was immediately on her feet, moving to greet Phillip. John’s mother looked up and smiled. Katherine was not there.
John’s gaze passed to his father who was seated in an armchair, a ledger on his lap as he spun a charcoal pencil in his fingers and followed the columns.
He looked up, acknowledged Phillip and John, then returned his attention to the page.
The boys were grouped about the table behind his father’s back, playing with an army of lead soldiers that had once been John’s.
The girls were all seated about his mother, as though they had been avidly listening to something she or Mary had been saying. The young ones were on their laps.
His gaze spun back to his mother.
‘Mama…’
She smiled, clearly understanding his unspoken question. ‘Katherine went to lie down. It has been a long afternoon. We have had numerous visitors and she has managed remarkably well. You should be very proud of her, John. I took her into town this morning too, we purchased the accessories and other items she needs. I think I have exhausted her.’
‘I will fetch her,’ he said, looking at Phillip, and then he immediately left the room.
He wondered how he would be received as he entered his chamber. She was not in his bed. Was that a statement of her feelings?
He did not find her on her bed either though. There was a maid there, busy putting the purchases into drawers and wardrobes. ‘Your Grace, Her Grace went down to the library.’
John thanked the maid and retraced his steps. There was anxiety inside him but there was a sense of expectation too and hopefulness. It was the strangest feeling to have someone he wished to come home to. He remembered feeling so damned arid in the desert and now he felt an intense thirst to be with her.
The library door was ajar, but there was no sound from within as he crossed the marble floor.
He pushed the door open and closed it behind him, shutting out the world as it had been locked out last night.
All he saw of her was her slipper-clad feet swinging from the side of an armchair. Her slender ankles were crossed.
He felt an involuntary smile lift his lips and walked forward.
She was seated sideways, her knees draped over the arm of the chair with one of his sketchbooks spread open on her lap. She was so busy looking at the pictures she had not heard him come in. She turned a page, then must have sensed his presence and looked up.
His arms folded across his chest. ‘Katherine?’
She moved immediately, guiltily, snapping the book shut and rising impulsively. ‘Sorry, John, I know I should not be looking…’
He took the book from her hands. ‘You can look.’
‘I did not mean to pry. I came to find a book to take to my room and I noticed it lying on the shelf under your desk. When I saw it said Egypt I was… curious. Sorry.’
‘Curious about what?’ He laughed.
He had expected a tirade when he came home, anger or silence, because he had left her here all day without him. They had been married for two and a half days, and he had failed her four times. He felt disloyal, and unworthy of her.
She looked beautiful, dressed in sunny lemon yellow, her hair pinned in a tidy chignon, leaving only a few soft curls to frame her face. But she also looked thin and frail. She had lost weight since the summer. He had noticed it last night. But she had spent three months without him, frightened and sick, while he had sent her pleading letters imploring her to love him.
He was an ass, while she… She was an angel.
‘How you lived? What you did out there? What you saw?’
‘And what has the sketchbook told you?’
