Page 7 of The Reckless Love of an Heir
Her head turned and her gaze caught on his, as though she sensed him watching. Perhaps she saw the laughter in his eyes because her mouth formed a firm line, expressing annoyance. She looked down at her plate and focused on eating.
A little sound of humour that he failed to catch in his throat escaped his lips as he turned to Alethea again. He coughed, then smiled. ‘Now Susan has decreed you will visit me, so that she may paint orchids, you must visit me often.’
Alethea gave him one of her brightest, prettiest smiles. ‘Susan knows me well enough to be certain I will come. She did not force my hand. You are injured. So she was not being presumptuous if that is what you are hinting at, merely kind enough to understand how much I want to be with you.’
Prettily said, and very commendably done. The sisters were close. Whenever he and Susan sparred verbally in Alethea’s hearing, she would step in to defend her sister. Even though Susan was perfectly capable of defending herself.
When he answered Alethea his voice turned sickly sweet for the sake of Susan hearing it across the table. ‘Then thank you. I will look forward to your visits.’
It was true. He was truly melancholy and feeling selfishly sorry for himself since his accident, and he would, without any jesting, appreciate Alethea’s presence; she would jump at his every breath to please him. There was much to be said for being at home when he was ill.
Alethea’s turquoise eyes shone with happiness. Her moodswere as open to read as one of the books in the library which Susan loved, while Susan, the booklover, kept her pages firmly closed.
‘So tell me, how are we to fill our time while I recover?’ The less joyous part of his return was that he was fully prepared to be bored to death as there was so little he was capable of doing.
‘I shall call every day if you wish, and we can play cards or chess. Or I can read to you…’ Alethea reassured.
3
The door to the library opened. Susan looked up, her fingers tightening their hold on the thin paintbrush. ‘Henry…’ The tone of her voice implied,What are you doing here?
For over an hour, she had been sitting at Uncle Robert’s desk happily painting. She had come straight here when she arrived, avoiding Henry.
She sensed herself colouring when he looked at her with a questioning gaze. She had not meant to be rude, merely been engrossed in her painting and caught by surprise.
He was in dishabille, informal, wearing trousers, a shirt and his sling, he had no black neckcloth or waistcoat or morning coat on. It was unseemly really, but she supposed it was due to his injury, and this was his home – if he could not be comfortable here, then where?
He hesitated, still by the open door. Samson stood beside him, awaiting his master’s next movement.
Some decision flickered in Henry’s eyes and he shut the door behind him.
They should not be in a room together with the door shut, nomatter that they had been raised almost as closely as a brother and sister. Alethea was treated like his sister here too and she was going to marry him.
‘Sorry,’ he uttered in a low tone as he crossed the room, with Samson at his heels. ‘I forgot you were in here.’
He was not his normal bold, brash self. He walked past the desk, looking from her to the leather sofa which stood side-on to the hearth, his expression odd.
When he passed one of the windows, the bright spring sunlight shone through the fine cotton of his shirt, outlining his torso in silhouette. An odd sensation twisted in Susan’s stomach. He was very lean, yet not thin, muscular, in the way the grooms were in her father’s stables. They were the only other men she had seen in their shirts; mostly when they were birthing mares, when they would strip off and roll up their sleeves.
‘Where is Alethea?’ she asked.
‘Taking the other dogs for a turn about the garden with Christine and Sarah. I told her I wished to sleep.’
‘Then why are you not upstairs?’
‘I prefer to sleep in here. I like the comforting smell. It reminds me of my youth.’
‘When did you spend any time in this library as a child?’ Her retort was swift, and again the rudeness in her tone was evident. She could not help herself where Henry was concerned. Heat flared in her cheeks.
‘I spent hours in here, Susan.’ His voice did not rise to match her boorishness but purely denied her accusation. ‘They were just not the hours I spent with you and Alethea. Papa used to bring me here and we would sit together and go through the books all the time. He taught me to appreciate such things and hold the responsibility for?—’
‘He must be so disappointed,’ she interrupted. She really could not help herself.
‘Why?’ He had reached the sofa but turned and looked at her, challenging her with his gaze as well as the question.
His good hand lifted and rested on his bad arm – as though he were in pain.
She smiled, trying to mimic the mocking smiles he regularly gave her. ‘Because you are hardly responsible. Only a fool would drive a curricle in a race on the roads. You might have broken your neck, not sprained your wrist.’
