Page 50 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
He was in a mood by the time he reached home. His disposition was not improved when he entered and heard a loud banging from above. Old Alf was nowhere to be seen, but a movement caught Whiddon’s eye up on the stair landing. It was the hall boy. The slight figure slipped away and in a moment the pounding above stopped.
Whiddon continued on to his rooms and heaved a sigh of relief when he entered. It was brightly lit, warm—and empty. Slumping into a chair before the fire, he let himself slip into a good brood.
It was interrupted within minutes when a knock sounded. Old Alf came in with a tray. Whiddon stared. The footman had never been in his rooms, in his memory.
“Compliments of the countess,” the old man wheezed. He set the tray down on the table, bowed and withdrew.
Whiddon was too curious to ignore it. His stomach growled when he lifted the lid and warm, comforting aromas wafted out. There was a cooled bottle of ale and a crusty pie, leaking brown gravy at one seam. He sniffed appreciatively. Steak and kidney. There was a note, too. He sat, took a large bite of the pie and unfolded the paper.
Gabriel,
I refused to eat the slab of sauce-covered raw meat your cook tried to pass off as dinner. I ordered a lovely pie from my favorite cook shop and thought you might like one, too.
Charlotte
There was a second page,too. It was a sheet of paper, covered with sketches, all of the same woman. She wore a cap and looked bright and animated in one. In another she concentrated fiercely on something she stirred in a bowl. A third showed her shaking out a length of fabric. He frowned at the images as he ate and finally decided she was one of his maids. The one that had met them in the entry hall last night, wasn’t it? God’s teeth—had that only been last night?
Sated, he sat back and stared at the page again. Charlotte was talented, no doubt. She’d caught the girl exactly and portrayed her with a tender and respectful dose of humor. He could nearly feel the girl’s eagerness. But why had Charlotte sent it to him?
Only one way to find out.
He was on his feet and knocking on their connecting door before he could think better of it. He went on through before she could think better of it.
Caught by surprise, he halted on the other side. The room was bright with the light of several lamps and a multitude of candles. It was scrupulously clean, though somewhat bare. The bed was made up, though it still lacked hangings. The dressing room door stood open, and he could see a bath inside, still full. All of this he caught in a swift glance, before his gaze locked on the figure of his wife, sitting before the fire with a book in her lap. Her long hair was combed to one side, a waterfall of gold, drying in the heat of the flames.
Seeing him enter, she closed her book, straightened and smiled. Gesturing, she bade him to take the chair across from her.
He wanted to move, but his traitorous brain was locked on the sight of her, curled up so comfortably and beckoning him to come and share. It focused on the curling ends of her hair, draped over her shoulder and caressing her breast. It lay right where he’d touched her when he’d kissed her. He could feel the warm weight of her flesh in his hand, still.
“You see?” She smiled and waved a hand to encompass the room. “We managed it. Got enough done for me to sleep here, in any case. Your rooms are your own, again.”
There they were, the silver flecks in her blue eyes. They shone like stars in the fire light. “Oh, yes. Thank you.”
“Come and sit. Did you want something?”
God’s teeth. Yes, he wanted something. He wanted to kiss her again, her mouth on his, her body beneath him. He wanted her . . . everything.
He cleared his throat and suddenly recalled the paper in his hand. He held it up. “Yes. I wanted to know why you are drawing sketches of the maid.”
She beckoned again and he—finally—moved forward and sat across from her. If, for a moment, he might have harbored the fear that she might try to seduce him, it was put to rest by the sight of her. She was scrubbed clean and fresh and wrapped up tightly in an old flannel robe that was too large and cinched up to her chin.
“Oh, that.” She looked slightly uncomfortable. “It’s what I do, when I’m trying to . . . learn someone. I watch and listen and draw and think.”
“You’re trying to learn the maid?”
“Yes, and I think I like her.”
“I could tell.”
She looked surprised. “You can?”
He handed over the page. “From the way you drew her. I could see that you liked her.”
“Could you?” She blinked down at the images she’d created as if she’d never realized she was revealing things about herself as she studied others. She didn’t look entirely happy about it, either. He didn’t blame her. If it were him, he’d toss away his charcoal and never pick it up again.
“Well.” She nodded. “I do like her. She’s quite willing, almost relieved, to be tackling the house. She knows what she’s about, too.” She lifted her head and breathed in. “Do you smell that?”
“What?”
