That afternoon, Rosalind joined Catherine in the morning room, where papers lay arranged in orderly stacks and a list of guests was held in place by a brass paper knife. Catherine glanced up from the names and smiled.
“You have been out?” she asked.
Rosalind seated herself beside her and reached for the teapot.
“I have,” she said. “Alexander and I walked beyond the orchard. We ended at the overlook above the stream.”
Catherine’s brows lifted, the corners of her mouth twitching.
“And did all go well?” she asked lightly.
Rosalind hesitated before answering.
“I find I enjoy his company,” she said at last. “He speaks well, but listens better. There is a steadiness in him unlike anything I ever encountered in London.”
Catherine paused, her eyes studying Rosalind with quiet interest. When she spoke again, her tone was certain.
“I believe he observes more than he declares,” she said. “And I believe he likes what he observes in you.”
Rosalind glanced down at her cup.
“Do you think such a thing possible? He is a baron, and I—merely a companion to a newly-made countess.”
Catherine looked at her cousin as though she had spoken nonsense.
“I think we have both seen the limits of social advantage,” she said. “Marcus and I married for practical reasons, but I have come to value what cannot be arranged by title. Do not close your mind to possibility, not if it brings you joy.”
Rosalind looked more closely at her cousin, noting the softened expression in her eyes as she spoke of her husband.
“Catherine,” she said with quiet astonishment, “are you saying that you are developing feelings for Marcus?”
Colour rose in Catherine’s cheeks as she shook her head quickly.
“I am saying no such thing,” she replied, refusing to meet Rosalind’s gaze. “Only that the unexpected has a way of surprising us when least looked for.”
Rosalind arched a doubtful brow but let the matter rest. Still, she wondered: could the marriage Catherine had once dreaded be leading both women toward something neither had anticipated?
***
“Positively extraordinary, Marcus,” Alexander said, musing. He stood with Marcus near the hearth in the study. Books lined the shelves, and the faint scent of parchment and tobacco clung to the corners of the room.
Marcus looked up from the letter in his hand, brow faintly arched.
“Extraordinary?” he asked. “I cannot see what is so unusual in the Society’s request for additional notes on the coin catalogue.”
Alexander gave a low chuckle, shaking his head.
“I was not speaking of the Society,” he said. “I was speaking of you.”
“Of me?” Marcus set the letter aside on the desk, his frown deepening.
“Of your manner around your wife,” Alexander clarified, almost lazily, though his eyes were sharp with amusement.
A rush of heat crept up Marcus’s neck.
“What of it?” he asked, tone more defensive than intended.
Alexander regarded him steadily, his arms folding across his chest.
