“I believe Mrs Thornberry has outdone herself again,” he said. “She insisted you not be troubled with tonight’s menu.”
Catherine smiled, thinking fondly of how swiftly the housekeeper had warmed to her.
“I am grateful for her good sense,” she said with a faint smile. “I have little appetite for decisions that are not strictly necessary this evening.”
Marcus nodded, his look of quiet regard lingering.
“You have made quite a number of them today,” he said. “I confess myself impressed.”
Colour touched her cheeks, though she laughed.
“Some of them even turned out to be sound.”
“More than sound,” he replied gently. “You have given this week a precision and calm I could not have achieved alone.”
Pleased yet unsettled by the earnestness in his tone, she waved her hand lightly.
“Your memory of the week may be too indulgent.”
“It is not,” Marcus said, firm but not severe. “I am very exact when it comes to such things.”
She met his gaze across the candlelight.
“Then I shall accept the compliment in the spirit offered.”
They fell silent as the first course was set before them. When the servants had withdrawn, Catherine folded her napkin with a quiet sigh.
“Tomorrow feels very near all of a sudden,” she said, reaching for her wine.
His brow furrowed faintly.
“Are you uneasy?” he asked.
“A little,” she admitted. “I know your colleagues will not expect fanfare, but they will look to this household for signs of sound judgment. That includes me.”
His eyes warmed, steady and unwavering.
“I believe they will see what I see,” he said. “When we married, I hoped only for the prevention of disorder. Instead, you have brought more than steadiness. You have given shape to what was only potential.”
The words lingered between them, leaving her without any prepared reply.
“I only hope I shall not falter when it matters most,” she said softly.
“You have not faltered yet,” he replied, studying her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
Then, without ceremony, he reached across the narrow table and placed his hand lightly over hers. The contact was not dramatic or performative. Yet it stole the air from her lungs all the same. His hand was warm and steady. Her own remained still beneath it. She did not pull away.
Later, as they parted in the corridor outside their chambers, he paused beneath the glow of the lamps.
“I hope the gathering proves rewarding for you as well as for me,” he said. “You have earned the right to enjoy it.”
Her cheeks warmed again; she dared not hope he might reach for her hand a second time.
“Thank you,” she said. “I believe I shall.”
Marcus bowed, his gaze lowering briefly to her hand before he let it pass.
“Good night, Catherine.”
