Marcus stilled.
She reached up and adjusted the fall of his cravat, her fingers brushing the pulse point just beneath his jaw. The contact was brief but vivid. She felt the catch in his breath, and something of her own breath caught in answer.
Neither of them moved.
Her hand lingered a moment longer than necessity allowed. His gaze met hers, intent and searching, as though the roles between them had shifted by some subtle degree.
A long moment passed before he cleared his throat.
“Thank you,” he said. “I was not aware it had jostled loose.”
Catherine gave him a slow dip of her head.
“It had,” she said with a quiet smile, lowering her hand.
He offered a small nod and adjusted the folios under his arm.
“The first carriage appears to be approaching,” he said. “I believe that is the Hartwell coat of arms.”
Catherine turned to the windows.
“Then let us greet them together,” she said.
As they moved toward the front doors, side by side, she felt something shift within her. At first, marriage to Marcus had been a safeguard, a way to claim her place in the world. She had not expected to admire him this deeply, nor to feel this bond building each day.
The professor’s carriage rolled to a stop in the driveway promptly at the appointed hour. Catherine, standing just within the entry hall, smoothed the cuffs of her gown and lifted her chin as the liveried footman opened the door.
William Hartwell stepped down first. A man of dignified bearing, his hair shone silver in the morning sun, and wire spectacles perched comfortably on his nose. He took in the front of the house with a look that was more pleased curiosity than critical appraisal.
Mrs Beatrice Hartwell followed, descending with the composure of someone long accustomed to commanding servants and pupils with a single glance. Her gaze swept across the drive, the hedges, the flower arrangements within the vestibule, and finally, the line of servants discreetly stationed just inside. There was a glint of appraisal in her eyes, but not unkindness.
Catherine advanced with practised ease.
“Professor and Mrs Hartwell,” she said with a warm smile, extending her hands in welcome. “It is a pleasure to receive you at Penwood. I hope your journey from Oxford was a comfortable one.”
The professor nodded.
“Indeed, it was,” he said. “You must be Lady Penwood. My wife and I have long anticipated this visit, and it is truly a pleasure to meet you. I confess I have been eager to see the Roman artefacts your husband has mentioned in his letter.”
Mrs Hartwell curtseyed, surveying Catherine with the same scrutinous eye with which she had studied the front of the estate.
“And I have been equally eager to see how a newly married couple might manage a household while hosting a gathering of this scope,” she said, her eyes sharp but not unfriendly. “So far, I am encouraged.”
Catherine met her gaze directly, allowing the barest curve to touch her lips.
“I am grateful for your confidence,” she said. Your suite has been prepared in the blue rooms, where I trust you will find both comfort and quiet. Mrs Thornberry will see to any requests you may have.”
As William and Beatrice were shown upstairs, the rumble of wheels on gravel announced the second carriage.
Mr James Morrison alighted before the horses had fully stopped. A stout man with wind-reddened cheeks and a vigorousred beard, he wore a broad grin as he clapped Marcus on the back.
“Lord Penwood, you book-hoarder,” he said in a thick Scottish accent. “You never said the countryside round here was so fine.”
Eleanor stepped down more cautiously as Marcus returned the greeting, but her eyes were already alight with delight as she caught sight of the estate’s southern elevation.
“Look at that, darling,” she said, gripping his sleeve. “Those windows must catch every scrap of morning light. Perfect for laying out parchment maps or comparing inscriptions.”
Mr Morrison patted his wife’s arm with endearment.
