He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, creating another warm thrill through her body.
She marvelled at how close the two of them were growing. Even with impending trouble, she had allowed herself to become attached to her husband.
“And I in yours,” she said softly, giving him another small smile.
Marcus nodded once more.
“Whatever happens,” he said, “We will manage this together, with the help of trusted family.”
She turned toward him again, and for one breathless instant, they stood nearer than ever before. The embers flared, throwing a sudden glow across the room, yet Catherine did not draw back.
She could not tell whether Marcus felt what she herself was beginning to feel—whether their marriage meant to him what it was coming to mean to her. Yet for the moment it was enough: the ease between them, whether in labour or in silence.
Perhaps, when this unhappy business was concluded, there might be time to speak of what had altered between them. For now, as she had reminded Marcus, their duty was clear. They must bring Harold to account—before it was too late, if indeed it was not already.
Chapter Nineteen
The house was quiet, every sound muffled by the hour and the weight of what lay ahead. Marcus had made his own silent rounds though the manor, finding nothing amiss.
Unable to sleep but afraid that his skulking might draw unwanted attention, he sat alone in the library, staring blankly at papers scattered idly across his desk. The fire had burned low, but he had barely noticed. His thoughts had turned inward.
He had replayed the past days in his mind, including every conversation, every detail of Harold’s behaviour, and every whispered exchange with Catherine.
The house, once merely his inheritance, now felt like something more. It was no longer simply his responsibility. It had become hers as well. And she had made it better, stronger, and more purposeful.
He had watched her move through the days with quiet precision, orchestrating what could have descended into chaos. The scholarly gathering had been his dream, his attempt to place Penwood at the heart of antiquarian pursuit. Yet Catherine had taken that ambition and given it form, order, and elegance. She had made the thing real. And she had made herself indispensable all the while.
And now, with true trouble looming over them and their home, as well as the guests who trusted them to keep them and their belongings safe, his countess had shown herself morecapable than ever. She managed all with such composure that one might believe nothing was amiss.
He leaned back in the chair; his hands slack over the arms.
Catherine’s face rose in his memory, only now, he saw not just the clever tilt of her brow when she disagreed, or the quiet concentration when she catalogued artefacts, but also the warmth she brought with her. The way she looked at him when she thought he would not notice. The way her presence, once neutral, now wrapped itself around his days.
He had entered this arrangement prepared for civility and usefulness. He had not expected her to become the most constant part of his thoughts. He had had the perfect chance to tell her as much. Why had he been such a coward?
Soft, uncertain footsteps sounded in the corridor. Then the door creaked open. He looked up.
As if summoned, Catherine stood framed in the doorway, wrapped in a pale pink gown with her hair loose about her shoulders. The sight of her struck him with such force that for a moment he could do nothing but look.
Something shifted between them then, invisible and irrevocable.
The careful distance that had once defined their marriage no longer felt natural. Not after all they had endured. Not after the quiet understanding that had grown with each passing day.
She hesitated, her gaze lowered, a faint uncertainty softening her composure.
“I grew restless,” she said.
Marcus rose slowly from the chair, his chest tightening at the vulnerability in her expression.
He nodded.
“You are welcome to join me, if you like,” he said.
She stepped into the room, her figure small and quiet against the lamplight. The door shut behind her with a soft click, and her bare feet made no sound on the rug as she crossed to the hearth.
He had not expected to see her again that night. For the past hour, he had assured himself she would not return—that weariness must send her to her chamber at last—though a quieter voice within had hoped otherwise.
“I thought a familiar book might calm my mind,” she said.
