Everyone had been wrong.
Or, perhaps, in yoking her to him, he’d damaged her sweetness.
He’d married, in part, to distract himself from his unhappiness. Now he feared, in fateful irony, he had, instead, sentenced Cassandra to dwell with him in misery, too.
If he was going to reorient them both to a more promising future, he’d need to gather his wits and form a plan.
Chapter Three
Harbury leaned hisshoulder against his library’s arched entry, observing his wife in silence. Cassandra had shed the bright yellow morning dress she’d been wearing at breakfast for a nondescript brown one made of coarse fabric. But rather than rendering her common, the simple dress enhanced her features, contrasting her skin’s soft tone and accentuating her slim figure.
Judging by the lamentations his housekeeper had subjected him to on his return from his ride, as well as by the state of his library, Cassandra’s sartorial simplicity was part of a plan to turn herself into a cyclone and rampage through his books.
At this end of the library, some shelves were bare, while others were haphazardly arranged. Springing up from the floor like multifaceted stalagmites were—he counted—fourteenpiles of books. Twenty, if he included the stacks of folios filled with paper.
What had possessed her to take on this task?
When Mrs. Pratt had accosted him, he’d steadfastly defended the havoc his wife had wrought, even going so far to imply he’d previously agreed to whatever changes she intended to make.
The duchess, he insisted without having seen the mess she had made, was not destroying the collection, but improving the organization. And she was doing so, he said, simply because the occupation pleased her.
Defense had been his duty. But when it came to his wife, he could only guess at her motivation. At least she appeared less unhappy, now.
Her upset last night, as well as her anger this morning, had weighed on him as he rode both to and from Rose Cottage. Though he had not, as hoped, found Anderson at home—in fact, no one had even answered the door—his excursion had been fruitful. He’d been able to think through their current situation without his wife’s distracting presence.
Two things had become apparent: one, he and Cassandra must establish a mutual accord and two, until they had established a solid, mutual accord, they would be wise to abstain from the temptations and complications of the marriage bed.
The next time he crossed the threshold between their chambers, he wanted to be sure of his welcome.
Gazing at her now, he became ever more aware that his sacrifice was not going to be easy.
She was halfway up a ladder, piling her left arm full of books she would, no doubt, place on top of one of the many stacks. If she knew she’d sent Mrs. Pratt, a woman who prided herself on reserve, into an apoplectic frenzy, she remained unperturbed.
In fact—he leaned forward—she washumming.
A light feeling expanded in his heart. Very little humming had graced the spaces of Harbury Hall. At least not in the prior duke’s earshot.
He cleared his throat.
Cassandra turned abruptly, setting herself and the pile of books in her arms awobble.
Harbury bounded across the room to grab hold of the rails and steady the ladder.
“Goodness!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide. “Is it already time for tea?”
“I’m a bit late, actually.” He waited a breath for his heartbeat to slow. “Would you like me to help you down?”
She shook her head. “I can manage.”
Nonetheless, he kept a white-knuckled grip on both siderails while she descended, willing himself not to imagine the possible consequences of a fall.
“You weren’t jesting.” She eyed the mantel clock. “Why it’s almost three! Where did the time go?”
Into wrecking his library, apparently.
Oddly enough, he found himself amused rather than angry. Because he’d already come to her defense? Or because she looked so delighted and flushed?
“Well, clearly, you’ve been busy.”
