She deposited the last book atop a shorter stack and then faced him, a martial glint in her eye.Oh yes.She knew exactly how much consternation she had caused.
Sweet, docile Cassandra had a contrarian side.
And though he’d been worried her marriage to him had harmed her, at present, she was happy—a profound relief to his conscience. And, oddly enough, he liked this surprising new aspect of his wife. She identified something she wanted, and she set out to accomplish her vision.
“Tea is set out in the red salon. Can you spare the time to join me?”
Her eyes flashed with challenge. “If you recall,Iinvitedyou.”
“So, you did.” He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Would you prefer another location?” He asked even though he knew, as well as she did, she was not yet familiar enough with the rooms to judge which would be most comfortable this time of day, which was why he’d chosen the red room.
But if she insisted on moving the tea to a west-facing chamber, he decided he was willing to suffer the heat.
Her lips contracted into an enticing little pout. “The red salon will do.”
He held out his arm. She hesitated for a moment then placed herhand against his sleeve. While she didn’t need an escort in their own home, he hoped small civilities like this one would lead to more substantial trust.
Together, they headed toward the parlor.
Over his lifetime, he’d walked like this most frequently either with his mother or with his sister. Occasionally, in private, with Viv.
Walking with Cassandra was a different experience all together. Their intimacy last night must have increased his awareness of her femininity.
She clung to him closely. So close, in fact, her breasts occasionally brushed him. Naturally, this caused a rather uncomfortable reaction, a reaction he subdued by raising his gaze and silently counting the buttresses along the corridor.One…two…three…
“Were you quite behind in your correspondence?” she asked lightly.
Toolightly.
“Pardon?” he queried, glancing askance.
“You must have written agreatmany letters.” She blinked rapidly, her face fixed with an expectant expression. “A letter to be sent abroad, perhaps? Translation would add difficulty, I presume.”
He tilted his head, frowning.
“French, was it?” She suggested. “Italian? Finnish? Finnish, I hear, is extraordinarily challenging to master.”
“I don’t speak Finnish. I wouldn’t know.”
“Nor do I. Which is why I specifically said I’dheardFinnish was a difficult language.”
He frowned. “Are you acquainted with someone who has attempted—”
“I know!” she interrupted. “You had to write the letter in Latin. To a scholar. One from your Oxford days.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said as politely as he could. “I am not following.”
“No? You told me you had to take yourself off towrite letters.”
“Ah, yes.” Vaguely, he recalled having used letter writing as an excuse to depart. He held open the door and she passed by into the room.
“Well?” She folded arms in front of her chest. “Did you?”
“No. I decided to visit the steward in person. Anderson, however, was out somewhere on our estate.”
She turned her head sharply atour.Her martial expression softened a degree.
He’d used the word accidentally, but he didn’t regret the slip. Somehow, he had to convey his desire to move forward…together. Whatever their difficulties, they were now joined.
