Page 105 of Duke of Sapphire

“When will I see him again?” Ian swung his legs under the chair. “Will we go back to Evermere next week? Or will they come here, an’ I can show him the rock in the garden that looks like a cow?”

“I am not certain when we shall see them again,” Charlotte answered. She broke off a corner of toast and forgot to eat it. “Soon, I hope.”

Soon. That is sensible. Perfectly ordinary. Unlike kissing one’s husband by a stream.

Her stomach gave an odd flutter. She pressed her hand flat against the table and tried to focus on the marmalade rather than the memory of Henry’s mouth brushing hers.

“Ian,” she said carefully, “did you enjoy the game? Squads and Sentinels?”

“Aye.” He grinned. “James kept droppin’ the ball, but we didnae let the enemy get him. An’ ye near fell in the water, but Sappherton caught ye.”

She felt heat climb into her cheeks. “Yes. That was truly kind of him.”

More than kind. Closer than any kind thing has any right to be.

Footsteps sounded in the passage. Charlotte’s spine straightened on instinct. She turned her head toward the breakfast room doorway.

Then she looked back at her plate as if toast required her whole attention.

“I liked the ducks too,” Ian went on. “They marched. Did ye see?”

“I did,” she said. She had. Right before Henry’s hand had gone to her waist. Right before everything else had gone entirely strange.

Henry walked into the room.

Charlotte raised her eyes. Their gazes caught and held.

Say something. Say good morning. Say anything at all.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Henry,” Charlotte managed.

“Good mornin’,” Ian added. “We’re talkin’ about James.”

“So I recall,” Henry replied.

He crossed to his place, each movement neat, and sat. A footman stepped forward at once with the coffee pot. Charlotte watched the dark liquid pour, watched Henry reach for the newspaper as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

It was not natural. He never read the paper at breakfast. He always spoke to Ian. He often drew Charlotte into some ridiculous argument about trade.

Today he lifted the paper like a shield.

Ian frowned. “Why are ye readin’ that now? Ye daenae read it in the mornin’.”

Henry kept his eyes on the print. “There is news I must address.”

“But ye can talk an’ read,” Ian protested. “Ye did it on the journey. Ye read letters an’ still scolded me.”

Charlotte bit the inside of her cheek.

Do not laugh. Do not make this worse.

“Today is different,” Henry said. “I have neglected the London reports. It will not take long.”

He did not look at her. Not once. Not even when she reached, somewhat blindly, for her cup and nearly upset the marmalade.

He regrets it. Or he has decided it was nothing at all. Lips touch in streams every day, apparently. Perhaps he thinks I misinterpreted him. Perhaps I did.