Page 32 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

It was the work of a moment to wash her face and hands and to repair her hair, but she took her time about it. When she finally emerged from the bedroom, her paletot draped over her arm, their meal had arrived. It was arranged in covered silver serving dishes on a cloth-draped table at the center of the room. Justin was standing nearby, his hands clasped behind his back.

He gave her a look of inquiry. “Shall we eat?”

She dropped her paletot on the chair alongside her bonnet and gloves and joined him at the table. He pulled out a chair for her before taking a seat himself.

“There’s champagne,” he said. “Or lemonade, if you prefer.”

“Champagne, if you please.”

Justin filled her glass and then his own. She thought for a moment that he might propose a toast to their marriage. It seemed the traditional thing to do.

He didn’t propose a toast.

Helena supposed this sort of marriage was not the kind to inspire one. The thought depressed her a little. She raised her glass to her lips and took a drink, watching as Justin did the same.

She’d never had champagne before. The bubbles tickled her nose. For an instant, she feared she might sneeze. But then she took another swallow and the sensation subsided.

Justin began to remove the covers from the serving dishes. The smell of roast chicken and potatoes wafted into the air, making her mouth water. And, “Ah look,” he said. “Fresh bread.”

Helena leaned forward in anticipation as he filled her plate.

And then, for the next two hours, they ate and drank and talked, discussing everything and nothing.

Helena hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Nor how deeply she yearned for conversation. And Justin Thornhill, for all his gruffness, seemed in a particular mood to oblige her. He filled her glass when it was empty and encouraged her to take second helpings of food. And he talked to her—about the weather, the history of King’s Abbot, and the tumbledown state of Greyfriar’s Abbey.

“It must have needed a fair amount of work,” she said. They’d finished their meal and were halfway through a strawberry tart. She felt as if her corset was going to burst.

“A vast understatement,” he said.

She set her fork down beside her plate, giving Justin her full attention. “Why did you want it, then? You weren’t still looking for the treasure, were you?”

“God no. I doubt there was ever any treasure to begin with.” He looked down into his glass, frowning. “I suppose, you might say I bought Greyfriar’s Abbey for sentiment. I spent most of my young life thinking it was the grandest house in England.”

“It is very grand.”

“Once, perhaps. Now it’s merely expensive.”

“Did you never consider buying a property that was in better condition?”

“No.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I was foolishly single-minded in my pursuit of the Abbey. Once I learned there was a way to make it mine, I didn’t stop to consider the village superstitions or the fact it had fallen into such disrepair.” He paused. “Nor did I consider how it would suit a wife.”

Helena leaned back in her chair. She was feeling thoroughly sated. Gorged, in fact. And, for the first time in months, in perfect harmony with the world about her. “I cannot speak for other wives,” she said, “but I like it very well.”

“You shall like it a great deal better in a moment. We’ve managed to hire a housekeeper. A woman named Mrs. Standish. You may recall her from that first afternoon when she came to meet with Boothroyd at the King’s Arms.”

Helena remembered her well enough. She was the sour woman of middle years who’d glared at her with so much scorn.

“I thought you were going to marry her,” she said.

Justin was surprised into a hoarse crack of laughter. “What?”

“When I came to the private parlor at the King’s Arms, she was inside with Mr. Boothroyd. She gave me such a look.”

He ran a hand over his face. “Good God.”

“I was so disappointed.”

“No doubt.”