Page 81 of The Work of Art

“I’m all right. And so is Persy. And so are my nerves.” Her eyes were shining. She squeezed his hand. “Arthur, I’ve been trying to tell you…I think you mustn’t even realize…”

Arthur removed a stray hairpin that clung to a lock of her hair. “Realize what, my dear?”

“You walked into this room without your cane.”

Arthur stared at her for several seconds, uncomprehending before looking down and seeing for himself that his cane wasn’t with him. In his urgency to go to his hurt wife, he’d failed to pick it up when he left the library. Without even knowing it, he’d walked all the way across the hall and into the morning room completely unaided.

“I saw it all, my boy.” The earl made his way into the room. “Every step.”

Philly turned her head with a start, registering the earl’s presence for the first time.

Jasper and Dash leapt to their feet, and Fox growled a low warning. Basil stayed where he was, anchored by his mistress, his dark eyes sharp as flint.

“Philly,” Arthur said, “may I present my father, Edward Heywood, Seventh Earl of Gordon. Sir?” He looked at the earl, an unmistakable ring of pride in his voice. “This is Phyllida Heywood. My wife.”

Philly’s bedroom was dark as pitch. The curtains were drawn, the fire had died down, and the single candle by the bedside had sputtered out some time ago. Her cheek rested on Arthur’s bare chest, her arm draped across his midsection as he absently stroked her hair.

Even if she hadn’t felt him touching her, Philly would have known he was awake. Arthur never slept in her bed. He held her until she drifted to sleep in his arms.

And then he left.

The knowledge that he would leave soon, returning to his own bed, made her press herself more closely against him, as if she might hold him to her in just such a way that would prevent him from going.

Arthur responded by closing his arms around her more securely. “You and my father were getting along famously this evening. I began to think I’d never have you to myself again.”

Philly smiled to herself. Since the moment of their marriage, Arthur had been accustomed to receiving her undivided attention, but tonight, for the first time, he’d been obliged to share it.

No matter whether she’d been listening to his father’s dignified musings about a famous stallion named Gringolet (Every foal guaranteed to have the temperament of a saint!), or attending Mrs. Ogilvy’s bubbly chatter about an equally famous modiste name Madame Moreau (Gowns of gossamer, held together by nothing but silken thread and a few French prayers!), Arthur had remained silent, the shadow of a scowl marring his brow.

When she’d retired to bed ahead of the rest of the company, she’d suspected he wouldn’t be long in joining her.

She hadn’t been wrong.

Arthur had entered her room less than half an hour later, and with complete disregard for the presence of Sara, taken Philly into his arms and kissed her. There had been no time for talking. His need for her had been too great.

“Will they be staying long with us, do you think?” she asked.

“They haven’t said, but my father only ever brings that French chef of his on visits lasting more than a fortnight.” Arthur fell quiet a moment before asking, “Do you mind it very much?”

“Not at all. I’m a little out of practice playing hostess, but I hope I shall rally enough to be a credit to you.”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Besides, I like your father and I’d be happy to know him better.”

“Of course you like him. He spent all of dinner talking to you about horses and hounds.”

“Do you think he approves of me?” she asked.

“Approves? He’s halfway to believing you’re an angel.”

“If he thinks well of me at all, it’s only because he imagines I had something to do with your walking this morning.”

Arthur twisted a lock of her hair around his fingers. “My father has been waiting these three years for me to effect a miraculous recovery. He’d rather believe almost anything than accept the truth.”

Philly was rather reluctant to accept the truth herself. According to Arthur, his walk from the library to the morning room had been nothing more than a short-lived physical response to a crisis. He’d told them it had nothing at all to do with actual healing, and had cautioned them not to make more out of it than it was.

She suspected that his words had been as much for his own benefit as for theirs.