Page 19 of Holding Onto Love

She was quiet a long moment, then admitted, “Sometimes I am. I’m sorry.”

“For God’s sake, don’t be sorry. How could you not be bored? You rarely leave the house.”

“I have nowhere in particular to go. Jasper, it hasn’t been terrible. You mustn’t think so. I have been…recuperating.”

That shook him. “Mourning?” Her husband was only a few months in his grave. He shouldn’t keep forgetting that.

She nodded. “Yes. But not only Henry. I–I lost others too. In truth, I lost all my friends. So many are still there. And I worry about them. Can you understand?”

“I’d be a beast if I could not.” He drew a breath. Blew it out. This was not the time to ask her to attend the theater. That much was obvious. But she was bored. His greatest fear was realized. He was a boring man. “What can I do? The pianoforte, certainly. Would you like…” He wracked his brains for something to offer. “A companion?”

“A companion? Do you mean a paid friend? A chaperone for your mistress?”

He groaned. “I’m at a loss.”

“You’re sweet. And I appreciate that you care. But it is time that I need. Time that I don’t mind spending doing mindless things. Tell me this: What did you intend to argue about?”

“It doesn’t matter. We may leave it for another day.”

“It does matter. And not because I am paid to be biddable. I want to know because I care.”

His heart actually ached. He spoke from it.

“I feel, sometimes, when I am going about in town, that I am your jailor.” He waited for her protest. Then hurried on when she made none. “I want to be with you. But I want the rest of my life as well. And I know you don’t like to be left alone—”

“I don’t feel imprisoned. And I certainly don’t wish for you to feel imprisoned alongside me.”

“I’m not expressing myself well.”

He threw off his part of the sheet and rose from the bed. He stepped to the washstand to splash water on his face. He avoided the mirror, fearing he would look dissipated, but then glanced anyway and saw he did not. Well, he had not been drinking. And he’d slept well. This was ridiculous. He was standing naked, worrying about how his face looked.

He turned to see Vanessa’s eyes fixed upon him. He snatched his banyan from the bedpost and put it on. He could be tempted again, but did not wish to be. He sat on the edge of the bed. Cleared his throat.

“You don’t eat fish unless there is nothing else. Because once, long ago, you ate a piece of fish that had turned.”

A little smile curved her lips. “You can, if you must, wear a poorly turned neckcloth but you will not abide one with a smudge.”

He chuckled. “You hum in your sleep.”

“You snore. Not often. But like this.” She made a snorting sound that was convincingly piglike.

“You have a wart on your left big toe.”

“I certainly do not!”

“Why do you think I am so enamored of your right foot?”

“It is a callous. My left shoe fits poorly.”

“Then I will buy you new shoes.”

She swung her feet back onto the bed and settled back against the propped pillows.

“I will graciously accept.”

He felt his smile grow. “You eat your eggs unsalted. You are a madwoman.”

“Are those two things?”