Page 5 of Counting on Love

Still. They were fond of one another. They could converse companionably about something. His six months away, perhaps? But she would not be interested in his aunts, funny though he found them, and it was inappropriate to discuss his father’s illness with her.

Then he remembered with relief that he’d brought her a gift, a gold bracelet set with gemstones. He’d give it to her. They’d exchange pleasant stories about Bath. He’d take her to bed and this awkwardness would dissipate.

He cleared his throat and set his drink on the end table. “Come, sit by me.” He gestured. “I have something for you.”

She rose and came to sit close. Her perfume was new. Something heavy. Foreign. Alluring. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, but she held herself so stiffly he retreated. The pillows bunched behind him. Her perfume mingled with the odd, smokey odor he’d noted before, apparently emanating from the davenport.

He ignored the nagging feeling that he was missing something important. Taking the box from his jacket and handing it to her, he imagined, or hoped, it would right what had slipped askew.

Rather than open it, she set it down on the cushion. “I shouldn’t accept.”

“No?” Annie had never been one to demand extravagances, but she’d never before refused a present he’d brought her. So he had offended her. “Should I have…?”

What? He didn’t know what was correct in these situations. How was a man supposed to return to his mistress after a six-month absence?

“Should I have written?”

Her eyes widened. “Darling.” She laughed a little. “You are such a dear. Of course, it would have been sweet of you to write to me, but I didn’t expect it. Whatever would you have said?”

“I don’t know.” He took a stab at it. “That I missed you.”

“Ah.” She shook her head, smiling, but her eyes were shiny, a bit sad. “Did you?”

He nodded, yet didn’t say the words. In truth, he’d given her so little thought it was a miracle he’d remembered to buy her a gift.

“Darling, look at me.”

He did.

“How do I look to you?”

His answer was automatic. “Beautiful.”

“Look closer.” She leaned her face close to his, but when he bent to kiss her, she put a finger to his lips. “Do you know how you appear to me?”

He drew back sharply, confused. As his back slapped against the pillows, the smoke scent wafted out and he recognized it: Stale tobacco.

He didn’t smoke.

“You look to me like a man growing bored. A man who has outgrown his mistress.”

“That isn’t true.” How could she surmise that from how he “looked?” He felt a bit panicked. He hadn’t anticipated this. How could he have? “Let’s go to bed.” He’d prove he wasn’t bored with her.

She shook her head and laid her hand on his. “I need to tell you something first.”

First. All right. He turned his hand over, so they were palm to palm. He didn’t claim to understand women, but suspected if one wanted to talk, it was best to listen. Then he would ask if she had begun smoking cigars.

No, of course, he wouldn’t.

“Go on.”

She hesitated a moment before squeezing his hand. Then she said, “How old do you suppose I am?”

“What?” Where on earth was she going with all of this?

“How old?”

He didn’t know, but he knew better than to guess. “Not very. Older than I am. Not enough to matter.”