Page 121 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

The laugh escaped before Tamsin could stop it and Roman’s mouth twitched. There had been a time, not long ago at all, when she would have wondered whether she had imagined it. She did not anymore. “That is a dreadful thing to say about your brother on his wedding day!”

“It most certainly is not,” Roman remarked. “Today I am exercising remarkable restraint.”

“You are a model of brotherly affection.”

“So I have always maintained.” There was the slightest tilt of his chin that made him appear all the more handsome.

Someone called Roman’s name from the churchyard and his attention shifted. Mr. Kettlewell, the one her husband often pretended did not amuse him, though he was invited to dinner a great deal of late.

Roman lifted one hand in acknowledgment. “I ought to see what he thinks is important enough to raise his voice in a churchyard.”

“Of course.”

He took two steps, then stopped. It was such a small thing Tamsin nearly missed its significance. “Are you coming?”

For an instant she merely looked at him. Not because she wished to avoid Mr. Kettlewell’s conversation—she rather liked him—but because Roman had asked with the expectation that they belonged in the same place. He required naught from her. Nor would she be useful to smooth the conversation or remember someone. He was going somewhere and expected that she might like to come too.

Tamsin slipped her arm through his. “I should like to, yes.”

They crossed the churchyard together.

An hour later, the wedding breakfast was precisely as crowded as Tamsin had expected and twice as cheerful. Emily’s family occupied one portion of the room, the Eastwoods another, while the rest of York Society appeared determined to fill every remaining space. Tamsin spoke to people she had known for years and others she had met since her marriage. Roman vanished twice and reappeared both times within her line of sight without either of them having arranged it.

The second time, he caught her watching him and lifted his brows. Tamsin looked pointedly toward the plate in his hand.

Roman looked down at it, back at her, and crossed the room. “You disapprove.”

“I am quite certain you have taken the last lemon tart.”

That brought a playful frown from him. “I did not know it was the last.”

“You examined the tray most carefully.”

“Ah, but I did not. There were several people around the pastries. I feared for my safety if I did not remove myself with haste.”

Tamsin stared, biting her lip to keep her laughter from startling anyone near them. Roman handed her the plate, picked up the tart, and broke it neatly in two. He held the larger half out to her. “Peace, my lady wife?”

She accepted the pastry. “Hmm. I think a temporary armistice suffices, for this occasion.”

Roman’s eyes sparkled. “You are most generous, my lady.”

Tamsin bit into the tart and looked across the room. Matilda Elgin stood near Emily, listening to something Frances, Lady Hartwell, was saying. Matilda looked especially pretty today, Tamsin thought, her mourning attire set aside months ago and now in deep green with a row of tiny pearls at her throat. She was smiling, though her attention shifted immediately when a gentleman approached the group.

Mr. Sterling. Mr. Arthur Sterling, Tamsin corrected herself—there were altogether too many Sterlings present for surnames alone to remain useful. He bowed to Frances first, then Emily, then Matilda.

Matilda’s smile altered, turning brittle. Tamsin frowned.

Roman followed her gaze. “What has offended you so, Lady Hartwell? Need I write a sternly worded article for the York Herald?”

Her lips twitched. “Nothing offended me, we need not bother Mr. Hargrove with another of your well-written lengthy letters.”

“You made a sound, my dear.”

Did the man have to be so observant? “I did not.”

“You did,” Roman insisted.

“What sort of sound?”