Page 122 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

He thought about this. “A considering sound, I do believe. A single, low-note that could signal displeasure.”

Tamsin’s cheeks warmed with delight. “That is a rather detailed translation of a small, inconsequential sound.”

“I often concern myself with small details, my lady. They are too often overlooked.” Roman glanced toward the group including his mother and their new sister-in-law. Arthur Sterling said something; Matilda answered with perfect politeness, then turned her shoulder just enough to exclude him from the conversation.

Tamsin took another bite of lemon tart as her nose wrinkled.

“Ah.” Roman watched her from the corner of his eye. “I believe I understand the sound now.”

She nearly choked. “You are inventing things!”

“Not in the least,” he protested, expression nearly bland. “But we need not discuss this now. There is a tart to enjoy.” He took a large bite of his half of the tart.

That made her laugh again. Roman smiled outright this time, and the warmth of it caught her off-guard. It still happened that way sometimes. Perhaps it always would. The warmth it kindled in her heart would always be welcome, though.

Someone approached Roman and Tamsin shifted automatically, prepared to turn her attention elsewhere while he conducted whatever conversation was required of him. But the newcomer was Mr. Salmond and her husband put a hand on her elbow, gently signaling he wished to keep Tamsin beside him.

“Lord Hartwell. Lady Hartwell.” Mr. Salmond bowed. “A pleasure to be here on this fine, happy day.”

“It certainly is, Mr. Salmond,” Tamsin said politely.

They spoke briefly about the wedding, then a paper someone had sent from Leeds regarding a cave filled with old bones. Tamsin understood little of that portion and asked a small question, and Roman paused to explain rather than allowing the conversation to pass over her head. It cost him perhaps ten seconds. No one seemed to mind. Tamsin asked a question; Mr. Salmond answered it; the conversation continued.

A few moments. One question. She wondered how many marriages were built of things so small no one outside them would ever think to notice.

Tamsin saw Mr. Conyers in attendance; he kept his distance from Frances but looked in her mother-in-law’s direction often, and she looked back with a knowing tilt to her lips. The first instance might have meant nothing. The second was interesting. By the third, Tamsin had stopped pretending she was not curious.

Mr. Conyers had come to dinner, twice. He was pleasant, well-spoken, and not much older than Frances. Tamsin knew little else about their relationship, except that it was blossoming.

Apparently, she knew more than her husband did.

Tamsin and Roman drifted apart in the room quite naturally. Roman stood with Lyness near the windows, the brothers engaged in conversation with such similar expressions of concentration no one could have doubted their relation. Emily had been drawn away by an elderly aunt. Frances stood several yards distant from all of them with Mr. Conyers who said something quietly. Frances’s eyes warmed—not a polite smile, not the Dowager Lady Hartwell’s gracious expression for Society. It was a joyful, gentle smile of a woman quite taken by the one she turned it toward.

Mr. Conyers offered her his arm. Frances took it. Tamsin looked at her husband—still speaking to Lyness—then back at her mother-in-law. Her companion bent his head closer to hear her and Tamsin’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh,” Matilda’s voice said beside her.

Tamsin turned. Mrs. Elgin had appeared carrying two glasses of punch and handed one to her friend without asking whether she wanted it, who accepted it with equal ease. “You see it too.”

Matilda raised her chin, expression mockingly superior. “My dear, I saw it the moment they arrived.”

“Did you indeed?” Tamsin’s lips twitched.

“Mr. Conyers looks at your mother-in-law most pointedly. He is perfectly polite to everyone, of course, but he is attentive to her.”

Tamsin pressed her lips together, nodding her agreement. “I think it is lovely.”

“So do I.” Matilda sipped her punch. “She has been without that kind of love long enough.” Coming from another widow, the comment was especially tender and understanding.

They watched for another moment before Arthur Sterling crossed in front of them. “Mrs. Elgin.”

Matilda’s expression turned exquisitely bland. “Mr. Arthur Sterling.”

“I am told you have exceptional taste in furnishings.”

Her stare was cool as she directed it at him. “How kind of you to share that flattering rumor.”

Arthur glanced around the room. “Is it not true, then?”