Page 66 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

He knew Tamsin. The accusation implied by the question was most unfair.

He knew she preferred tea to coffee in the morning, though she took either without complaint. He knew she read pleasant letters with a crooked smile, and with a troubled frown when they contained anything that might cause concern. He knew she tucked her hands tightly into her lap when she was anxious, beneath a cushion when they were cold. Sometimes, she rubbed the first finger of her right hand against her thumb when she was trying to recall a thought. He knew she loved her brothers and sisters.

Of course he knew that.

He knew Henry adored her, and she had indulged the boy’s fascination with Athena despite the very real possibility the child would someday attempt to climb onto the dog’s back again.

He knew Tamsin was more amusing than most people realized, with a quick wit often surprising him. He knew she listened attentively when others spoke. He knew she had a habit of noticing what people needed before they even asked.

He knew she was clever. That evening at the card party⁠—

Roman’s knife stopped against his plate.

At the card party she had crossed a room because she’d heard Danby challenging him. She had listened to an argument Roman had explained once, understood the heart of it, and laid it out calmly to one of his detractors, transformed into something better.

She had understood him.

The warmth he’d carried home from Ellerby Park stirred again at the memory, though it felt different now. He had been so affected by the discovery that Tamsin comprehended what mattered to him that he’d wanted to cross the room merely to tell her so. But he had not. He had told himself, he recalled with sharp clarity, that there would be time later.

And he had yet to find that time.

“Tamsin?”

Her glance moved from her plate to his eyes. “Yes?”

Roman realized he had said her name without deciding what he meant to say afterward.

Now was hardly the time to thank her. He could not do it properly—but she was waiting. His mother looked between them.

He ought to say something. He ought to ask about her headache. She had been rubbing her temple during their argument, and had looked tired when he’d returned from Sycamore Lodge.

But he had already made the mistake of deciding what she required. Was asking whether she was well another attempt to manage her? Surely not.

Except he was suddenly less certain than he had been that morning, and Roman disliked uncertainty as much as he disliked discovering he had made an avoidable error.

“Did your headache improve?” he hazarded.

Tamsin’s expression softened. Slightly. “Yes. Thank you. Eliza brought me something for it before dinner.”

“Good.” That was all. He had no idea what else to say in that moment, and Roman always knew what to say. He was an eloquent speaker. His political allies praised him for it, his opponents cringed every time he rose to address the room. But at his own dining table, he suddenly found he could think of nothing to say.

It was most annoying.

Roman returned his attention to his plate as his mother began speaking about the rain. They discussed the weather of last year. They discussed the roasted vegetables on their plates. And all the while, Roman was still flailing about in his own mind trying to find something of more consequence to say when Tamsin spoke at last, proving she had more sense than he did in that moment.

“Did Mr. Salmond finish the petition you asked him to write?”

“Quite nearly. That is, he has progressed.” Roman grasped at the topic with a tone he hoped was pleasant rather than strained. “He sent the revised opening this afternoon. I believe it stronger than the first.”

“I am glad.” Her voice held no resentment.

It was somehow worse than if it had. After a moment of waiting for him to make a comment, she simply turned to his mother and changed the topic to the sleeping roses.

Roman would have preferred that she snap at him. Anger was at least an identifiable thing: it had a cause and, presumably, some action by which it could be answered. This quiet, polite distance offered him nothing to do. Which was, he realized with some discomfort, precisely what Tamsin had asked of him.

Please, Roman. Listen to me. Do not attempt to fix this again.

He had said he would not, and he was a man of his word. Therefore…there was nothing more for him to do.