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She was beautiful. How had he forgotten that?

Judging from the moue of surprise her mouth had fallen into; she was also taken completely unaware.

Mariah Reed, née Monahan, was always put together, frequently dressed in bespoke satins or the linens her father’s mills produced. Her ensemble often highlighted a figure that was neither robust nor slight, yet somewhere in between. Too modest and practical for the opulent fashions of London, yet she was not one to eschew fashion completely.

However, upon this day, James discovered her raven locks cascading freely, as though she had recently wandered the wild moors of Bailey Hall. Her fingers bore the dark stains of ink, and her shawl draped precariously over a single shoulder as if it were an afterthought. She appeared entirely consumed by whatever she was scrawling before her.

“J-James!” she sputtered, the papers fluttering as she dropped them in apparent surprise.

“You were not expecting me?” He grinned devilishly, which was unfortunately his default when confronted with anger.

His wife’s deep blue eyes flitted to the extra teacup that had been laid out, then back to him. Her pupils dilated as her chest rose and fell, as if she were drawing a steadying breath.

“Ah, you were expecting company. Only not mine.”

Mariah began to stack the paper before her, which had been splayed about the table. “You had not written in weeks, my lord. I was unaware you planned to return to this part of the country, J-James.”

There it was. James could count on his fingers the number of times his wife had used his Christian name. Even with her stutter, the sound was…arousing.

He did not deny he was attracted to his wife, having lain with her upon many occasions when he was in the north. But his resentment for their circumstances always drove him away from Bailey Hall. Away from her. Yet seeing her in this state of dishabille was oddly becoming. Why had he stayed away so long again?

“It was my understanding that you were…preoccupied in London,” she responded with a measured composure, her gaze fixed upon her papers. Nevertheless, a traitorous redness emerged at the base of her throat.

“Where did you hear such reports, my lady?” Something acidic crackled inside of him. While he resented the circumstances of his marriage, inheriting his older brother’s bankrupt barony on the eve of his planned world travels over five years prior, he was faithful to his marriage vows. Maybe there had been an occasion or two where he was tempted, yet something kept him loyal to the woman sitting before him.

Mariah’s eyes flitted to her left once more, and James finally ascertained the identity of the missing visitor.

“Harrison. My younger brother told you. How the bloody hell would he know?”

Mariah blinked in surprise, though James did not offer to apologize for his language. What the devil was his younger brother, who had been avoiding him like the plague, doing corresponding with his wife?

His wife rolled her plump lips together, her face otherwise impassive. How had he forgotten how pillowy they were, like two⁠—

“I b-believe he stopped in London to visit a friend from the war.” The color at her neck began again and James cursed his temper. She never spoke much in front of him, which he had guessed was due to her stutter. Often, when they made love, they spoke very little, and he was under the impression she preferred it that way.

“And he did not visit me?” James balled his fist to keep from slamming it into the table. He found a small measure of relief in the fact that Pickett, his valet, had already seen to his luggage, so he had nothing to weigh him down.

Just as he preferred.

Mariah opened her mouth and closed it. “Y-you will have to take it up with Harrison, that is M-Mr. Reed, my lord.” The color remained at the base of her neck. James sensed a corresponding warmth ignite at the base of his own throat. Yet, unlike the embarrassment that claimed his wife, his was a heavy tide of indignation, sparked by the easy familiarity with which she uttered his brother’s Christian name.

“Harrison, is it? Or Harry? I take it he was your guest, Mariah. I forgot you two had such a special relationship.”

The rosewood chair she sat upon scraped the floor as she rose to her feet, the late afternoon sun spilling through the aged bay window to light her silhouette. “What are you implying, my lord? There is nothing improper about corresponding with my close relation, one who was injured most t-terribly in the Crimea. A war hero⁠—”

“Yes, we all know what a hero Harrison is.” James stalked away, unable to bear her righteous fury for his brother’s sake a moment longer. Unfortunately this put his vision in line with a painting of his family when his parents and older brother, Lionel, were still alive. All of them together at Bedford Grange, their summer house in Derbyshire. Away from all the smoke and noise of Barnsley, so close to Bailey Hall.

Harrison smiled down from the painting, his face whole, unlike it was today. James regarded himself, the middle brother, the one who was meant to travel, not manage an estate. His hand flew to his pocket as the image reminded him of the purpose of his visit: save Bedford Grange. At any cost. “Gets to go to Sevastopol, then flits about the Continent doing heaven knows what while I am⁠—”

“What, J-James? What is it you are doing in London? You are not managing the estate, f-for I do that. Are you spending your Irish wife’s dowry? Her Irish blood is not blue enough for Polite Society, but her father’s money was awfully h-handy in saving the estate and lining your pockets.” Mariah’s voice was colder than it had ever been, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand. “Harrison actually writes b-back when I write to him. He asks me questions about what I am doing, my writing—” She cleared her throat, then hurriedly sat down again, folding the papers before her. “About Bailey Hall. And he is not flitting about the Continent, he is locating his c-comrades. He fought with men from France, the Ottoman Empire⁠—”

“Poor Harrison.”

Mariah’s head snapped up and the mask she always seemed to wear with him fell from her face. “Why, you are nothing but a sp-spoiled child! How dare you speak of your brother thusly? He needs our love and compassion, he lost an⁠—”

“Our love? How can you speak of love and my brother in the same sentence?”