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‘He himself? I do not know. He is very stiff—like a soldier—and he does not talk, just one or two words.’
‘I expect he is shy,’ Laurel suggested.
‘Shy? Tímido? But he is a man.’
‘And he is marrying a lovely young lady whom he does not know, but who frowns at him. Just because he is not good looking does not mean that he is not a good man, does it? What if it was the other way around and he was the good looking one and you were plain? Wouldn’t you feel awkward if he looked as though he wanted to burst into tears at the thought of marrying you?’
Beatriz gave a little gasp of laughter.
‘You should be kind to him, talk to him—you might find you like him very much. Why not write to him in Portugal, tell him what you are doing, impress him with your observations on England.’
Laurel’s attention was claimed by the wife of the Prussian attaché who had heard that she knew Bath and wanted to know if the waters might help with her mother’s rheumatism. When she turned back Beatriz was gone, then she saw her across the room, deep in conversation with Giles, both of them looking exceedingly serious.
Oh, Lord. Should I go and rescue him? Or her?
No, her husband looked intense, but not tense, and Beatriz, all her eyelash-fluttering and posturing forgotten, was nodding agreement with what he was saying. She would trust Giles to manage this. In fact, she told herself, she would trust Giles with anything.
* * *
‘So, was Lady Revesby beautiful when you first knew her?’ Beatriz demanded, appearing suddenly at his side and speaking without any preliminaries.
‘No.’ Giles was startled into honesty. ‘She was gawky—that is, thin and not graceful and her face was all eyes and angles. And she was a tomboy—a girl who likes to run wild like a boy—so she was often dirty and her clothes were torn and she was always in trouble.’
‘But you liked her?’
‘Yes. Very much. She was my friend and she was fun to be with and her imagination was—is—wonderful. And she was loyal and brave. And she still is,’ Giles added, looking around the room for her. Yes, there she was, head on one side—so she was thinking hard—and talking earnestly to an elderly diplomat. He found he was smiling.
‘So you love her even then, when she is not beautiful?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, still distracted, still watching his wife who was laughing now. Of course he had loved Laurel then, of course he loved her still. He found that he was turning his worry piece over and over in his pocket and drew his hand out, looked down at what he was holding.
‘I—Excuse me.’ He turned and walked rapidly out of the crowded, hot room into the relative sanctuary of a cross-passage.
I loved the girl, but now I love the woman. I am in love with Laurel.
He wanted, needed, to go to her, take her hand and drag her to the carriage, drive her home, covering her in kisses, carry her over the threshold and shout to the world that this was his wife and he loved her. That he always had.
If he had realised that he loved her before he asked her to marry him, if he had been able to tell her with total truth that his feelings for her were the reason for his proposal, if he had not known about the
trust and the legacy until after they were betrothed...then Laurel would have believed him, would have known his motives for asking her to be his wife were honest.
Now what did he say to her? That he hadn’t recognised his feelings for her until five minutes ago and that it had taken a chit of a girl to point out to him what had been in his heart for years? He could spare Laurel that insight into his masculine blindness, he supposed, tell her that he loved her, let her assume that the feeling had been growing, developing, through the short days, the long nights, of their marriage. And then hope and pray that she never found out the reason he had asked her in the first place.
Chapter Twenty-One
Something was wrong with Giles. Laurel buttered toast and poured coffee and kept an eye on the supplies of bacon, Giles’s favourite for breakfast. And worried. There had been something at the start, when he had stopped being angry about the past and had begun to court her, that had made her uneasy, that she knew he was hiding from her. Then, it seemed, he had relaxed, forgotten it or it had solved itself. Now it was back, that shadow behind those blue eyes. It was not something she had, or had not done, she was certain of that. This was something weighing on Giles’s heart.
She could ask him straight out, but he was skilled at the masculine art of the direct answer that was actually no answer at all. He would not lie to her, but to find the truth she had to discover the right question, the one he could not evade, and as she had no idea what the problem was it was impossible to formulate the question.
It was not another woman, that, at least, she was secure about, certain of the impossibility of Giles betraying her in that way. I love you, she thought, watching him as he scowled at the latest Parliamentary report in The Times.
He looked up and met her gaze. ‘What are you smiling about?’
‘You, trying to set light to the latest debates with the power of your stare. I am very happy, Giles.’
‘You are?’ He glanced round. They had the breakfast room to themselves, Downing clearly recognising that newly married couples wanted privacy more than they required attentive footmen. ‘I am glad. Laurel, there is something I must tell—Yes, Downing, what is it?’
‘An urgent letter, my lord. It has just arrived.’
