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Chapter17
Sunday was all things pleasant—as it was largely taken up with reading—and it was not until Monday morning that I was forced to face my mother-in-law again. She acted as though no uncomfortable words had passed between us, and I was glad at least to not be compelled to relive the conversation at the staircase again. We delivered cards to a handful of nearby houses before Lady Edith grew too ill from the carriage to continue, and the remainder of the day passed in relative silence while we penned the final invitations to the ball.
Monday evening I sat at my dressing table while Fanny heated the curling tongs in the burgeoning fire. I was debating the merits of begging forgiveness and requesting a tray in my room in lieu of attending the uncomfortable, intimate dinner when a sound in James’s chamber alerted me to a presence within. His valet had traveled with him to York, so there was no reason for anyone to be in his room.
Surely, it was not outside the bounds of propriety for a wife to peek into her husband’s room when he was meant to be absent from the house. After Mrs. Prescott had found the maid rifling through Benedict’s drawers the other day, I felt I had little choice but to ascertain that the person in James’s room had just cause to be there.
Fanny approached me from behind, and I spun to face her. “You hear that, yes? Someone in my husband’s room?”
She paused, squinting toward the wall. A soft thump sounded, and she nodded. “I do, ma’am. Someone is in there. Is he not meant to be returned until tomorrow?”
“No, he is not. Tomorrow at the earliest, Wednesday more likely.” I paused, chewing on my lip. “I should peek inside, yes? To make certain all is well, I mean.”
She nodded with widening eyes. “I think it prudent.”
The Mysteries of Udolpho was likely to blame, but my wariness heightened as I crept toward our adjoining door. I shook the images of specters and villains from my mind and turned the doorknob, prepared to use a commanding presence to inquire why someone would need to be in the room while James was absent.
It remained unlocked, and I opened the door and swiftly stepped inside to find James standing before his shaving table, void of a shirt and holding a blade to his cheek. He turned to face me, and I lost the power of speech. James’s chest belonged to a man who regularly partook in fisticuffs or toiled in fields all day, his broad chest tapering to a narrow waist. A soft gasp escaped my throat, and I tripped over something lying on the carpet before me, falling hard on my knees.
James rushed forward, and I pushed myself into a kneeling position, already feeling the heat bleed into my cheeks. His boot lay discarded to my side, and I righted it.
“Forgive my intrusion,” I said, looking up at him. It was a struggle to lift my gaze to his face, but I managed. “I feared an intruder was rifling through your things.”
James lifted one eyebrow and reached for me. “Has your gothic novel begun to fill your head with nonsense?”
I placed my hand in his. “No. Well, yes, it has been giving me cause to feel nervous over every unexplained noise in this house—and James, there are many—but this is warranted.”
“Is it?” He pulled me up.
“A maid was found looking through Benedict’s drawers. I could not allow her to do the same in here.”
James tucked his chin and foamy soap clung to his chest when he lifted his neck. “Surely she is not still employed here?”
“Your mother had her relegated to the kitchens and given another chance. I thought it very kind of her to extend such grace.”
James tilted his head a little to the side. “You cannot know how much it pleases me that you and my mother have found an accord with one another.”
Except that we hadn’t. Lady Edith had done a remarkable job fooling me into believing she approved of me during my initial week at Chelton, so surely we could continue the charade. I didn’t hold hope that I would change her opinion, but I didn’t want to ruin James’s good mood so soon. There was time to determine how best to bring up the matter to him.
When my own mama arrived at Chelton, she would know best how to manage things. I was nearly certain anything I said against James’s mother would only put him in a defensive mood against me, which was the farthest thing from what I wanted. Not that I blamed James, of course. It was natural to wish to defend one’s mother.
His free hand curled a lock of my long hair around his finger, and I was acutely aware of how my hair trailed down my back and in loose waves over my shoulders. I needed to return to Fanny and finish preparing for dinner, but I was not yet ready to leave James’s side.
“You have returned early.” I attempted to break the silence between us.
“Indeed.” His thumb rubbed circles over the back of my hand, which he still held. “Our business wrapped up swiftly, and we found no reason to delay in York.”
“Miss Northcott is well, I assume? Or have you brought her back to Chelton with you?”
His smile grew tight beneath the foam surrounding it. “I would much rather speak of you. Did you find Bakewell Society to be everything you imagined?”
This avoidance of the topic did not bode well. Had it been an easy answer, he would have given it to me.
“Bakewell was far easier to navigate than I anticipated. Henry was a particular help, actually. I could not have made so many acquaintances after the church service without his assistance.”
My chest burned slightly on the recollection that James had asked Henry to tend to me, but I suppressed my guilt and irritation over that. I was not an infant in need of a nursemaid, but I could not truly fault James for thinking so after he’d witnessed my less than savory reactions to dancing and riding.
“Remind me to thank him later,” he said, tugging on my hand to pull me closer. Heat emanated from his skin, and I lifted my free hand to wipe the sudsy foam from his chest.
