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“Indeed, I would wager that some of your sins are not even sins,” Reginald said. “Your writing, for example, might be conceived as such by men with small minds. Fortunately, I am not such a man.”
“I am infinitely grateful for that.”
“What are you writing about, anyway?” Reginald asked.
Marcella shrugged. “I’ll confess that I’ve not been writing much since we wed. It was only today when Adeline spoke of my art that I deigned to think about it, and when I returned to my desk, the words came so naturally. But it’s not much yet. My stories never come in order. It’s just little pieces of a picture, and eventually, I gather all the scraps of words and stitch them together like a quilt.”
“You speak so beautifully about writing.”
“As all people speak beautifully about what they love.”
Reginald chuckled. “Whether or not I love it, I doubt I could speak beautifully about much of anything. I am not so gifted, alas.”
As they entered the manor, Marcella surrendered her parasol to the waiting butler. Reginald discarded his coat and paused, considering her for a moment. “Did you see something you like?” Marcella asked.
Her heartbeat quickened at her own boldness. The butler and her own lady’s maid could most certainly hear, and while Marcella knew that such flirtations were best left in the bedroom, it seemed also quite absurd to her to be expected to have no affection for one’s own husband.
“I did,” Reginald replied, “but I was thinking of your writing. We ought to ensure that you’ve some time for it each day and a place just for it.”
“A place just for it?”
He nodded. “Artists have…studios, don’t they? Places just for painting? We ought to find you some place here that’s only for your writing. I daresay we’ve enough rooms. Why, I don’t think I’ve even been in all of them.”
Reginald gazed wonderingly around them, as if he’d suddenly realized how large his own estate was.
“That’s very generous,” Marcella said.
She felt a lightness in her chest, thinking about it. What would it be like to have a space of her own? A place truly set aside, just for her to enjoy her craft? It sounded like a magnificent idea.
“I don’t think it’s an act of great generosity to do something that makes one’s wife happy,” Reginald replied. “That’s my duty as your husband.”
“And I shall dedicate my second published book to you because of your understanding.”
“But not the first?”
Marcella smiled. “I’ve already sworn to dedicate my first book to dear Adeline. I think that’s fair, don’t you?”
“Second it is,” Reginald replied, glancing around him. “Well, what shall we do with our evening? I’ve no pressing matters today.”
Marcella curled her arm around his. “It’s so rare that you’ve no business to attend to.”
“So it is.”
“Shall we send your visitors away, then?” the butler asked.
Marcella blinked. “Visitors?”
“I’ve not invited anyone to see us,” Reginald said.
“There is a carriage,” the butler replied. “See, My Lord?”
Indeed, a shining black carriage approached the manor. Marcella turned to her lady’s maid. “Ensure that tea is prepared for our guests, please.”
“Of course,” Jane replied, hastening to follow the directions.
Reginald crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe in a manner which was far too casual to suit a Marquess. Marcella joined him and waited at his elbow, as the fine carriage came to a halt. The coachman hurried to open the carriage.
“Speak of the Devil,” Reginald muttered.
Lady Greenburrow emerged from the carriage. She wore a cheerful, blue cloak which was embroidered with tiny flowers along the hem. Her face was ruddy and set in a cheerful expression as she approached the manor. And right behind her, came Simon.
