Page 54 of A Virgin to Tempt the Duke

“I am sure it is.” Thomas drank.

He did not look put out. He never did when he had said what he intended to say. He set the glass down and looked at the fire.

They sat in the fire’s warmth, and the house around them was quiet, and eventually Thomas rose and put on his coat and shook Frederick’s hand and let himself out.

Frederick stayed in the chair for a long time.

The next morning, the house woke more slowly than usual. Sunlight came through with the gentleness of London July, and by the time Anna came downstairs, the dining room was set, and the fire was going, and the world had resumed its ordinary appearance.

Frederick had already eaten. She did not ask after him, and Mrs. Hale did not offer, and she sat at the table with her tea and her toast and felt the quiet settle around her like something handed back.

She had slept more than she expected to, which was either a credit to Rachel’s company or exhaustion doing its practical work. Probably both.

She was on her second cup when Percy appeared in the doorway. He was looking, she had noticed, more comfortable in the London house than he had at first. He knew where the warmest spots were now, and which footmen were the most likely to leave a door ajar, and which chairs in which rooms caught the afternoon sun.

He crossed the dining room without looking at her, which was his standard approach, and went to the rug beside the fireplace and sat down. She looked at him. He looked at the fire.

“Good morning,” she said.

She cut a small piece from the edge of her plain toast and held it out toward him. Percy looked at it. He looked at the fire again. Then he stood and crossed to her chair with the air of a creature who had arrived at a decision independently of anyone else’s suggestions, arrived at her feet, and sat.

He looked up. She lowered the piece of toast. He ate it from her fingers, which he had done twice before, but she did not think she was going to become accustomed to it. He finished and sat, looking up at her.

“That’s good.”

She reached down, very slowly. She let her hand come toward him from the side, not the top, which she had learned was better. From above was a threat, from the side was an offer. The backs of her fingers came to rest against his cheek. He leaned into it.

“That’s a good boy.”

Just slightly. The smallest possible degree of yielding, which from Percy she understood was considerable. His eyes closed halfway. She did not move her hand. She let the warmth of his head against her fingers be exactly what it was. After a moment he stepped back, sat, and began to wash his face, which meant the transaction was complete.

“Yes,” she said, quietly. “All right.”

She drank her tea. Percy washed his face. Outside, London went about its business. The fire popped once and settled, and the morning was quiet and ordinary, and Anna looked at the cat beside her and thought about what it meant to choose something slowly, to earn something that could not be hurried, and to have it be worth exactly the time it took.

I will be all right.

Lady Oldbarrow arrived at half past two, which was not quite the fashionable hour and not quite not. Anna suspected this was deliberate. She brought a novel tucked under one arm and thepiece of news about Lord Selbourne’s hair. Tea was promptly poured as they all sat in the drawing room.

“You are looking well,” Lady Oldbarrow said to Anna, with the directness of a woman who had earned the right to it.

“I am feeling better after a good night’s sleep here,” Anna said. “Thank you.”

“Hmm.” Lady Oldbarrow accepted her cup. “It is a remarkable house. I have always thought so. Though remarkable is not always the same as comfortable.” She glanced at Anna over the rim. “Are your quarters comfortable?”

“Very much so.”

“Good.” She set down the cup. “Rachel tells me you are a reader.”

The subject changed the way Lady Oldbarrow changed subjects, completely, and yet not entirely. Anna had the sense of being looked at from a slightly different angle.

“I am, My Lady,” Anna said.

“Then you will like this.” She produced the novel and passed it across. “I found it very absorbing. The heroine is perhaps too sensible for her own happiness, which I find realistic if occasionally frustrating.” A pause. “Do you find sensible women frustrating, Miss Cartwell?”

“I find them admirable,” Anna said carefully.

“Yes.” Lady Oldbarrow smiled. “So does everyone, in retrospect.”