Page 56 of Miss Vincent’s Vow

Jethro became calmer, his eyelids growing heavy as Cassandra continued to read. It seemed she was right. Crowley had everything under control. Perhaps he should look to delegating additional responsibilities to his manager. It would be pleasant to have more time to spend with his wife.

And with that thought in mind, he drifted off to sleep to the sound of her voice.

The next morning, Cassandra was there by his side again when he awoke. Jethro mused wistfully that he could get used to waking up to find his wife beside him.

“I hope you haven’t spent the entire night in that chair?”

“And a good morning to you,” she said, putting the ever-constant embroidery hoop aside.

“Well? Did you?”

“I thank you for your concern, but no. I slept in my own room with the door ajar.”

“But you’re here now.”

“I have not deserted my patient completely,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “And I need to make sure he doesn’t try to get up.”

Jethro grunted. “Do you mean to keep me a prisoner in my own bed?”

“Just for a tad longer. If you suffer no relapse, I’ll let you get out of bed for a short while tomorrow. I thought we could try some more interesting reading matter today, seeing as your manager’s report sent you straight back to sleep.”

She picked up a book from the bedside table and held it up to him. “Have you read this—A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy?”

“What is it?”

“A novel by Mr Sterne.”

“I don’t read novels.”

“Hmm. We’ll see. I think you might enjoy this. It’s based on Mr Sterne’s own travels. May I?”

“Very well,” he said, though he was more willing than he sounded. He doubted Sterne’s book would hold his interest, but if it kept his wife by his side, he would listen to anything.

“I can keep you prisoner no longer,” Cassandra said one evening, almost a week after his return to Weymouth. “Tomorrow, you may go back to your work.”

For the first time in Jethro’s adult life, his business held no appeal. He was unsure how many hours his wife had read to him over the past few days, but of one thing he was sure.

He enjoyed being with Cassandra, and he was loath for this time to end.

A thought danced around at the back of his mind, begging him to give it voice. Did it have to?

Jethro reached out to capture her hand with his own and squeezed it, bringing colour to her cheeks.

“Thank you for caring for me so well, Cassandra,” he said. “I know I was a rotten patient, but you bore with my surliness with the serenity of a saint. I never enjoyed being ill, but my mother always nursed me back to full health—just as you have.”

She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, making his pulse beat dangerously fast.

As she returned to her seat, she sent him a dazzling smile. “It was nothing. Who else should care for you but your wife? I was only doing my duty.”

Jethro’s sense of contentment faded with her words. Duty? All her kindness to him had been out of duty?

Because of the agreement. The wretched marriage contract. His duty to her. Her duty to him.

This intimacy between them was an illusion.

The kiss was not a sign of affection. It was a kiss of duty—and it hurt.

Chapter 30