She looked surprised. “Getting back on, of course. Will you give me a boost, please?”
“No, you’ll ride back with me.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “Are you angry with me?”
“No.” Ned didn’t know—or want to consider—what he was feeling. All he knew was that for a few appalling seconds he’d thought she was dead. “But you’re not riding that wretched beast again.”
“He’s all right. It’s the first time he’s balked. You should always get back on a horse after you’ve taken a toss.”
“I don’t care.” He collected the reins of her gelding, mounted his own horse and rode to the stump. “Up!”
She gave him a long thoughtful look, and for a moment he thought she was about to be stubborn, but then she gave a shrug and capitulated. She climbed onto the stump and gave him her hand. “On the count of three.” He swung her up in front of him so that she was sitting more or less across him, in his lap.
They rode in silence. She was sitting bolt upright. He drew her back against him, and when her body softened against him and she laid her cheek against his chest, something inside him settled.
Ned tried to think of something to talk about—other than what had just happened—and he recalled that they’d been talking about school. Before she’d almost killed herself.
“When were you sent away to school?” he asked her.
“It was after Mama died. Papa sent us—Rose and me—off to Bath, to Miss Mallard’s school there—the place where Cal and Emm’s wedding breakfast was held.”
She continued talking. Ned wasn’t really listening. He’d had a shock. He’d thought he was immune, could keep himself separate and independent.
He glanced down at the woman in his arms. His wife. Her hair blew about in the breeze. Without thinking he stroked it back off her face. And kept it there, cupping her head protectively.
What had he done?
His horse ambled along. Birds squabbled in the hedgerow. Overhead, a hawk circled.
“Are you happy?” he found himself asking. He hadn’t intended to ask such a thing. He held his breath, waiting for her answer.
She turned her head and gave him a smile he could not doubt. “Very happy.”
He rode on in silence, his heart full of things he had no words for, things he did not want to feel but could not help.
• • •
When they returned to Tremayne Park, there was a letter waiting for Edward. He broke open the seal and scanned the letter. His face turned grim.
“What’s the matter?”
“I have to go to London.”
“When? Now?”
He nodded.
“Very well, I’ll start packing at once.” She hurried toward the stairs.
“No, you stay here. You don’t need to come.”
She turned around and stared down at him. “To London? Of course I do. I’m not staying here without you.” She met his gaze. “There’s no point arguing, Edward. I’m not staying here without you.”
He stared at her a moment, then made an impatient gesture. “Very well, if you insist on coming, we’ll leave in the morning.” He disappeared for the rest of the day.
She questioned him over dinner, and all he would say was that it was nothing, just business, men’s business, and was she sure she didn’t want to stay here?
She was adamant that she didn’t. What was a honeymoon without the groom?
He came to her that night, and made love to her with slow, intense deliberation, lavishing every part of her body with the most exquisite attention. She wasn’t sure whether it was a benediction or a farewell. Whichever it was, her climax—climaxes—came with tears because of the power of the feelings he’d engendered.
He dried her tears tenderly. And made love to her again. And for the first time ever he slept the night in her bed, curled around her body like a big protective watchdog, warm and strong. And in his sleep he gathered her to him, holding her against him, skin to skin, so tenderly Lily felt like weeping.
Something had changed that morning at the beach, when her horse had thrown her. Something was different in her husband, she was sure of it. She could feel it.
“Trust your instincts,” Aunt Dottie had told her.
She did, and she didn’t want this, this honeymoon, this magical private time together, to stop. Especially not now, when they seemed on the brink of something wonderful . . .
Shortly after dawn he woke her, and two hours later they were on their way to London.
Chapter Seventeen
I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion is general, it is usually correct.
—JANE AUSTEN, MANSFIELD PARK
The carriage pulled up outside the very grand Pulteney Hotel. “Why are we here?” Lily asked.
“It’s where we’ll be living for the next few weeks.”
“In a hotel? I assumed we’d be living in Galbraith House.”
“We will, but it hasn’t been used for years.” He grimaced. “I inspected it before the wedding and realized it needed a complete refurbishment. They’ll still be working on it—I was hoping it would be ready by the time we’d finished our honeymoon, but since we came home early . . .” He frowned at her expression. “Didn’t I mention it?”
“No, you didn’t.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in the details. There was water damage, so the whole job was bigger than I’d imagined. They’ve had to fix the roof, replace a good deal of plumbing—I ordered some more modern installations while they were at it—and once all the repairs are done, they’ll need to replaster a number of rooms. And then there are the furnishings and decoration to arrange—the old furniture is completely out of date, and much of the wallpaper is water damaged and stained.”
“I see.”
He shrugged, his mind clearly elsewhere. “That’s why I thought you’d prefer to stay at Tremayne Park. But no harm done, we’ll live here until the house
