Perkins took a deep breath, opened the doors then stood aside for them to enter. “My lord, my lady, your accommodations as ordered by the duke.”
Gillian stepped into the room with her husband following on her heels. Perkins bowed to each of them then departed. The click of the door latch resounded through the sitting room like a shot on a dueling field at first light.
“I can’t believe he ordered these rooms prepared for us. Perkins told me my uncle refused Aunt Isadora when she wanted to open the rooms after they married. I asked Uncle Whitney why he kept the rooms closed up, he never answered me.”
“Too many memories, perhaps?” Moreham asked sounding far closer than she had imagined.
“Yes, I’m certain you have the right of it. I never knew her. Uncle lost his only sister. He has no brothers. I never thought about it that way before. Thank you, James for that observation.”
She roamed around the room, picking up items. Nothing had changed in all those years. While the room she had visited had been enshrouded in white sheeting, she’d explored under those covers and unearthed small trinkets. Back then, she told herself holding those bits of ceramics, her writing utensils or her perfume bottles created a closeness she craved.
She sat a ceramic of a little girl sitting on a bench, one of her favorites, back in its place on a small table by the windows overlooking the back gardens.
Enough woolgathering.
“My aunt and uncle share a suite on the opposite end of this floor overlooking the front of the house. They share the same belief as your parents did and share a bed.” She shook her head and chuckled. “The staff enjoy having the duke and duchess in residence. On many occasions I have watched my uncle chase Aunt Isadora up the stairs, both of them laughing all the way. That is what love should be. No, that is the love I want. Loving someone is a celebration of life each and every day. I know you plan to send me away. I hope you come to see I belong with you, no matter the danger.”
Her heart ached as her husband remained silent and left her standing in the middle of the sitting room without uttering a word.
What had she done? When would she learn to keep her feelings to herself?
Chapter 11
Moreham looked up from the volume of poetry he’d retrieved from Whitney’s bookshelves as Gillian entered the ducal library.
Should the woman ever learn of her hold on his heart, he would be done for. Such a prospect was not a welcome one. He was determined to prevent the enslavement of his heart. Why he felt defensive was a puzzlement to him. He had witnessed the loving marriage of his parents. He knew such a love was to be celebrated. Until a loved one was lost then pain made an appearance.
He’d witnessed his mother prostrate with grief when his father died. After the funeral, he’d held his mother in his arms on the carriage ride to Hollybrook. He’d remained at her bedside for weeks while she mourned for her beloved. Moreham had feared she would take her own life so deep was her grieving for his father.
He wanted no part of that emotion. Easier to remain aloof and let others suffer. He regarded his work for the government to be of greater importance than falling in love.
“James, reading poetry? I would have taken you for a treatise on the probable shifting of boundaries after the war ends.”
“No, I will leave the incessantly boring discussion of borders to the politicians.” He closed the book, laid it down on the table at his side then rose to his feet. “You look lovely.”
Gillian, dressed in a pale-green gown with a shade darker embroidery around the hem, was a sight to behold.
“There is no reason for false compliments, Moreham.” She muttered when she was close enough for only him to hear. “This is one of the gowns your mother ordered.”
“Well, I must say we shall see to it that whoever made up the gown will continue to dress you.”
“You are an infuriating man. Are you going to order my gowns and send them off to whatever little property you have set up for my use?”
Moreham would have explained why he felt the need to protect her from his work, but he feared his words would not ring true. He knew Gillian to be a skilled debater and she’d quickly point out she’d been involved with his foray into her uncle’s bookroom. A scheme that would have worked had Lady Sylvia and Philly not taken advantage of the situation. Even now, she was involved in whatever plan her uncle had concocted. Before he could respond, Perkins appeared in the library doorway to preclude him from doing so.
“My lord, dinner is served.”
Moreham took Gillian’s hand, placed it on his arm then walked with her into the small dining room Perkins had prepared for their meals. He made small talk about the weather, their ride from Town. He’d talk about anything but the state of their marriage.
He rather liked Gillian’s subtle glances from the corners of her eyes. His wife was not indifferent to him as he feared. They’d only known each other for less than a sennight. There was also the issue of Arnold’s perfidy, her uncle’s possible involvement and her aunt’s disdain for himself. The poor girl had had a rough time of it.
Intent on reestablishing their roles as leader and follower, Moreham turned to Gillian and whispered. “My dear, I propose we spend the evening in the library. I’ll search your uncle’s desk while you keep watch for the servants. After everyone retires for the night, we should search his rooms.”
Gillian drew herself up. So much for appeasing the woman’s impression of
