Scandals Bride

Chapter 12

December rolled on, and winter tightened its grip on the vale. Richard's boxes and trunks arrived, sent north by Devil, delivered by a carter anxious to turn his horses about and get home for Christmas.

Along with the boxes came letters-a whole sack of them. Letters for Richard from Devil, Vane and the Dowager, as well as a host of pithy billets from his aunts and female cousins, not amused by his distant wedding, and notes of commiseration from his uncles and ones of sympathy from his unmarried male cousins.

For Catriona came a long letter from Honoria, Devil's duchess, which Richard would have liked to read, but he was never offered the opportunity. After spending a full hour perusing the letter, Catriona folded it up and put it away. In her desk. In a locked drawer. Richard was tempted to pick the lock, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. What could Honoria have said anyway?

As well as Honoria's letter, Catriona received scented notes from all the Cynster ladies welcoming her into the family. She did not, however, receive any communication from the Dowager, a fact she seemed not to notice, but which Richard noted with some concern.

The only reason Helena would not to write to Catriona was because she was planning on talking to her instead.

It was, he supposed, fair warning.

But fate and the season were on his side; the snows blew hard – the passes were blocked the highways impassable.

He was safe until the thaw.

Then Christmas was upon them, and he had too much on his plate with the here and now-with absorbing traditions somewhat different from those he knew, with learning how the vale and all the manor celebrated yule-tide-to worry about what the future held.

And over and above, through all the merriment and laughter, all the joys and small sorrows, there remained what he considered his principal duty-his principal focus. Learning everything he could about his witchy wife.

Having her in his arms every morning and every night, and in between learning all her strengths, her weaknesses, her foibles, her needs. Learning how he could best support her, as he had vowed to do. Learning how to fit into her life. And how she fitted into his.

It was, he discovered, an absorbing task.

A temporary easing in the weather between Christmas and the New Year saw three travellers appear at the manor's gate. They proved to be a father and his two adult sons, agents for various produce, come to see the lady of the vale.

Catriona received them as old acquaintances. Introduced, Richard smiled politely, then lounged in a chair set back against the office wall and watched how his witchy wife conducted the vale's business.

She was, he learned, no easy mark.

"My dear Mr. Potts, your offer simply will not do. If, as you say, the market is so well supplied, perhaps we should store all our grain for the next year." Catriona glanced at McArdle, sitting at the end of her desk. "Could we do that, do you think?"

"Oh, aye, m'lady." Like a benighted gnome, McArdle nodded sagely. "There's space in the cellars, and we're high and dry here, so there's no fear of it going damp."

"Perhaps that would be best " Catriona turned back to Mr. Potts. "If that's the best offer you can manage?"

"Ah Well " Mr. Potts all but squirmed. "It's possible we might-considering the quality of the vale's grain, you understand-manage some concession on the price."

"Indeed?"

Fifteen minutes of haggling ensued, during which Potts made more than one concession.

"Done," Catriona finally declared. She smiled benignly on all three Pottses. "Perhaps you'd like a glass of our dandelion wine?"

"I don't mind if I do," Mr. Potts agreed. "Very partial to your dandelion wine."

Richard inwardly humphed and made a mental note to take a piece of chalk down to the cellars and inscribe all the remaining barrels of dandelion wine with an instruction that they were not to be broached without his express permission. Then he recalled that he really should gain his wife's approval for such an edict-which led to thoughts of taking her down to the cellars, which led to thoughts…

He frowned, and shifted in his seat. Accepting the wine one of the maids served, he directed his attention once more to the Pottses.

"Now, about those cattle you wanted." Potts the elder leaned forward. "I think I can get some young heifers from up Montrose way."

Catriona raised her brows. "None from any nearer? I don't like to have them transported so far."

"Aye, well. Cattle-good breeding stock-are in rare demand these days. Have to take what you can get."

Richard inwardly frowned. As he listened to the discussion-of sources of breeding stock, of prices, of the best breeds for the changing market-he shifted and inwardly frowned harder.

From all he'd heard, all he d already noted, he knew more about livestock than his witch. Not that she lacked knowledge in general, or an understanding of the vale's present needs-it was more that she lacked experience of what was available in the wider world-a world she, for good reason, eschewed.

The temptation to speak-to butt in and take over-grew; Richard ruthlessly squelched it. If he so much as said a word, all three Pottses would turn to him. From the first, the younger ones had eyed him expectantly-from the looks on their faces now, they would be much more comfortable continuing their discussion of the performance characteristics of breeding stock with him. Man to man.

Richard cared nothing for their sensitivities-he cared much more about his witch, and hers.

He'd sworn not to take the lead, not to take her role, not to interfere with how she ran the vale. He couldn't speak publically, not without her invitation. He couldn't even bring the matter up privately-even there, she might construe it as indicating somewhat less than complete commitment to adhering to his vow.

A vow that, indeed, required complete commitment, required real and constant effort from him to keep it. It was not, after all, a vow a man like him could easily abide by. But he would abide by it-for her.

So he couldn't say anything-not unless she asked. Not unless she invited his comment or sought his views.

And so he sat there, mum, and listened, and itched to set her-and the Pottses-right. To explain that there were other options they ought to consider. Should consider.

But his witch didn't look his way-not once.

He had never felt the constraint of his vow more than he did that day.

The year turned; the weather continued bitter and bleak. Within the manor's stone walls, the lamps burned throughout the dull days, and the fires leapt in every hearth. It was a quiet time, a peaceful time. The men gathered in the dining hall, whiling away the hours with chess and backgammon. The women still had chores-cooking, cleaning, mending-but there was no sense of urgency.

Early in the new year, Catriona took advantage of the quiet and compiled an inventory of the curtains. Which resulted in a list of those she wanted mended or replaced. In search of a seamstress, she wandered into the maze of smaller rooms at the back of the ground floor, her attention focused on the list in her hand.

"Hee, hee, hee!"

The childish giggle stopped her; it was followed by a high-pitched trill of laughter. Curious, she turned from her path and followed the sound of continuing chortles. As she neared the source, she heard a deeper, intermittent rumble.

They were in the old games room. The manor children, of whom there were many, used it as their playroom, the place they spent most of the hard winter. Today, Catriona saw, as she paused in the shadows just outside the open door, that they had a visitor.

Then again, he might just be a hostage.

Trapped in the huge old armchair before the fire, Richard was surrounded by children. The two youngest had clambered onto his lap and cuddled close, one on either side, two others perched on his knees, while still others balanced on the wide arms of the chair. One was even sprawled across the chairback, almost draped over Richard's shoulders. The rest surrounded him, their faces upturned, alight as they hung on his words. His stories.

Folding her arms, Catriona leaned against the door frame and listened.

Listened to tales of boys running wild-a veritable tribe of them, it seemed. Listened to tales of youthful derring-do, of cheeky larks, of dangerous dragons vanquished, of genuine adventures that fate had sent to shape their lives.

The stories were of him and his cousins, she had not a doubt, although he never identified the heroes. The culprits. The demons in disguise.

Catriona wondered how many of his tales were true. She looked at him, so impressively large, his strength still apparent even relaxed as he was, and was tempted to think they all were. His stories were the adventures that had made him what he was.

For long moments, she stood still in the shadows, unremarked as she watched. Watched him, so large and strong, so deeply masculine, open the jewel box of his childhood memories and take them out, one by one, like delicate necklaces of bright gold and beaten silver, to awe, to entertain, to amuse the children.

They were enthralled-they were his. Just as their parents were. She'd noticed that from his first day here-his intrinsic ability to give of himself, and thus inspire devotion, loyalty-his ability to lead. She wasn't sure he recognized it in himself; it was simply an inherent part of him.

As she watched, one of the littlest two, thumb in mouth and almost asleep, started to tip. Without faltering in his recitation, without, apparently, even noticing what he did, Richard cradled the tot in one hand and resettled him more securely against his side.

Catriona stood in the shadows, her gaze on him, on them, her mind full of his stories, her heart full of him, for as long as she dared, then, misty-eyed, retreated without disturbing them.

"Well! I thought I might find you here."

Catriona looked up as Algaria entered the stillroom, and blinked at the expression of joyful confidence that lit her erstwhile mentor's face. "Are you all right?"

"Me?" Algaria smiled. "I'm very well. But I came to ask you the same question."

Catriona straightened. "I'm well, too."

Algaria eyed her straitly. Pointedly. When Catriona remained stubbornly silent, she elucidated: "I wanted to ask it that"-she gestured back into the house; Catriona narrowed her eyes-"husband of yours," Algaria sweetly amended, "has succeeded in getting you with child."

Catriona looked down at the herbs she was pounding. "I can't tell yet, can I?"

"Can't you?"

"Not for certain, no."

She did know, of course, but the sheer power of the feelings that surged through her whenever she thought of Richard's child-a tiny speck of life slowly growing within her-shook her so much she couldn't yet bring herself to speak of it. Not until she was absolutely, beyond any doubt or early mishap, sure. And then the first person she would speak to was Richard. Lips firming, she ground up her herbs. "I'll tell you when I am."

"Humph! Well, whatever, it seems as if The Lady's prophesy will, despite all, come to pass. As it always does. I have to admit I didn't think you could be right in deciding you should go to him as you did-it's so transparently obvious that he must never rule here. But The Lady has her ways." With a graceful, devotional gesture, Algaria moved to peer out of the high window. "It all looks like turning out much as you planned."

Grinding the pestle into the mortar, Catriona frowned. "What do you mean-as I'd planned?"

"Why, that he'll get you with child, then leave." Algaria turned from the window and met Catriona's puzzled gaze. "The only thing you didn't foresee correctly is that he'd marry you as well. Really, it's all worked out for the best. This way, you not only get the child, but the formal protection of being a married lady. And all without the bother of a husband-a resident one, anyway."

"But…" It took a full minute before Catriona fathomed Algaria's direction. When she did, the knowledge chilled her. "Why do you imagine he's leaving?"

Algaria smiled and patted her hand reassuringly. "You needn't think I have it wrong this time. His man has been with him for more than eight years and he's speaking very openly of their plans to return to London."

"He is?" Catriona gave thanks for the dim light in the stillroom-because of the fumes, only one small lamp was burning. Carefully resting the heavy pestle in the mortar, she gripped the edge of the table. And forced herself to ask: "What is he saying?"

"Oh, no specific details yet. Just that it's apparently their way to spend winter visiting the homes of friends and acquaintances, but that sometime in February, they always return to the capital. For the Season, I understand. Worboys has been regaling the staff with stories of the balls and parties, and all the other entertainments Mr. Cynster customarily enjoys. Without expressly stating it, he's given the clear impression that marriage has not changed his master's style. He's expecting they'll be in London before March."

"I see." Wiping her hands, suddenly cold, on her apron, Catriona picked up the pestle again. She kept her gaze on her preparation, avoiding Algaria's bright eyes. "I'm sure The Lady will ensure all goes as it should."

And arrangements that had not been expressly stated might not come to pass at all.

That night, Catriona sat before her dressing table brushing her long hair for far longer than was her wont. Long enough for Richard to come in and, after throwing her a lustful smile, start to undress.

Calmly, Catriona brushed and watched him in her mirror. "Your aunts, in their letters, spoke a lot of London. They seem to expect that we'll join them shortly-once the snows melt." Serenely brushing, she watched his brows rise. "For the balls, the parties-the Season."

He grimaced. And dropped his trousers. And stepped out of them.

Then he turned and, stark naked, prowled toward her.

"You don't need to imagine I'll insist that we go."

"You won't?"

"No."

He stopped behind her-all she could see was his bare chest, crisp black hair adorning the heavy muscles. He lifted her hair, spreading it, fanning it over her shoulders, over her breasts. "I'll never force you to leave the vale."

His features had assumed an intent expression she now knew well; reaching out, he took the brush from her hand and laid it on the table.

Her heart thudding in her throat, and throbbing in her loins, she abruptly stood. His hands closed about her waist and held her still; his eyes locked on hers in the mirror.

"Open your nightgown."

The nightgown she wore reached only to her knees; it was fastened down the front with tiny buttons. Barely able to breathe, incapable of taking her eyes from the vision before her, Catriona slowly obeyed.

One by one, the buttons slid free, all the way to her knees. She straightened, and the gown gaped. Revealing the ripe swells of her breasts, the smooth slope of her belly, the long lines of her thighs, the flaming curls between. She stared at the sight, then looked at his face.

And saw the hard planes shift, saw passion lock tight.

Hands tightening about her waist, he lifted her.

"Kneel on the stool."

She did; he straddled her calves. And drew the nightgown from her.

Catriona's eyes flew wide; she couldn't help her shocked gasp.

Immediately he held her, his chest warm against her shoulders and back, his thighs hard, abrasive, against the sensitive skin of her bottom. "Sssh." Head bent, he nuzzled her ear, one dark hand splayed across her midriff, a powerful contrast against her ivory skin.

Shocked to her toes, Catriona felt her senses reel. They were bathed in light-as well as the two candlesticks burning on the dressing table, two candlestands stood on either side, both holding large candles, both lit. She could see the width of his shoulders, clearly visible above and beyond her own, could see the dark, hair-dusted columns of his legs on either side of hers.

Could feel the thick, ridged rod, so flagrantly male, pressed against the cleft between her buttocks.

And felt-and saw-his other hand slide from her hip, under the shimmering veil of her hair, to close firmly about one breast, long fingers curling about her soft flesh.

She moaned softly and let her head fall back against his shoulder. From beneath heavy lids, she watched his fingers flex. Swallowing, she moistened her lips, saw them already parted, already sheening. "The bed?"

"No." He breathed the word against the soft skin of her throat-he was watching his hand on her. "Here."

She shuddered, one small part of her mind desperate to protest, the rest awash with tingling anticipation. Anticipation that steadily built, then silvered into excitement. Into arousal that escalated with each slow sweep of his hands over her flickering skin, with each knowing caress, each expert touch.

He did nothing else but caress her bare body, worshipped it until her skin was flushed rose in the golden candle-glow, and she was quivering with need.

"Lean forward." His voice was a deep, gravelly whisper in her ear. "Place your hands palms down on the table."

She did; he shifted behind her. From under weighted lids, she saw him steady her before him, then reach around her. Splaying one hand across her stomach, he angled her hips back; looking down, he fitted himself to her.

Then, with one slow thrust that threatened to lift her from her knees, he filled her. Stretched her. Completed her.

Fully embedded within her, he leaned forward; his lips brushing her nape, he filled his hands with her breasts. And fondled her swollen flesh as he rocked her. Rocked her slowly, languorously, to heaven.

Until she panted, and moaned, and tried to wriggle her hips-tried to urge him on. His slow rhythm was driving her insane-she wanted him deep, wanted him filling her more forcefully. More rapidly.

She wanted to rush on to the stars.

He straightened; his hands drifted from her breasts to lock about her hips. He anchored her before him, so she couldn't move-and pressed more deeply into her. But he still kept the rhythm slow-slower than she wanted.

So she could feel every inch of his repeated penetrations, was aware to her fingertips of the reined strength of his invasions. Was intimately conscious of the hard, hot rod with which he claimed her, of the slick softness with which she accepted him.

She shuddered and closed her eyes and clamped tightly about him. And sensed his chest swell, sensed his tension tighten. Felt his grip about her hips lock like iron and felt the brush of his thumb over her birthmark. It would be clearly visible in the light, contrasting against the ivory of her buttock, so taut, so tight.

Compulsion forced her to look, to crack open her lids and look at him behind her, his hard body flexing as he loved her. Forced her to study his face, to see the concentration and passion and sheer devotion etched therein, delineating the hard angles gilded by the candles' glow. Forced her to notice her own body, lushly wanton, her skin flushed, her hair wild fire spread over her shoulders and arms, her breasts swollen and tipped with deep rose, her thighs clamped together, her hips rocking only slightly as he filled her. Forced her, at the last, to look at her face, at the expression of sensual abandon stamped on her features, her heavy-lidded eyes, her panting, parted lips.

With a soft moan, she closed her eyes tightly and felt him lift the tempo, felt him start the long crescendo that would carry her to the stars.

And when she reached them, he held her there for long, immeasurable minutes, caught on the cusp of delight-then he joined her, and her heaven was complete.

A week later, Catriona pulled on her heavy cloak, picked up a basket lined with scraps of flannel, and headed out to the large barn. It was three o'clock, the light would soon fade. As she trudged across the yard whipped by lightly flurrying snow, the sun, hidden behind banks of grey cloud, cast the scene in a smoky, pale gold haze.

Struggling against the flurries, she hauled open the single door set in the barn's main doors, then slipped inside. Setting her basket down, she latched the door, then turned, paused to let her eyes adjust to the dimness, then scooped up her basket and headed for the loft ladder.

To find the kitchen cat, who, entirely out of synchrony with the seasons, had given birth somewhere up in the hay.

Gaining the top of the ladder, Catriona swung her basket up, then surveyed the scene-the expanse of hay bales stacked almost to the roof all the way along the loft which stretched down one side of the long barn.

She knew the cat and kittens were in the hay somewhere. She didn't know how she knew-she just did. She also knew that the kittens would die by morning if she didn't find them and take them into the warm kitchen.

With a sigh, she clambered up onto the hay-strewn loft boards and started to search.

The loft extended over the entire barn, over the three separate sections the large building housed. Mentally tossing a coin, she elected to start searching the section nearest, the one over the carriages, carts and ploughs.

Methodically pushing through hay stacks, pressing apart bales, sliding her hand, oh-so-trustingly, into possible dens, she tried to keep her mind on her search and away from its principal preoccupation.

As usual, she failed.

Her husband exerted an almost hypnotic attraction over her thoughts. Over her senses, he wielded absolute control-that, she accepted. But the degree to which she found herself dwelling on him-on his plans-on what his intentions really were-was disconcerting. She'd never before been that linked to anyone, never before felt her happiness dependent on someone else.

She'd been her own mistress for years-being his was changing her in ways she hadn't expected.

In ways she didn't entirely like-in ways she couldn't control.

In moments of weakness, like the present, as she absentmindedly crooned for the cat, when her mind was caught, trapped, in senseless speculation, raising visions that were unnervingly depressing she'd fallen back on her old habit of lecturing herself. Telling herself, sternly, that what would be, would be.

It only made her feel more helpless, more in the grip of some force beyond her control, as if her life was now tuned to some unknown piper.

Reaching the end of the first section without any sign of the cat, she straightened, pressed out the kinks in her spine, then trailed back to the ladder to fetch her basket. And doggedly glided into the next section-the one over the quartered dairy herd.

She was halfway through that section when she heard voices. Rocking back on her heels, she listened-and heard them again, low, almost murmuring. Curious, she rose and quietly walked into the last section of the loft.

In the back of her mind ran the thought that she might stumble on some illicit assignation-such was her interpretation of the tone of those murmurs. Ready to retreat silently if that proved the case, she inched closer to the loft's edge.

And heard Richard say: "Gently. Easy, sweetheart. Now-let's take it very slowly."

An assenting murmur in a light female tone answered him.

Catriona froze. She turned cold, then burned as temper seared her. What she felt in that instant was beyond her description-but betrayal was there, certainly as was a furious force she'd never before felt-every bit as green as her eyes. It was that force that fanned the flames of anger into a righteous blaze. Fists clenched quivering with rage, she marched to the top of the ladder leading down into the last section of the barn.

They heard her footsteps-and looked up.

For one fractured instant, Catriona stared down at her husband and the maid within his arms.

The eight-year-old maid he held balanced on the back of a shaggy coated pony.

Catriona's eyes widened from their angry slits, even while she mentally scrambled to keep her features unrevealing, her lips formed a telltale "Oh." Relief swept her; she teetered and had to take a quick step back from the loft's edge.

Richard's gaze, locked on her face, intensified. He straightened, fluidly swinging the girl down. Only then did Catriona notice the others surrounding the improvised ring, all waiting, obediently silent, for their turn.

"I, ah…" Weakly, she gestured to the hay-filled loft behind her. "The cat's had kittens."

"Tabitha?" One of the boys broke from the circle and raced to the ladder. "Where?"

"Well…" Flustered, Catriona stepped back as the whole riding school swarmed up the ladder. "That's the problem, you see."

The pupils were followed by their teacher who, as was his wont, made the loft shrink as he stepped onto the boards. Catriona backed against the wall of hay and waved down the loft. "She's somewhere up here. We have to find her and take the kittens into the kitchen to keep warm, or they'll die."

The children didn't wait for more. They enthusiastically clambered over the hay, calling the cat, a favorite of theirs.

Leaving her with their teacher. Catriona flicked him a quick glance. "I've searched the first section."

Head tilted, he studied her. "They'll find her." A ferocious sneeze was echoed by two more. He raised his brows. "That, or die trying." He continued to study her; after a moment he asked: "Have you been up here long?"

Catriona shrugged as nonchalantly as she could and avoided his gaze. "A few minutes." She waved along the loft. "I was at the other end."

"Ah." Straightening, he strolled toward her. He stopped by her side, then, without warning, gathered her into his arms. And kissed her. Very warmly.

Emerging, breathless, some moments later, Catriona blinked at him. "What was that for?"

"Reassurance." He'd lifted his head only to change his hold; as he lowered his lips to hers again, she tried to hold him back.

"The children," she hissed.

"Are busy," he replied-and kissed her again.

"Tabby! Tabby!"

The shrill call had all the children running to one corner of the middle section. None looked back; none saw their lady, flustered and flushed, win free of her consort's arms. And none saw the knowing smile that lifted his lips.

Catriona tried not to notice it either, blotting the sight from her mind, she hurried after the children.

They found five tiny kittens, pathetically shivering huddling close to their weakened mother's flank. There were ready hands enough to lift the whole family together into the lined basket, which was then carried in procession along the loft, taken down the ladder by Richard as his contribution to the rescue, then entrusted to the care of the eight-year old maid. Surrounded by her absorbed fellows, she crossed the yard carefully, all the children huddling to protect the cat and her brood from the swirling snow.

The light had all but gone. Catriona stepped out of the barn into a twilight world. Richard pulled the door shut and fastened it, then tugged her cloak around her and anchored her against him, within one arm.

They followed in the children's wake.

"I hope the kittens will recover-they felt very cold. I suppose a little warm milk wouldn't hurt them. I'll have to ask Cook…"

She blathered on, not once looking up-not once meeting his eyes. Richard held her fast against the wind's tug and, smiling into the swirling snow, steered her toward the kitchen.

He didn't know what woke him-certainly not her footfalls, for she was as silent as a ghost. Perhaps it was the bone-deep knowledge that she was not there, in their bed beside him, where she was supposed to be.

Warm beneath the covers, his limbs heavy with satiation, he lifted his head and saw her, arms crossed tightly over her robe, pacing before the hearth.

The fire had died, leaving only embers to shed their glow upon the room; about them, the house lay silent, asleep.

She was frowning. He watched her pace and gnaw her lower lip, something he'd never seen her do.

"What's the matter?"

She halted; her eyes, widening, flew to his face.

And in that instant, that infinitesimal pause before she replied, he knew she wouldn't tell him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." She hesitated. When he remained propped on one elbow, watching her, she drifted back to the bed. "Go back to sleep."

He waited until she halted by the side of the bed. "I can't-not with you pacing." Not with her worrying. He could sense it strongly, now; some deep concern that was ruffling her normally unruffleable serenity. "What is it?"

Catriona sighed and shrugged out of her robe. "It's nothing." It was the breeding stock, or lack thereof. But…

She shouldn't involve him.

When she'd heard his voice, heard him ask, her instinctive impulse had been to tell him, to lay her growing problem on shoulders broader than hers-to share her burden with him. But… in the back of her mind lurked an un welcome notion that appealing to him was not the right thing to do. On a number of counts.

Asking him, inviting him to become more deeply involved with running the vale, might not, in the long run, be fair, either to him, or to her. There was a subtle line between offering advice and sage counsel, and making the decisions, determining the final outcome. She had always been taught that strong men, powerful men, had difficulty with that distinction.

Forcing him to face it might not be wise.

And, even if he hadn't said so yet, if he was considering leaving her and journeying to London for the Season, she would be wise to keep her own counsel. Wise to hold him at a distance, in that arena at least. She couldn't afford to start to rely on him only to find him bidding her adieu.

It hadn't escaped her that while he'd promised repeatedly not to force her to leave the vale, he'd never promised to stay. To remain by her side, to face the problems of the vale by her side.

Much as she might now feel a need for a strong shoulder to lean on, a strong arm to rely on, she couldn't afford to let herself develop that sort of vulnerability. Ultimately the vale was her responsibility.

So she summoned a smile and hoped it was reassuring. "It's just a minor vale problem." Dropping her robe, she slid under the covers. He hesitated, then drew her into his arms, settling her against him.

Snuggling her head on his chest, she forced herself to relax against him-forced herself to let her problems lie.

Until she could deal with them alone.

She was being silly. Overly sensitive.

The next morning, pacing before her office window, Catriona berated herself sternly. She still didn't know what she could, or should, do about the breeding stock-it was time she asked Richard for advice.

When viewed in the sane light of morning, the concerns that had prevented her from asking last night no longer seemed sufficient to stop her, excuse her, from taking the sensible course. Such silly sensitivity was unlike her.

She needed help-and she was reasonably sure he could give it. She recalled quite clearly how, at McEnery House, she'd been impressed with his knowledge of farming practices and estate management. It was senseless, in her time of need, not to avail herself of his expertise.

Frowning at the floor, she swung about and paced on.

He'd said nothing about leaving. It therefore behooved her to have faith, rather than credit him with making plans-plans he hadn't discussed with her. There was no reason at all for her to imagine he was leaving; she should assume that he was staying, that he would remain to support her as her consort and not hie off to enjoy himself-alone-in London. He'd always behaved with consideration-she should recognize that fact.

And it asking him for advice, inviting him to take a more direct interest in the running of the vale, served to bind him to it-and to her-so be it.

Straightening she drew in a deep breath, drew herself up that last inch, then glided to the door.

He was in the library; from her office, she took a minor corridor, rather than go around through the front hall. The corridor led to a secondary door set into the wall beside the library fireplace.

She reached it, confidence growing with every step, her heart lifting at the thought of asking him what she'd shied away from asking last night, of inviting him that next step deeper into her life. Grasping the doorknob, she turned it-as the door opened noiselessly, she heard voices.

Halting the door open only a crack, she hesitated, then recognized Richard's deep "humph."

"I imagine I'll start packing in a few days, sir. I don't like to rush things and it is very close to the end of January."

A pause ensued then Worboys spoke again. "According to Henderson, and Huggins, the thaw should set in any day now. I daresay it may take a week to clear the roads sufficiently, but, of course, the farther south we travel, the more the highways will improve."

"Hmm."

Frozen outside the door, her heart chilling, sinking Catriona listened as Worboys continued: "The rooms in Jermyn Street will need freshening, of course. I wondered… perhaps you're thinking of looking in on the Dowager and the duke and duchess? If that were so, I could continue on to town and open up the rooms, ready for your return."

"Hmm."

"You'll want to be well settled before the Richmonds' ball, naturally. If I might suggest… a few new coats might be in order. And your boots, of course-we'll need to make sure Hoby remembers not to attach those tassles. As for linen…"

Deep in a letter from Heathcote Montague, Richard let Worboys's monologue drift past him. After eight years, Worboys knew perfectly well when he wasn't attending to him-and he knew perfectly well when his henchman was in a quandary.

In Worboys's case the quandary was simple. He liked it here-and couldn't believe it. He was presently dusting the books on the shelves-in itself a most revealing act-and putting on a good show, trying to convince them both that they were shortly to up stakes and depart, when, in reality, he knew Richard had no such thoughts, and he, himself, did not want to go.

In what he viewed as a primitive backwater, Worboys had discovered heaven.

Not an inamorata in his case, but a household where he fitted in perfectly, like a missing link in a chain. The manor's household was unusual, without the lines of precedence Worboys had lived with all his professional life. Instead, it was a place that operated on friendship-a sort of kinship in serving their lady. It was a household where people had to rely on each other-have faith and confidence in each other-just to get through the yearly round of harsh weather and the short growing season, made even more difficult by their isolation.

It was a place where people felt valued for themselves; the household, in its rustic innocence, had welcomed Worboys to its bosom-and Worboys had fallen in love.

He was presently in deep denial-Richard recognized the signs. So he let Worboys ramble-he was really only talking to himself and convincing no one. Whenever Worboys paused and insisted on some response, he humphed or hmm'd and let it go at that. He saw no benefit in getting drawn into a discussion of things that were not going to happen.

His letter was far more interesting. Spurred by the Pottses' visit, he'd written to Montague, inquiring as to the current state of breeding stock, both in the southern and northern counties. He'd also asked Montague to locate the most highly regarded breeder in the Ridings, just south of the border, not too far from the vale.

"So, sir." Pausing, Worboys drew in a deep breath. "If you just let me know when you've decided on the date, I'll proceed as we've discussed."

Looking up, Richard met Worboys's gaze. "Indeed. When I decide to leave, you'll be the first to know."

Inclining his head gravely, doubtless feeling much better after having got all his useless plans off his chest, Worboys picked up his duster and a pot of wilting flowers, and headed for the door.

Richard waited until it closed before letting his lips curve. Returning to his letter, he read to its end, then, smiling even more, laid it down, and stretched.

And noticed a draft. He glanced around and saw a door, so well fitted in the paneling he hadn't noticed it before, left ajar. Rising, he rounded the desk and crossed to the panel. Opening it farther, he found a dim secondary corridor. Empty. Inwardly shrugging, Richard closed the door-it could have been ajar for a week for all he knew.

Recrossing to the desk, he sat and pulled out a map of the surrounding counties. A Mister Owen Scroggs, cattle breeder extraordinaire, lived at Hexham. How far, Richard wondered, was Hexham from the vale?

If-when-his wife finally trusted him enough to ask for his assistance, his support, he wanted to have all the answers. All the right answers, at his fingertips.