When he returned to the house, she was nowhere to be found. The morning room was as tidy as if she had never occupied it at all. Her bedroom was equally empty, as was his. Only in the library did he see evidence of her presence. In the darkest corner of the room, a table was stacked with leather-bound journals his mother had kept while she still lived in the house. What she sought there, he was not sure, for his mother had been an indifferent correspondent at best.
Beside them, the family Bible was open to the page where his birth had been recorded, along with the significant events of his childhood. Was she really so eager to please him that she chose to research his past? What else could she be looking for but his mother’s anecdotal record of his life and perhaps a few favourite recipes and menus?
He smiled. He’d have found the behaviour strange, had it been described to him. But there was so much about his new wife that was odd, it hardly surprised him. If she had a fault, it was her almost obsessive desire to make him happy. Tonight, she would be surprised to learn that to accomplish her goal she must take as much pleasure as she gave.
Justine pulled a row of pins and undid the last few knots of the lace on her pillow, so that she might fix the mistakes she’d made when she’d lost concentration. Perhaps she should ask Will to read Walter Scott tonight, especially the bit about tangled webs and deception. Of course, a dishonest woman in that story had ended up walled alive in an abbey. In her current frame of mind, that story would not be light entertainment.
‘You are sure there is nothing you can recall about the accident that might make things clearer.’
Since she was making the story up as she went, she doubted that she had the detail he was hoping for. ‘I was not close enough to see. And it all happened too fast.’ He had been questioning her all through dinner about the past. After nearly two hours, he was no closer to what he expected to hear, but she balanced on the edge of a knife.
He was silent for a moment and she took the opportunity to turn the tables on him. ‘In my opinion, it is fortunate that you do not remember. Suppose it had come upon you suddenly and given you a turn. It was very dangerous to ride at all. What if something had happened and you had fallen again?’
Now he was the one who was uncomfortable, squirming in his seat like a guilty little boy.
She looked up from her work, too surprised to remember the role she was playing. ‘You fell again, didn’t you?’
‘It was nothing,’ he replied hurriedly. ‘I was back on my feet as soon as I regained my wind. But it makes me all the more confused at what caused the earlier accident.’
‘I do not know why I bothered to nurse you, if you use your recovery foolishly.’ Was this real alarm she was feeling at the thought of him lying hurt again? It was always sad when a man so young and alive met with a tragic accident. But when had it begun to matter to her?
He was at her side now, full of apology. ‘If it bothers you, I will take no more chances. Adam’s horse is a brute. I will not take him out again.’ He knelt in front of her now, until he was sure that he had caught her eye. ‘Am I forgiven?’
‘Of course,’ she said, trying and failing for her usual calm smile.
‘Very good,’ he said, then stared down at the work in her lap. She resumed her knotting, and he watched, fascinated by the rhythmic click and switch of the bone bobbins, the exactitude of pins and the slow but steady increase in finished work. ‘What are you making?’ he asked at last, unable to contain his curiosity.
‘I do not know, as of yet,’ she said. ‘A bit of trim for something. It is an old pattern and I do not have to think to work it. But it makes up very pretty.’
‘If you do not know what it is for, then why are you doing it?’
‘To keep my hands busy,’ she said. ‘Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, after all.’
‘Have you given thought to my suggestion of last night?’
She frowned, trying to remember what it was that he had said.
‘When I told you to make something for yourself,’ he said. ‘A tucker for that bodice, perhaps.’ He was staring at her breasts.
She placed a hand on her chest to hide them. ‘I am sorry if the gown is too low. I will change, if you wish.’
He pulled her hand away, wrapping the fingers with his. ‘There is nothing wrong with the dress, other than that it is rather plain. Not that you need to adorn yourself, to be more beautiful,’ he added hurriedly. ‘It simply surprises me that you do not treat yourself as you do others.’
She nodded, relieved that she had done nothing to offend. ‘It is such a large amount of work, if it is only to go for me.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Then you must make something for me,’ he said.
At this, she let out one small laugh, before stifling the emotion so as not to seem disagreeable. ‘Now you are being silly. Men do not wear lace such as this.’
He walked to her side and reached into her work basket, removing a particularly feminine scrap and draping it over his wrist. ‘Perhaps I shall create a fashion for it. Can you not see me in a neckcloth trimmed in birds and butterflies?’
‘I cannot,’ she said, without looking up.
‘Then you must make something for yourself, as a gift for me. I wish to see you adorned in lace, as I said last night.’ Then he draped it over the bare skin of her shoulder, admiring the flesh through the holes in the cloth.
The gentle brush on her shoulder seemed to strike at the very heart of her. Her breath caught in her throat and the room seemed strangely warm. She shrugged to get free of it. ‘I do not think it would suit me.’
‘It is not as beautiful as you are,’ he admitted. ‘But it is lovely all the same.’
This time, it was his words that stopped her breath. He had complimented her before. Why did it matter now?
He trailed the lace up the length of her arm. ‘When we married, did you not promise to obey?’
‘Yes.’ She almost whispered the word. Even for this man, would she ever have the courage to make such a promise, knowing what it might entail?
He smiled, triumphant. ‘Then I should like to see you wear lace. Not all the time. But often enough to prove you understand your own worth. If you will not make it for yourself, I shall buy it for you. Yards and yards of it.’
‘Now, that is certainly a waste,’ she said, imagining what such foolishness was likely to cost, compared with the work she might do for the cost of thread, was she willing to take the time.
‘It would be worth it to me,’ he said, ‘if it meant that I might see you dressed head to toe in nothing but that.’
If the idea had ever occurred to her before, she had set it aside as the kind of sinfully decadent thing a kept woman might do. That was reason enough to avoid it. It was less pleasant than one might expect to spend days parading about the shop in jewels like a mannequin brought to life. It was even worse to spend her evenings dressed as an object of desire.
But that had been when she was with Montague. Why was it strangely appealing when the man making the request was Will Felkirk? ‘It would not be very practical,’ she said at last. ‘Too likely to tear.’
‘I would remove it carefully,’ he assured her.
Her heart was beating fast now and she could feel her skin flushing, as though she was already displayed before him in a transparent gown. ‘It would take months to make a whole chemise,’ she said, hoping that might settle the matter.
He