And yet, Eve could not merely accept that another man—however outwardly honorable—had taken her measure, seen how she could be exploited financially and socially, and used his intimate charms to achieve her complicity in his selfish ends.
Then too, she could not countenance Georgie growing into young womanhood amid a cloud of whispers and gossip, dodging the smirks and knowing glances of the other girls, sent invitations not out of graciousness but out of spite. This Eve truly, genuinely could not have endured, and she was certain it was an outcome Deene had not figured into his strategy.
The front door slammed, and Eve glanced at the clock. The hour was late enough that Deene might go straight above stairs, where she might have been waiting for him, but for having lost track of the time completely.
“Belt said you were nesting in here.”
Eve’s husband stood in the library doorway, looking windblown and tired—and devastatingly attractive. Also hesitant.
The hesitance tore at her spirit, and yet she understood it, too. “Deene.” She rose and crossed the room, holding out her arms so he would know they hadn’t yet descended to nodding at each other in greeting. “I thought perhaps you might stay the night in Town.”
His arms came around her, bringing with them the scents of horse, rain, and husband. “A little dirty weather is to be expected in spring.” He hugged her to him, making Eve wonder if he meant to imbue his observation with comforting symbolism. “Shall we have a nightcap? I’ve rung for a tray to be brought in here.”
They were to stay on neutral territory for a bit, which was a relief. “A biscuit or two and some tea wouldn’t go amiss.”
He walked with her to the sofa before the hearth, where Eve had indeed been nesting. Pillows and blankets marked her preferred end of the couch, and a novel lay on the side table.
“I do not expect you to wait up for me, Evie, but I appreciate that you did.”
He was being conciliatory or simply polite. In either case, Eve did not want to fight with him, not silently, not politely, not in any way.
“William was in good form today. Bannister let me take him over some proper jumps.”
Deene came down beside her on the sofa. “Which might have scared me witless, had I watched. Bad enough I let you and that colt hop logs and ditches and streams all over the shire.”
“William is a horse in a million, isn’t he?”
Something flickered across Deene’s tired features. “For you, he is. Kesmore sends his regards.”
“And Westhaven his.”
“They are spies, the lot of them. What did you tell your brother, Evie?”
She picked up Deene’s arm and put it around her shoulders, where it lay unmoving for a moment. When she put her head on his shoulder, that arm curled a little, so the side of his thumb could stroke her neck.
“I told him we’ve hit a rough patch, and it’s tearing at me awfully. He said I must find a way to compromise.” To say this out loud was to take a risk; but with a flash of insight, Eve realized that to keep it inside, to pretend there was no problem worth mentioning, was a worse risk yet.
Deene blew out a sigh. “I said much the same thing to Kesmore, who gave me much the same advice. And I want to, Evie… I want to find a way through this, but Georgie…”
Eve put a finger over his lips. “I want to as well, and perhaps that’s as much progress as we can hope for in one day.”
They ate mostly in silence, exchanging just a few safe comments about the horses, until Deene took Eve by the hand and helped her to her feet.
“Something about this room is different.” He was peering at her as he spoke, the room being mostly in shadows.
“I’ve not been exactly tidy.” Eve kept her gaze away from the far wall, where something was very different indeed. Deene studied her, then took a candle from the mantel, and as if he’d divined her thoughts, he took the candle across the room.
“I had forgotten this portrait entirely.”
Eve’s feet took her to stand beside her husband, when her flagging courage ought to have had her making her good nights. “You were handsome even as a boy.”
“And Marie was pretty. She looks like a child, though, and this was painted right before her wedding.”
“She was a child, Deene. Sixteen? Seventeen? Certainly not a woman grown at that point.”
“And yet…”
The look he gave Eve was inscrutable, and she wished she could just ask him if hanging the portrait served as a peace offering or an irritant. She’d meant it as a peace offering, but now, hours later…
“We can take it down if you think it doesn’t suit.”
“It suits.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then winged his free arm at her. “It suits exactly.”
A tension in Eve’s middle eased, though not entirely. She was coming to expect a subtle dyspepsia to plague her throughout the day, a symptom of a marriage in trouble and a wife who knew not what to do about it.
Deene must have felt the same way, for he was particularly solicitous as they prepared for bed. He did not undress in the dressing room, but remained where Eve could see him and feast her eyes on his nakedness.
Had he lost weight? Were his ribs and the bones of his hips a trifle more in evidence?
“Will you be going to Town tomorrow, Deene?”
“After I watch William go, very likely. Would you like to come with me?”
He hadn’t extended such an invitation in more than week. “Perhaps I shall.”
He shrugged into a forget-me-not blue dressing gown that made his eyes look positively electric, and shifted to stand behind where Eve sat at her vanity.
“Have I told you lately, Wife, what beautiful hair you have? The feel of it…” He closed his eyes and let her gathered hair run through his hands. “I have missed the feel of your hair.” He brought a lock to his nose. “The scent of it, the warmth of it tickling my chin when I hold you.”
He might have whispered these things in her ear two weeks ago. Now he had merely to recite them, and Eve’s insides started churning.
“It wants braiding, Deene.”
He opened his eyes, and in the vanity mirror, Eve saw him smile. There was a hint of mischief in that smile—also a touch of sadness. He braided her hair with brisk efficiency and then laid his dressing gown across the foot of the bed. “I’ll get the candles, Wife.”
So she watched him move naked around the room, watched the play of firelight on his lean flanks when he knelt to bank the coals, watched him stretch up to blow out the candles on the mantel, watched him stalk over to the bed and climb in with no ceremony whatsoever.
“You will keep those cold feet to yourself, Deene.”
“Cold feet?”
Oh, what an opening she’d handed him, and without meaning to. Entirely without meaning to—he had her that rattled.
“You run them up my calves, and then we’re both shivering.”
“I am not shivering, Evie.” He scooped her up and arranged her on her side, so the warmth of his chest blanketed her back. His hairy, muscular legs snugged up to her bottom, and his arm came around her middle.
She loved it when he held her like this, loved the way it made her feel safe and cherished and toasty all over. The only thing that might have made it better would be if she had thought to take off her nightgown so she might be as naked as he.
“You will tell me if there’s anything else I can do to make you more comfortable, Wife.”
His lips grazed her nape. A casual caress, one he’d indulged in many times before, and each time, Eve felt the impact of it in low, wonderful places. She wanted him to do it again.