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.
Chapter 13
He wasn't, in fact, a patient man. Ever since receiving the information from Montague, he'd been watching for-waiting for-an opportunity to discuss the matter with his wife. To banish the shadows that seemed to grow, day by day, in her eyes.
Instead, four days later, he'd yet to discover a suitable moment to speak to her. Lounging in an archway not far from her office door, Richard, brooding darkly, kept his gaze on the oak panel and waited some more.
He had a bone-deep aversion to discussing business in their bed. There she remained her usual self, warmly wanton, sweetly taking him in and holding him tight, still insisting on trying to muffle her pleasured screams-he was conscious of a deep reluctance to do anything that might alter the openness that had grown between them there.
But her days were busy; she seemed constantly involved in meetings, or discussions, or in overseeing the household. And if she wasn't actually engaged in the above, she was surrounded by others-by McArdle, Mrs. Broom, or, worse still, Algaria. Even in the odd moments when he would come upon her alone, she was always rushing to be somewhere else.
Worse yet, he was starting to become seriously worried about her health. He was too well attuned to her not to sense the tension, the fragility, she hid beneath her cloak of serenity. He couldn't help but wonder if her pregnancy, which she'd yet to mention to him, was the cause of it-the sudden breathlessness that came upon her, and an emotional brittleness she tried hard to hide.