Silently daring both Hewitt and Persephone to gawk at him, Adam took his seat directly beside his wife and attempted to appear enthralled by their discussion of various types of trees and wildlife. He found, however, that his gaze, which he intended to have shifted between Hewitt and Persephone as they spoke, kept returning to his wife.
He hadn’t seen her so animated in the three-plus weeks she’d been at Falstone. Harry had occasionally brought a twinkle to her eyes. But she seemed to have come alive under Hewitt’s influence.
Adam didn’t like it at all.
“Both boys are on the Triumphant,” Persephone said to Hewitt.
“Both together?”
“My grandfather called in a few favors, I believe,” Persephone said. “Linus was so young when they left. We all felt better knowing Evander would be with him.”
“I doubt Evander was much older.”
Persephone shook her head. “He was twelve.”
“A little young to be starting in the navy,” Hewitt acknowledged.
“Far too young for my comfort.” For the first time, Adam heard worry in her tone. She’d spoken of her brothers before, but never with such feeling. Why had Hewitt inspired such confessions when he, her husband, received little more than a laundry list of information about her life and family?
Because that is the way it should be, Adam reminded himself. He begged confidences from no one.
“They are in the Atlantic, then?”
Persephone nodded. “Not far from Spain, last I heard.”
“There is a great deal of activity in that part of the world just now.”
“Do not remind me,” Persephone said. “I worry over them almost constantly.”
“Each has the other to look after him, though.” Hewitt offered an understanding smile. “And, if my understanding of our naval men is accurate, they will find a great deal of loyalty in their shipmates as well.”
“Yes, thank you.” Persephone returned his smile. “That does put my mind a little at ease.”
Hewitt’s smile grew, until his eyes met Adam’s, and then the smile disappeared in an instant.
That was much better.
* * *
Hewitt had been at Falstone for three days, and Adam was only refraining from strangling the man by sheer willpower. He sniveled and slumped when taken one-on-one but regained his equilibrium in Persephone’s presence. Adam watched for any signs of infatuation but found none on either side, which was extremely fortunate for Hewitt. Else he would quickly find that not all the rumors about the Duke of Kielder were exaggerations.
Despite theirs being only a budding friendship, Persephone’s and Hewitt’s ease with one another did not sit well with Adam because, he told himself, it would be impossible to get Hewitt to resent Persephone’s presence if he liked her so very much. Hewitt was supposed to see her as a threat, as the one person who could prevent his obtaining his inheritance. Then, when Hewitt was at his most dejected, Adam could throw him out, content in the knowledge that Hewitt would never return.
Adam had taken pains to sit beside Persephone at every opportunity in Hewitt’s presence. He was finding it was not much of a chore. She would occasionally produce one of her magnificent smiles, or she would laugh with real enjoyment, and Adam found himself very nearly smiling in response.
Adam grew more adept at maneuvering their relative positions so his unmarred side was exposed to his picturesque bride.
It did occur to Adam on one or two occasions to wonder at his insistence at keeping his scars from her. He hadn’t hidden them since his childhood. He had decided then not to allow his deformities to cow him, to not let others use his pain as a weapon. But from the moment he’d seen Persephone in Falstone Chapel, he’d been unwilling—practically unable—to give her the opportunity to be disgusted by him. And she hadn’t been. Yet.
Hewitt hadn’t choked on his port at dinner, Adam noticed as they walked to the drawing room on the third night of Hewitt’s sojourn. At least he had improved in that respect. He had, however, quickly backed out of the sitting room that afternoon when Adam had pulled out his dueling pistols. He’d only intended to clean them. Coward, Adam remembered with a smile.
Stepping through the drawing room doors, Adam’s eyes automatically sought out Persephone. She did not smile up at them at their arrival as she had the last two days but remained seated, bent over a paper in her hands.
Adam tensed. She hadn’t obtained another map, had she? He strode across the room, determined not to let Hewitt see her studying the layout of her own home. Upon closer observation, Adam realized the paper was filled with writing, a letter, perhaps.
She seemed to take notice of his approach and looked up at him. Her eyes filled with tears even as more coursed down her face. She looked between Adam and Hewitt, her eyes almost pleading for something, but what, Adam couldn’t say.
A sudden surge of sympathy clamped his mouth shut. He did not want emotional attachments, he did not want to feel sympathy or concern.
Hewitt spoke first. “Good heavens. What on earth has happened?”
“There has been a battle.” Persephone’s voice shook.
Her brothers. Adam felt his stomach knot.
“One week ago,” Persephone said.
October 21, Adam calculated in his head.
“Near Cape Trafalgar.” Her words were halting and difficult to discern. “The Triumphant sustained heavy losses.”
“And what of your brothers?” Hewitt asked the question on the tip of Adam’s tongue.
The tears picked up pace as her chin began to quiver.
No. Adam sat beside her on the sofa, at a loss.
“Evander is dead.”
Chapter Thirteen
Seven days had passed in a haze of emotion and grief since word had come of Evander’s death at Trafalgar. The great Admiral Nelson had perished during that battle as well. Early estimates were placing the number of dead at more than four hundred with the wounded numbering three times that many. Evander’s name had appeared on the first list of the fallen to reach London, one of Papa’s uncles having sent word to Shropshire and to herself as soon as he’d read it. Linus’s fate remained unknown.
In Persephone’s mind, Linus appeared the same way he’d been when he and Evander had left home headed for the sea. He’d tried so hard to appear brave, but his eyes were filled with fear and apprehension. Good heavens, he’d only been a boy, a mere eleven years old. The same age then as Daphne was now. How had she ever allowed him to go?
And now he was alone, having faced the horror of war and, more likely than not, witnessed the death of his brother.
Persephone sat in her corner of the garden where she’d come the day after her wedding to cry out her grief. She felt she ought to have been crying again, but she lacked the energy to allow the grief she felt to express itself further. She had come not to cry but to find solitude.
Since the night that word of Evander had come, she’d been faced at practically every turn with an empathetic Mr. Hewitt and a quieter than ever Adam. She was heartily sick of the both of them.
What she truly wanted was her family.
Persephone closed her eyes, blocking out the dim light of approaching winter. Papa must have been beside himself with grief. Persephone had all but raised Evander from the time he was six, after Mama had died. Her grief pierced her. She could not even begin to imagine the pain of a true parent for his child.
The girls must be at a loss, since none had ever possessed the ability to understand their often-incomprehensible father. He tended to wander about when his mind was burdened, seemingly unreachable. She alone had known how to reach out to him when he was so distanced. But she was too far away to do so now.
And Linus. Was there no one to help Linus?
A shadow passed over Persephone’s face. She opened her eyes a sliver. Adam, looking as displeased as ever, stood before her, a long, narrow package tucked under one arm.
“Good afternoon, Adam,” Pers
ephone said wanly. She hadn’t wanted company.
“Forgive me for intruding.” Adam seemed to have read her thoughts. He indicated the package he carried. “This came for you, and I wanted to explain.”
“Explain?”
Adam held the package out to her, his mouth set in a grim line. She took it, laying the package across her lap. Adam seemed to grow more uncomfortable. The tension in his jaw increased, his eyes darting between the package and a nearly bare rosebush, all the while avoiding looking at her.
“Please sit, Adam.” Her request surprised even herself.
“I am fine,” Adam replied gruffly.
For a moment she opted to acquiesce but in the end convinced herself to show a little backbone. “I am not asking for your comfort, Adam, but for my own. I have no desire to strain my neck looking up as you loom over me.”
He raised an eyebrow in obvious surprise, but after a moment’s hesitation he sat on the stone seat beside her. Persephone hadn’t realized how small it was until he was sharing it with her. The contact—for there was actual contact, so small was the seat—proved surprisingly welcome. She needed to feel the comfort of another human being near enough to touch. She needed to feel less alone.
“I have sat as you asked. Now will you open the box?”
She recognized the tone of command. Why did he do that? Order people about when he could just as effectively ask for something? She looked more closely at him. As always, he didn’t look at her. She could see little more than his left ear and jaw. His demeanor spoke volumes of his discomfort. If she didn’t know better, Persephone would think Adam was embarrassed, maybe even shy. But neither description fit the Adam she knew.
“You said you wanted to explain about the package,” Persephone reminded him, still watching for any change of expression, any reason for his discomfort.
“After you open it,” Adam muttered.
Good heavens, he did seem embarrassed. Persephone shook that confusing thought from her head and pulled at the twine. Adam tapped the palm of his hand on his knee, his jaw working as he studied another bare flowering shrub. Not only embarrassed but nervous, it appeared. What in the world was in the package?
Persephone felt a little nervous, herself. She pulled back the paper. The package contained some sort of garment. She ran her finger down what appeared to be the collar but, with her gloves on, could tell very little of the fabric or make. She slipped the glove off her right hand and touched the blue fabric again. Wool, she decided, but by far the softest wool she’d ever touched.
“I ordered it before you went into mourning.” Adam’s voice was edged with what anyone might interpret as anger, but Persephone thought she heard frustration in his tone. “It ought to have been black, or gray at the least. Considering.”
“You ordered this for me?” Persephone brushed her hand down the garment, still amazed at its softness but even more amazed at the unforeseen gesture.
“You cannot ride without a proper riding habit.” Adam employed the tone he used that generally made her feel rather slow-witted.
She shifted her gaze and watched him closely. He looked briefly at the habit then let his eyes wander to the right, his head moving with his eyes. Still, his hands fidgeted, his body tensed as if poised for flight. He spoke casually but seemed anything but unaffected. His demeanor and his tone did not precisely match. Why had she never noticed that before? Was this a new discrepancy? Or had she simply been unobservant?
“A riding habit,” Persephone quietly repeated, laying her hand on the collar and buttons that she now recognized as the latest fashion for riding habits, having endured Athena’s raptures over the latest issue of La Belle Assemble in the weeks leading up to her wedding. “You must have great confidence in my ability to learn to ride. Thus far I am proving a very poor pupil.”
“You were quite a bit better yesterday,” Adam countered, still looking away.
Persephone allowed the tiniest of smiles. He had watched her. She’d had no idea.
“I think it the perfect color,” Persephone said. “It may not be black, but it is a very deep blue, quite nearly black. And I can use it after my period of mourning is complete. Evander—” Her voice broke on the name. “—was a very practical boy, considering his youth, and would have approved.”
“The boots will take longer,” Adam said.
“You’ve ordered boots as well?”
“Your house slippers are hardly appropriate for riding.” His tone gave the impression that he had just rolled his eyes, though with his face turned away, she couldn’t see.
“I haven’t been wearing slippers.” A hint of a laugh entered her voice. She hadn’t smiled in a week. How had her gruff, usually grumpy husband managed to pull a laugh from her?
“You might as well have been. You must have true riding boots. They should arrive in the next week. Rogers, in York, is sending a hat. Your gloves are coming from London, so there is no saying how long that will take.”
“Gloves from London?” Persephone had never owned anything made in Town. Even her wedding dress has been fashioned by a seamstress closer to Shropshire.
“A good pair of gloves cannot be overestimated.” Adam rose rather abruptly.
“I have no idea what to say, Adam,” Persephone whispered, her hand brushing the habit but her eyes fixed on him.
“It is not necessary for you to say anything.” He held his hands fisted at his side. “I only wished to explain why it was the wrong color.”
With that, he left, forehead furrowed, jaw tight.
Persephone shook her head in disbelief. She never would have guessed that Adam would think to order her a riding habit, let alone boots and gloves and a hat. Then to go to the trouble of explaining why it did not take into account her sudden state of mourning. In any other man it would have been a thoughtful gesture. Coming from Adam, it was nothing short of utterly confusing.
She lifted a sleeve, rubbing the soft wool against her cheek. He’d been uncomfortable, that much was certain. And though no one would believe her—she hardly believed herself—he’d given every appearance of embarrassment. The Duke of Kielder, who, if rumor and her own observations were to be believed, cared not at all for his fellow man, had been uncomfortable being found out in an act of kindness.
The fidgets he’d so conspicuously been trying to hide reminded Persephone forcefully of her sister Daphne. She, too, grew antsy around others. But, then, she was painfully shy.
“Good heavens,” Persephone whispered. Could the angry, snapping, aloof man actually be covering his own shyness? It seemed absurd, and yet . . .
“Adam!” she called out, clutching the riding habit to her as she hurried down the path she’d seen him take. “Adam!”
Only a few feet from the garden’s entrance she saw him. He’d stopped and looked over his shoulder in her direction. She could make out the very edge of the scars that crossed his right cheek, Adam having presented her with his left side as always.
Embarrassed, she thought, with an inward shake of her head. Why hadn’t she seen it before? He had at least a touch of shyness—she would be willing to wager a thousand pounds on it, more even.
“Adam,” she said, just a little breathless from her run.
He didn’t reply but watched her with that same aloof expression that she had begun to doubt was completely sincere.
“Thank you, Adam,” she said quickly. “For the habit. I—”
Adam shook his head. “You needed one.” He dismissed her gratitude. “No duchess should ride around the countryside with her ankles exposed.”
So he was uncomfortable with gratitude, was he? Interesting, Persephone thought as Adam walked back toward the house. Very interesting.
Persephone watched Adam at dinner that night and in the drawing room afterward. He acted the same as he always had, no hint of discomfort or embarrassment. Why was that? Did she alone make him uncomfortable? Or was it the gifting that had unnerved him? Perhaps she had misinterpreted his mood.
How she wished Harry were back. He would be able to advise her.
“You seem thoughtful, Your Grace,” Mr. Hewitt said, breaking into her thoughts.
“I suppose I am.”
“Have you heard from your family?” He spoke with as much gentleness as any woman could desire when the weight of a lost sibling and an unreachable husband sat on her heart. “You must certainly wish for their nearness at such a time.”
Persephone answered with nothing more than a small smile and retook the book she’d been pretending to read all night. While she appreciated Mr. Hewitt’s attempts at solicitude, she found that he had the uncanny ability to bring tears to her eyes with his kindnesses. She had no desire to cry at that moment.
“I believe you are distressing the duchess.” Adam’s voice came quite suddenly from near Mr. Hewitt’s chair. Persephone looked up. Adam stood at Mr. Hewitt’s arm. “I suggest you take yourself off.”
Mr. Hewitt cleared his throat nervously and rose hastily from his seat. “I am a little weary, at that.” He eyed Adam with obvious apprehension. “Perhaps I should retire for the night.”
“Excellent notion, Hewitt.”
Mr. Hewitt scurried away—Persephone couldn’t think of another word for the way he hied himself from the room—and Adam took the seat he’d vacated. They were now occupying chairs directly opposite one another. He would be forced to look at her, Persephone realized.
She lifted her eyes once more from her book only to find his gaze fixed, as always, to his right. “Look at me!” she felt like screaming. She was miles from her family, in a castle that felt nothing like a home to her, with no one to talk to, to feel a connection with, and he would not so much as look at her.
Frustration bubbling up inside, she raised her book once more and said, “Mr. Hewitt was trying to be consoling.”
“He was making you teary again,” Adam countered. “I got the distinct impression you did not wish to cry tonight.”
Now how, Persephone wondered, had he come to that conclusion?
Chapter Fourteen
Seeking Persephone Page 9