She sent him the look that had bound his heart to hers those four years ago. Tease, spice, wit, all joined together inside the most fetching form he had ever beheld. “And you, being ever so generous, took the poor soul in. A veritable hero.”
“And all yours.” He wanted to pull her closer, to hold her tight and remind her of how well suited they were. And he would have, if not for that blasted promise he had made her. “I suppose I should gather my unusual houseguest and leave you in peace.”
But she stayed him with a hand to his chest. “Not quite yet.” Her mischievous smile fading to a more yearning one, she leaned into his side and rested her head on his shoulder. “Give me a few moments first.”
Well. He was really in no hurry to go home.
She’d given him half an hour. So far as Marietta knew, Slade had actually spent it in the library—which would be foolish—but she was at least doing her part. Keeping Dev away while the servants were busy tending Mother Hughes.
A better time to search she couldn’t possibly have handed him. But more than half an hour would be pushing the boundaries. She had done her best to keep Dev relaxed and at ease, reminiscing with him about inconsequential things. Trailing a finger along the V of his waistcoat.
Wondering if the Lord would judge her for using her charms in such a way. Jael had acted similarly in Judges to kill the enemy king, Sisera, though. Perhaps not going so far as to snuggle to his side and thereby hold him immobile, but given the variance in their circumstances it surely wasn’t so different, was it? Jael had taken in the enemy, had given him milk when he asked for water, had invited him to lie down and rest.
And then she had plunged a tent stake through his head.
A shudder worked through her. She had tried to tell her mother the Bible was too gruesome a book for her to read, but Mama had just sent her one of those looks that had kept three boys in line and tapped another page.
Dev trailed a finger down her arm. “Are you chilled, darling? You have misplaced your wrap again.”
She knew that tone, warm and thick as syrup. Knew that in another moment, he would forget his promise and kiss her until she forgot too. Or if not forgot, at least pushed it aside. She had become skilled at the one over the years, since she could never accomplish the other.
And that, now, would not do.
“I suppose I should find it and bid you good night.” She pulled away, making sure her blink was heavy, tired.
She feared he would refuse to relinquish her, but with distance came reason. He let go with a sigh. “I suppose that is a wise idea.”
“Hmm.” She meandered over to the chair she had occupied before, picked up her shawl, and wrapped it around her. The hallways would be cold. “I’ll see you out.”
His arms closed around her from behind, though she hadn’t noticed him rise. “Soon enough you won’t have to. I am counting the days, my darling.”
Lord, give me strength. Praying still felt like moving a rusty gate—but one desperately needing to be opened. Heaven help her, but part of her still yearned for the feel of his arms. Her strength was not sufficient. Could not see her through this.
But His was made perfect through her weakness. If only she could remember to cling to that as easily as she recalled the words themselves.
“I am counting them too.” And there were only eighty-two. Eighty-two days until he would at the least announce his intentions, and at the most insist on a small, private ceremony that would bind them together for all time.
When she stepped toward the door, he followed. She glanced at Lucien’s study as they passed but saw no evidence of anyone having gone inside. Not that she knew what she expected to see.
Mr. Osborne, however, was as she had come to expect him. Perusing her shelves, though she still could not reconcile the figure he presented with the thought that he was an avid reader. He didn’t look the part, didn’t act the part. Even while he did it, he looked as though he would as soon toss the tomes into the fire as turn another page.
He had found Stephen’s books again. His sermons, his Bible, his beloved novels.
His photograph that fluttered to the floor when Mr. Osborne opened the cover of Kierkegaard’s Frygt og B?ven. Fear and Trembling. Stephen had worked for months trying to get enough of a handle on the Danish to read it.
“Sorry.” Mr. Osborne crouched down to retrieve the photograph, though rather than replace it, he studied it. “Pretty girl. A relation of yours, Marietta?”
She nearly shivered again when he said her name. Somehow it didn’t seem to belong on his lips. She moved forward, her hand outstretched. “I didn’t realize there was a photograph in there.”
Why could the man not just glance at her, or anything else, casually? It felt as though he were measuring the whole world, that he took note of everything. Every pulse, every shift, every breath.
He held out the thick paper, and she braved a half-second catch of his gaze before dropping hers to the photo.