CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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“Not married five days and we already have a routine,” Rathburn said from behind her, his footfalls echoing in the empty ballroom.
Emma turned from the windows in time to catch his grin. Her heart filled with fireflies at the sight of him and gave a tremulous flutter as he neared. This seemed easy for him, the wedding, the alterations in their plans . . . everything. He was much the same as always. Teasing and shamelessly flirting while she was constantly worried that she’d selfishly squandered her chance to free him from their arrangement before it was too late. Well, not constantly. When they made love, she allowed herself to let go.
He cupped her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. Slowly, his hands descended down the length of her arms before he threaded his fingers through hers. “First, we breakfast in bed—which, just this morning you deemed suitable for a newly married couple.” He grinned, looking pleased by this.
“Though, I’m certain, when we are in our dotage, sitting in chairs will be a requirement for our health.”
“I look forward to testing that theory. Yet, you may be right.” He made a show of placing a hand to his lower back and pulled a frown. “After our lengthy . . .” He paused to waggle his eyebrows at her. “. . . repast this morning, I am in need of a stiff backed chair.”
Would he ever cease making her blush? “The morning room hosts many comfortable chairs,” which was where she adjourned each morning when he went to his study. And each morning, she wished he would join her. “It’s a lovely room.”
“Perhaps,” he mused. “Although, it would be a truly lovely room if it were not such a distance from the study.”
She was surely making calf eyes at him, but there was no help for it. “You are welcome to write your correspondence alongside me, if you so desire.”
He grinned and lifted a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “Then the estate would surely fall into ruin, because I would accomplish nothing other than a thorough study of my bride’s elegant scrawl upon each page, and the way the light caresses her hair, her cheek . . .”
Her eyes closed as she nestled her cheek into the palm of his hand. “My, you are easily distracted.”
“Not always, as you well know,” he said in a low whisper across her lips, before he pulled back. “Now, where was I in my account of our daily life . . . Ah yes. With your letters in hand, you slip quietly downstairs and place them on the salver in the foyer next to mine. Then, while I meet with Harrison in my study, you meet with Mrs. Stillson in the drawing room to discuss the day’s tasks.”
“She was good enough to inform me of your fondness for lamb stew. I’ve arranged that for dinner, among other things, including brandied pears for dessert.”
“Mmm . . . I haven’t had those since”—he gave her a look—“I last dined at your parents’ home.”
“You said they were your favorite,” she admitted.
He stared at her as if waiting for her to continue, as if anticipating more. Then, after a moment, he gave her what seemed to be a patient smile before turning her in his arms so that they were both facing the windows.
“I have heard it from Mrs. Stillson that you are perfect in every way. I’m inclined to agree. The only flaw I can find is that you are too much of a distraction.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I find myself thinking about where you are each minute of the day. And, just now, I found comfort in knowing I would find you here, gazing out at the garden.”
She leaned back against him, placing her arms over his. “I’d expected the new buds to have bloomed by now, but they seem stilted. I wonder what they are waiting for.”
“Perhaps, the fragile blossoms dare not open up in such a deluge.” He nuzzled into her hair and drew in a breath. “Don’t worry. Soon our garden will be full of color and life.”