The happiness that she was doing the right thing survived the night and waking up to the luxury of the Duchess’s suite and Mary’s attentive care.
Cal met her as she descended the sweeping staircase, caught her hand in his and kissed it. ‘You have made up your mind,’ he said as he steered her towards the back of the hall. ‘The breakfast room is through here.’
‘Made up my mind?’
‘To marry me.’
‘Of course I had. I would not have come otherwise.’
The breakfast room was empty except for two footmen. Cal waved them out and opened the tall windows, letting in the cool air and birdsong and the smell of newly-scythed grass. ‘Yes you would. Rather, you would have told me if you had definitely decided against, but you were unsure yesterday, weren’t you?’ He began to lift covers from the dishes on the buffet, then handed her a plate.
‘I…’ Sophie took refuge in the array of breakfast dishes, selected eggs and bacon and crisp rolls and sat down before she answered him. Cal deserved honesty. ‘I did have doubts, yes. We hardly know each other.’
‘But my kisses convinced you?’ He had added devilled kidneys, bacon, sausage, eggs and mushrooms to his plate. He set down his food at the head of the table at right angles to her place and went back to the buffet. ‘Tea, coffee or chocolate?’
‘Tea please. Your kisses were persuasive but your superior bathing arrangements clinched the argument I was having with myself.’ She watched him as he carried her cup over to her, saw the laughter-creases at the corners of his eyes deepen and let out the breath she had been holding. He did have a sense of humour, even about this.
When he sat and began to stir his own coffee he was serious again. ‘I am relieved, both by your decision and the fact you took time to make it. It is good to know that you want me for more than my title, even if it is my bath tub that made up your mind.’ No, not entirely serious, on the surface, but there was truth behind the bantering words.
‘When I made my list of necessary qualities for a husband I included well-bred and well-off because I want to remain in contact with my friends and my family and with the world I know,’ Sophie said carefully. ‘But anyone who was received and who was in easy circumstances would have done, if I had liked them. An earl or a viscount would probably have been more comfortable and considerably less work.’
‘You are telling me that my title is an encumbrance?’ Cal was making good inroads into the kidneys, the sensitive nature of the conversation apparently having no effect on his appetite.
‘Neutral, I would say.’
This time his smile reached his lips as well as his eyes. There was a faint tap at the door which opened to half way. ‘My spies are warning me that we have about two minutes before your parents get here. After breakfast would you like me to show you over the house before our – my – guests start to arrive?’
‘That would be interesting, thank you.’
They were discussing the rival merits of Weymouth and Brighton as seaside resorts when her parents came in, preceded by the footmen who bustled about to such effect that it hid the fact that the two of the had been alone and quite unchaperoned. Cal was certainly a considerable strategist.
The house was so large that it took all morning for them to do nothing more than walk through from room to room, and that omitted the attics, the nursery floor, the stables, the basement and cellars and the staff areas. When they finally reached the Long Gallery Sophie collapsed laughing in one of the cushioned benches in the window bays and refused to go any further.
‘I am exhausted, stunned, impressed and horrified,’ she announced. ‘I cannot manage another step. How many miles have we walked?’
Cal shrugged. ‘No idea. We could measure it out, there are large scale plans in the library.’ He sat down at the other end of the seat, stooped to take hold of her ankles, swung her feet up and pulled off her shoes. ‘Sit still and stop wriggling. Are you ticklish?’
‘No. Yes. Cal!’ He was massaging her feet, one large hand enveloping each foot, his thumbs working firmly on the aching arches. ‘Ouch… Oh, that is bliss.’
It was surprisingly easy to do as he said, despite the fact that he – a man – had her stockinged feet in his hands, that his long fingers were weaving all kinds of patterns over and under them and occasionally trailing daring fingertips up her ankles. ‘It feels as though we have done this before, sat here alone, very tranquil, very intimate… It feels familiar.’