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“Certainly, Your Grace.” Whitmore waited a moment. “Mrs. Bell has had a board made for the drawing table. She thought the duchess might prefer not to work directly on the polished surface.”

“That was thoughtful of her.”

“She hoped it would be useful.” The butler inclined his head. “If there is nothing further, Your Grace?”

“Nothing further. Thank her for me.”

Upstairs, he heard Lydia ask Mrs. Bell whether the drawing table might stand nearer the window. He nearly offered to move it himself, then remembered the carriage conversation and went on to his room. What he wanted was an invitation to remain after the table had been moved.

James helped him out of his coat and withdrew. Tristan remained beside the unlit hearth. Somewhere along the passage, Lydia was beginning the life she had chosen. He had promised to give her room for it. He had not expected keeping that promise to feel so much like loneliness.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The book was on the table in Lydia’s sitting room when she entered it the next morning. She stopped in the doorway, remembering how she had listened for Tristan after Mary left her the night before. Though she had been the one to ask for separate rooms, she had slept badly and woken angry with herself for having hoped to hear footsteps outside her door. Now he had sent something she wanted, and she could not decide whether to be pleased by the gesture or hurt by how carefully he had kept his distance.

It was the green botanical volume she had been using in Tristan’s library, placed neatly on the table where the morning sun caught it. She was glad to have it in her possession again. Beside it sat her apple mint, apparently none the worse for its journey from London.

She crossed to it in her wrapper. Inside the cover lay the paper she had used for the flower, brushed clean and folded along its old creases. The pressed specimen itself was safe in her case.

“His Grace thought you might wish to go on with your comparison,” said the housemaid, entering with hot water. “Mr. Whitmore brought it up last night.”

“Did he.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Shall I move it while I put the basin down?”

“No, thank you. There is room beside it.” Lydia moved the mint farther from the book. She wanted to thank Tristan herself. She also wanted him to understand that returning a book did not settle the conversation in the carriage. The two wishes made going down to breakfast considerably harder than it ought to have been.

She dressed slowly and went down at nine with her list folded in her pocket, braced for the sort of breakfast one has when a treaty has been signed, and no one wants to look at the pen. The morning room at Ashcombe faced east. It was a bright, plain room, painted a yellow so old it had faded to the color of straw, and at the head of the long table sat her husband with a cup of coffee and a newspaper and the expression of a man who had not slept.

He rose when she entered, and the simple courtesy touched her more than she cared to admit.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Your Grace,” said Lydia, and sat.

The footman poured her tea. Tristan folded the newspaper into quarters, considered it, and laid it on an empty chair. Lydia reached for the toast at the same moment he began to speak. They both stopped, and the footman, who had been about to withdraw, waited uncertainly behind her.

“You go first,” said Tristan.

“I was only going to ask whether you slept well.”

“Not particularly. Did you?”

“Not particularly.” She reached for the toast. She could have told him why, but not with the footman listening.

He pushed the toast rack towards her. “The house was quiet enough. I cannot blame that.”

“You have the look of a man who has been arguing with a ceiling.”

“There is a crack above the bed. I had time to consider it.” He looked toward the footman. “Mrs. Bell is right about the roof. Ask Collins to send for the man when he is next in the village.”

“Then some good has come of it,” Lydia said, choosing a slice of toast.

“Mrs. Bell will be pleased.” The footman withdrew, taking the newspaper with him. Tristan watched it go and then, to Lydia’s relief, reached for his breakfast.

Lydia buttered her toast. They had nearly managed an ordinary breakfast. When they both reached for the marmalade, his fingers brushed hers. Rather than withdrawing he let his hand linger beside hers.

“You wanted this?” he asked.