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“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
“Were you happy?”
He looked down at his hands for a moment. He hadn't expected the question, though it was reasonable, and he took a moment to answer honestly. “We were fond of one another. We had a good life.”
“I am glad,” she said, and she seemed to mean it.
“Thank you.”
Something in the way she received the answer, in the stillness of her hands and the faint crease between her brows, seemed careful. He could not have said whether it was relief or regret, and he would not presume to decide.
“I was sorry to hear of her death,” she added, gently.
He inclined his head. “It has been several years now.”
Charlotte nodded, and he let the silence stand. There was no need to hurry past either marriage, as though those years had merely inconvenienced a story that began before them. They sat with it a moment, two people who had lived whole lives apart, in a small blue room with the clock ticking on the mantel.
Rosedale’s voice came from the drawing room, followed by a protest Alexander recognized as Hartwick’s, loud and good-humored. Charlotte glanced toward the sound, a small smile touching her lips. “Someone is losing,” she observed.
“Does that tempt you to join them?” he asked.
She met his gaze. “It depends upon who is winning.”
He laughed, a short, surprised sound that eased something in his chest. This time, she smiled without seeming to reconsider, and he found he wanted another hour. A whole evening, preferably. Long enough to learn what amused her now. What occupied her days, whether she still read the final pages of a novel before committing herself to the rest.
He had once considered that habit evidence of an impatient nature. She had informed him, with great dignity and a book held to her chest, that she preferred to know whether the author deserved her time. Perhaps he ought to bear that in mind. “What do you enjoy now?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.
Her brows lifted. “That is a considerable change of subject.”
“It is the one I asked you here to discuss.”
“You did,” she agreed. “Then you began apologizing.”
“I thought it wise to remove the largest obstacle first…”
She arched a brow. “You believe there is only one large obstacle?”
“I am hoping you will allow me to discover the others gradually,” he said, with a hopeful half-smile.
She leaned back against the sofa, tilting her head. Her shoulders had eased, though her gaze remained alert, bright and watchful as a bird’s. “I enjoy my friends. My house and choosing how to spend my days.”
“What did you choose today?” he asked.
The question appeared to surprise her more than his apology, and a flicker of something soft crossed her face. “I visited a bookseller.”
“Was it a successful visit?”
“Very,” she said. “Though I went in search of one book and left with four,” she said, a rueful lilt in her voice.
He smiled back. “That sounds familiar.”
“One was for Lady Rosedale—Elizabeth.”
“A generous defense of your purchases,” he said gravely.
“A true one,” she said, lifting her chin with mock severity.
“And the others?” he inquired.
