Page 36

"A few years ago," he said slowly, "I bought a cottage in Crail, a little coastal town in Scotland."

By 'a few years ago,' he meant right before their marriage. He had bought it as a wedding gift for her—a place they would have gone for their wedding trip, somewhere she could paint in peace, somewhere they could spend weeks without the ton bothering them.

"I spent most of my childhood in Scotland, and I thought... I wanted to have a place my children could enjoy while visiting their cousins from my mother's side. Every year, I spend a few weeks there alone, enjoying nature. I have Mrs. Baxter, the caretaker of the cottage, cook for me. But I always wondered what it would've been like to be completely left to my own devices, cooking for myself."

"I can teach you," she blurted, then hid her gaze, stirring the chocolate in her cup. "Or if you don't mind a bit of company, I could join you."

His heart gave a leap.

"And we could cook together," she continued, still not meeting his gaze. "I learned a few easy recipes during my travels. I am in no way proficient, but I could keep us alive."

He chuckled. "I would enjoy that."

She finally lifted her face and smiled. "You can't say that before trying my food."

"I am certain I shall enjoy it either way." He cleared his throat. "What else did you learn on your travels?"

"Not much." She immediately perked up. "I took painting lessons from very talented teachers, though I am still not ready for any gallery."

"I thought your sketches were truly beautiful," he said before he could catch himself. She had sent him a few landscape sketches with her letters during her travels. But she'd said no bitter past.

Was it bitter if they were some of the best memories he had of their correspondence?

He still kept them between the ledgers in his study.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Apologies for interrupting. Do go on."

She knit her brows in thought. "What else did I learn? I learned to saddle my own horse and ride astride, though it is a useless skill for a lady in England. I learned to sew a few garments⁠—"

"And wounds," he supplied dryly.

She let out a laugh and pointed the spoon at him. "That too. Which reminds me, you never answered me. Why are you out of bed?"

Looking for you.

"Oh." He scratched his head. "I could not sleep, and I remembered someone telling me that warm milk with a splash of brandy helps."

"Oh yes, a posset." She padded toward a side door. "I know the remedy, and I can help you with that. Stay here."

"Where are you going?" He followed as far as the door, which opened onto a stair leading down. Cold air wafted up.

"Do not come down," she admonished from the darkness. "Or I shall be forced to add some laudanum to the posset. That will make sure you are fast asleep."

She reappeared with a jug of milk in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other.

"How did you know where to find these?" He frowned.

"Where else would they be but the larder?" She crinkled her nose.

"I have lived in this house for eleven years and had no idea where the larder was."

She laughed. "That is why you need a mistress of the house."

Five days, he thought, trailing after her around the kitchen. She has been here five days, and she knows the house better than I do after more than a decade.

She moved the chocolate to the side, poured the milk into a small pan, and when it began to steam, she added a measure of brandy.