Catriona sighed and shrugged out of her robe. "It's nothing." It was the breeding stock, or lack thereof. But…
She shouldn't involve him.
When she'd heard his voice, heard him ask, her instinctive impulse had been to tell him, to lay her growing problem on shoulders broader than hers-to share her burden with him. But… in the back of her mind lurked an un welcome notion that appealing to him was not the right thing to do. On a number of counts.
Asking him, inviting him to become more deeply involved with running the vale, might not, in the long run, be fair, either to him, or to her. There was a subtle line between offering advice and sage counsel, and making the decisions, determining the final outcome. She had always been taught that strong men, powerful men, had difficulty with that distinction.
Forcing him to face it might not be wise.
And, even if he hadn't said so yet, if he was considering leaving her and journeying to London for the Season, she would be wise to keep her own counsel. Wise to hold him at a distance, in that arena at least. She couldn't afford to start to rely on him only to find him bidding her adieu.
It hadn't escaped her that while he'd promised repeatedly not to force her to leave the vale, he'd never promised to stay. To remain by her side, to face the problems of the vale by her side.
Much as she might now feel a need for a strong shoulder to lean on, a strong arm to rely on, she couldn't afford to let herself develop that sort of vulnerability. Ultimately the vale was her responsibility.
So she summoned a smile and hoped it was reassuring. "It's just a minor vale problem." Dropping her robe, she slid under the covers. He hesitated, then drew her into his arms, settling her against him.
Snuggling her head on his chest, she forced herself to relax against him-forced herself to let her problems lie.
Until she could deal with them alone.
She was being silly. Overly sensitive.
The next morning, pacing before her office window, Catriona berated herself sternly. She still didn't know what she could, or should, do about the breeding stock-it was time she asked Richard for advice.
When viewed in the sane light of morning, the concerns that had prevented her from asking last night no longer seemed sufficient to stop her, excuse her, from taking the sensible course. Such silly sensitivity was unlike her.
She needed help-and she was reasonably sure he could give it. She recalled quite clearly how, at McEnery House, she'd been impressed with his knowledge of farming practices and estate management. It was senseless, in her time of need, not to avail herself of his expertise.
Frowning at the floor, she swung about and paced on.
He'd said nothing about leaving. It therefore behooved her to have faith, rather than credit him with making plans-plans he hadn't discussed with her. There was no reason at all for her to imagine he was leaving; she should assume that he was staying, that he would remain to support her as her consort and not hie off to enjoy himself-alone-in London. He'd always behaved with consideration-she should recognize that fact.
And it asking him for advice, inviting him to take a more direct interest in the running of the vale, served to bind him to it-and to her-so be it.
Straightening she drew in a deep breath, drew herself up that last inch, then glided to the door.
He was in the library; from her office, she took a minor corridor, rather than go around through the front hall. The corridor led to a secondary door set into the wall beside the library fireplace.
She reached it, confidence growing with every step, her heart lifting at the thought of asking him what she'd shied away from asking last night, of inviting him that next step deeper into her life. Grasping the doorknob, she turned it-as the door opened noiselessly, she heard voices.
Halting the door open only a crack, she hesitated, then recognized Richard's deep "humph."
"I imagine I'll start packing in a few days, sir. I don't like to rush things and it is very close to the end of January."
A pause ensued then Worboys spoke again. "According to Henderson, and Huggins, the thaw should set in any day now. I daresay it may take a week to clear the roads sufficiently, but, of course, the farther south we travel, the more the highways will improve."
"Hmm."
Frozen outside the door, her heart chilling, sinking Catriona listened as Worboys continued: "The rooms in Jermyn Street will need freshening, of course. I wondered… perhaps you're thinking of looking in on the Dowager and the duke and duchess? If that were so, I could continue on to town and open up the rooms, ready for your return."
"Hmm."
"You'll want to be well settled before the Richmonds' ball, naturally. If I might suggest… a few new coats might be in order. And your boots, of course-we'll need to make sure Hoby remembers not to attach those tassles. As for linen…"
Deep in a letter from Heathcote Montague, Richard let Worboys's monologue drift past him. After eight years, Worboys knew perfectly well when he wasn't attending to him-and he knew perfectly well when his henchman was in a quandary.
In Worboys's case the quandary was simple. He liked it here-and couldn't believe it. He was presently dusting the books on the shelves-in itself a most revealing act-and putting on a good show, trying to convince them both that they were shortly to up stakes and depart, when, in reality, he knew Richard had no such thoughts, and he, himself, did not want to go.