Scandals Bride (Cynster 3)

In what he viewed as a primitive backwater, Worboys had discovered heaven.

Not an inamorata in his case, but a household where he fitted in perfectly, like a missing link in a chain. The manor's household was unusual, without the lines of precedence Worboys had lived with all his professional life. Instead, it was a place that operated on friendship-a sort of kinship in serving their lady. It was a household where people had to rely on each other-have faith and confidence in each other-just to get through the yearly round of harsh weather and the short growing season, made even more difficult by their isolation.

It was a place where people felt valued for themselves; the household, in its rustic innocence, had welcomed Worboys to its bosom-and Worboys had fallen in love.

He was presently in deep denial-Richard recognized the signs. So he let Worboys ramble-he was really only talking to himself and convincing no one. Whenever Worboys paused and insisted on some response, he humphed or hmm'd and let it go at that. He saw no benefit in getting drawn into a discussion of things that were not going to happen.

His letter was far more interesting. Spurred by the Pottses' visit, he'd written to Montague, inquiring as to the current state of breeding stock, both in the southern and northern counties. He'd also asked Montague to locate the most highly regarded breeder in the Ridings, just south of the border, not too far from the vale.

"So, sir." Pausing, Worboys drew in a deep breath. "If you just

let me know when you've decided on the date, I'll proceed as we've discussed."

Looking up, Richard met Worboys's gaze. "Indeed. When I decide to leave, you'll be the first to know."

Inclining his head gravely, doubtless feeling much better after having got all his useless plans off his chest, Worboys picked up his duster and a pot of wilting flowers, and headed for the door.

Richard waited until it closed before letting his lips curve. Returning to his letter, he read to its end, then, smiling even more, laid it down, and stretched.

And noticed a draft. He glanced around and saw a door, so well fitted in the paneling he hadn't noticed it before, left ajar. Rising, he rounded the desk and crossed to the panel. Opening it farther, he found a dim secondary corridor. Empty. Inwardly shrugging, Richard closed the door-it could have been ajar for a week for all he knew.

Recrossing to the desk, he sat and pulled out a map of the surrounding counties. A Mister Owen Scroggs, cattle breeder extraordinaire, lived at Hexham. How far, Richard wondered, was Hexham from the vale?

If-when-his wife finally trusted him enough to ask for his assistance, his support, he wanted to have all the answers. All the right answers, at his fingertips.

Chapter 13

He wasn't, in fact, a patient man. Ever since receiving the information from Montague, he'd been watching for-waiting for-an opportunity to discuss the matter with his wife. To banish the shadows that seemed to grow, day by day, in her eyes.

Instead, four days later, he'd yet to discover a suitable moment to speak to her. Lounging in an archway not far from her office door, Richard, brooding darkly, kept his gaze on the oak panel and waited some more.

He had a bone-deep aversion to discussing business in their bed. There she remained her usual self, warmly wanton, sweetly taking him in and holding him tight, still insisting on trying to muffle her pleasured screams-he was conscious of a deep reluctance to do anything that might alter the openness that had grown between them there.

But her days were busy; she seemed constantly involved in meetings, or discussions, or in overseeing the household. And if she wasn't actually engaged in the above, she was surrounded by others-by McArdle, Mrs. Broom, or, worse still, Algaria. Even in the odd moments when he would come upon her alone, she was always rushing to be somewhere else.

Worse yet, he was starting to become seriously worried about her health. He was too well attuned to her not to sense the tension, the fragility, she hid beneath her cloak of serenity. He couldn't help but wonder if her pregnancy, which she'd yet to mention to him, was the cause of it-the sudden breathlessness that came upon her, and an emotional brittleness she tried hard to hide.

Those symptoms weren't there when she slid into his arms every night. He couldn't help wonder if, during the days, she was working herself too hard, rather than letting him ease the load so she could take better care of herself-and their child.

The office door opened; McArdle stumped out.

Richard straightened; he waited until McArdle disappeared down the corridor, then swiftly strolled to the office door. He hesitated for a moment, reminding himself that he couldn't demand, then opened the door-and strolled languidly in.

Seated behind her desk, Catriona looked up-Richard smiled easily, charmingly. And tried not to notice the clouds dimming her green eyes. "Are you busy?"

Catriona drew in a deep breath and looked down at the papers before her. "I am, actually. Henderson and Huggins-"

"I won't keep you above a moment."

The words were drawled, nonchalant-unthreatening. Acutely conscious of him, Catriona forced herself to sit back in her chair and wait while he strolled, all idle elegance, to the window.

"Actually, I wondered if I might help you out, as you seem so rushed these days."

Drawing a slow, steadying breath, Catriona turned her head and met his gaze. Swiftly-with a hope she could only just bear to acknowledge-she studied his face. It was an indolent mask of polite indifference; there was no hint of real commitment, real passion-of really wanting to help. No hint that the vale-and she-were seriously important to him.

He smiled, charming as ever, although she noticed the gesture didn't reach his eyes. A languid wave underscored his words: "There's nothing much for me to do here, so I've plenty of time free."

Catriona fought to keep her expression blank, and succeeded. He was bored and could see she was busy, so he'd done the gentlemanly thing and offered to help. She had no trouble shaking her head brusquely and looking back at her letters. "There's really no need. I'm quite capable of handling the vale's business on my own."