Page 52 of The Mister I Married

Chapter Fourteen

Emmy’s tour of Bristlewood lasted the entire morning and half the afternoon and still there were rooms she had not yet seen.

Somehow the castle seemed even more massive from the inside, and though she was almost certain she would never feel confident enough to walk its halls alone without a map, she adored the place.

Tess, of course, was an enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide. She’d shared so many details and anecdotes about Bristlewood and its past residents that Emmy couldn’t possibly remember it all.

Of course, she might have been a better student had she not been so distracted by thoughts of her husband and the look on his face when she’d dismissed him from her bedchamber this morning.

Had she injured his feelings? She hadn’t intended to, but she suspected she had all the same, and no matter how many times she reminded herself that their marriage was a business arrangement, and there was no reason they should spend every minute together—that, indeed, there was every reason they shouldn’t—she could not help feeling guilty.

She did not like the thought that she’d hurt him.

Sipping her sherry that evening at dinner, she stole another glance at Alex over the rim of her glass, hoping to interpret his mood, but his expression was frustratingly uncommunicative.

She hadn’t seen him since this morning, except through an upstairs window when she’d caught a glimpse of him leaving the house with his dogs, presumably for a walk of the grounds.

She wished she knew what he was thinking. Was he upset with her? He’d said barely a word during the meal, but perhaps that was only because his sister hadn’t stopped talking since they sat down to eat.

“I told Emmy all about Bristlewood on our tour today, Father,” Tess said, scooping up a bite of trifle with her spoon, “but I could not recall the year it was built. Was it 1567 or 1568?”

“It was 1568,” Mr. Whitcomb replied, setting his spoon down on his plate before leaning back in his chair and tipping his face up to the ceiling. “It was commissioned by Sir Peter Pombaster, a man who was, by all accounts, besotted with the Normans’ architecture, especially their castles.” He shook his head, his fingers fussing with his puffy, white cravat. “Unfortunately for his family, this obsession led to their downfall, and when he died in 1612, he was declared posthumously bankrupt, and all his estates were sold to settle his debts. My great-great-great-grandfather purchased Bristlewood for a song.”

“Your home certainly has a colorful past, Mr. Whitcomb,” Emmy said with a smile. “I look forward to hearing more of its history.”

He returned her smile but did not reply, and his gaze held hers for a long, discomfiting moment. Emmy looked away, uncertainty tensing her shoulders as she ate another bite of trifle.

She’d caught her father-in-law watching her more than once this evening, the expression on his face one of thoughtful examination, as if she were a riddle he hadn’t yet worked out. She had no idea what it meant, but she hoped it would cease soon.

“What of your family home, Emmy?” Tess asked, her brown eyes alight with curiosity. “Is it anything like Bristlewood?”

Emmy shook her head. “Oh, no. Keswick House isn’t nearly so interesting, I’m afraid. Nor so large.” She smiled, picturing her childhood home, a grand but charming Carolean-style house of white and yellow stone surrounded by lush, green lawn and bounteous gardens. “It is rather lovely, though.”

“Keswick House is in Kent, is it not?” Alex asked before taking a sip of his wine.

She nodded, glad he was speaking to her, even if it was only to ask about Keswick House. “Yes. Near Maidstone.”

“I’ve never been to Kent before,” Tess said. “Is it very beautiful?”

“Very beautiful, indeed,” Mr. Whitcomb interjected. “Windmills everywhere and lush, green downs as far as the eye can see.”

“Oh, I would love to see it someday,” Tess said, her gaze settling on Emmy. “And Keswick House, too.”

“So would I,” Alex said. “Assuming we’re invited, of course.”

He smiled at her from across the table, and Emmy felt the weight of expectation as if it were a tangible thing. The idea of visiting her childhood home with her husband and his family was not unpleasant, precisely, but it was odd. It hadn’t occurred to her—naively, perhaps—that the two families would someday come together under the same roof, and she had no idea how she felt about it.

“Perhaps in the new year,” she said with a stiff smile. And then she changed the subject. “I think I would like to visit your little village tomorrow, Tess. Would you like to accompany me?”

Tess blinked, her lips parting. “Oh. Yes, of course. I don’t often go into the village, but—yes, that might be nice.”

Emmy nodded. “Excellent.”

Quiet settled over the table as they all returned to their dessert, only the scrape of silverware on porcelain preventing absolute silence. Emmy was certain Alex was watching her, though she could not bring herself to look at him. She could not claim to know his feelings, but after their conversation this morning, she would not be surprised to learn she had displeased him—again—with her request to see the village with Tess.

There was every possibility he thought he should be the one to take her, just as he’d evidently assumed he would show her Bristlewood, but if he was disappointed, he would simply have to get over it. And so would she. She could not let his desires sway her—not on this, at least.

Boundaries.