Page 70 of The Mister I Married

Alex sat beside him on the sofa, surreptitiously searching his face for signs of discontentment, but finding none. He seemed to be in high spirits tonight, but it was a long time since he’d attended a dinner party, and Alex had worried it might be too much for him.

“Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” he asked, crossing one leg over the other.

“I am, as a matter of fact. I forgot how diverting a dinner party can be.” His dark brown eyes twinkled, bringing a smile to Alex’s lips.

“I’m glad,” he said. “I must admit, I was surprised when you agreed to attend.”

“So was I,” his father said with a low chuckle. “But I suppose change can be a good thing. Sometimes.”

Alex chuckled. His father had always been resistant to change, at least for as long as Alex could remember. The sentiment was understandable, considering the last change Mr. Whitcomb had seen—besides Alex’s marriage—was his wife’s desertion. Change wasn’t always so drastic or devastating, but in his father’s mind, change was not to be trusted.

“Tess looks happy,” Mr. Whitcomb said, his gaze on his daughter.

Alex looked at Tess, who was chatting animatedly with her two new friends. “She does, yes.”

“She’s such a good girl, our Tess. I should have considered her needs. I should have asked her if she wanted to know our neighbors.”

The regret in his voice was almost palpable, and Alex worked his jaw. “So should I.”

“But I’m her father, Alex.” His hands slashed through the air. “I should have tried harder to make her happy. I should have realized—” He broke off, a heavy sigh deflating his chest and swallowing up his words.

“You have always done your best,” Alex said, keeping his voice beneath the din. “Tess does not begrudge you.”

“Maybe she should,” was his soft reply.

“Come, Father. You don’t mean that.”

Mr. Whitcomb cleared his throat. “I think I would like another claret, after all. Would you fetch a glass for me?”

Alex gave his father’s shoulder a squeeze. “Of course.”

Rising, he crossed the room toward the sideboard, his father’s words trailing after him. He’d never heard him speak like that before, with self-recrimination. He was a caring man, and he did try his best, but he was not one to discuss his shortcomings. At least, he’d never done so with Alex before.

It had to be Emmy’s doing. Unintentional, yes, but her doing all the same. She’d brought so much change in such a short time, good change. Change that seemed to be leading them down new and rewarding paths.

She was good for them.

But are we good for her?

Alex poured a glass of claret for his father, lingering over the task as he pondered the question.

Was Emmy happy here? Was she happy with him, with his family?

Sometimes he would catch her looking at her wedding ring or playing with it as if she still had not grown used to the feel of it, even though she’d been wearing it for days now.

Did she hate the ring? Did she hate what it represented?

He thought of the things she’d said to him in those first few days of their acquaintance, about how marriage would change her life, how she was afraid it would change her.

Did she still have those fears?

He hoped not.

He had no desire to change her. He liked her just as she was. He’d married her because he’d wanted to share his life with her. Not just any woman. Her.

Would it help if he told her so, or would that only undo what little progress he’d made?

Their picnic the other day had gone even better than he’d hoped, and she seemed genuinely happy to see him whenever he sought her out in the afternoon.

She still hadn’t sought him out, though.

She’d been busy this week, and nervous about tonight, so perhaps that would change with time. He hoped it would.

Turning from the sideboard with the glass of claret clutched in one hand, he passed his gaze over the room in search of his wife. He spotted her standing with Lucinda Ogilvy, looking gorgeous in her cheerful saffron gown, her hands gesturing enthusiastically as she spoke to her friend.

She was an excellent hostess, charming and witty with a friendly nature that made it impossible to dislike her. She’d been a bundle of nerves this morning, certain tonight would be a decisive failure, but even she would have to admit the dinner was a success.

Pride washed over him. Pride and affection and desire.

Frustration, too.

He was a forbearing man, but Emmy was testing his patience, and his restraint. He wanted her to feel what he felt. He wanted her to realize how good it could be between them.

He wanted her heart.

And although he wanted it with uncharacteristic impatience, he was more than ready to work for it, to wait for it, no matter how long it took.