Page 133 of The Language of Love

“And you cannot sell any of these?” she asked, handing back the portrait.

“Doing so would invoke a clause that would cause Stoke to revert to the church.”

It was ironic that even one relic would have been enough to not only repair Stoke but pay off the crushing encumbrances that both his uncle and cousin had accumulated.

“Why keep them here?” she asked when he reassembled the reliquary and returned it to its resting place.

“That is an excellent question,” Henry said, closing the vault and returning the portrait to its proper place. “After this year’s St. Oswald Day, I will have them taken to the bank. One letter I found in the pile of documents that have accumulated since my cousin’s death is from York Minster. The bishop has, apparently, requested to host the relics for years.”

“You would consider that?” she asked as they walked back to where she’d been sitting.

“I think people should be allowed to see them more than once a year.”

She smiled up at him.

“What?” he asked.

“I like that you would do that.”

Henry ignored the frisson of pleasure he experienced at her praise.

She glanced at the clock. “It is late. I believe I will go up,” she said, gathering her things. Henry opened the door for her, but she paused beside him, rather than go through. “Will I see you this evening?”

It was her way of letting him know that her courses had finished. Her face was flushed and Henry knew it embarrassed her to be so bold.

Naturally, his cock was delighted by the offer. “I shall be up in half an hour.”

He shut the door behind her and then poured himself a glass of whiskey.

Was it wise to go to her? Although he’d subdued his anger at the letter from Avington, it was still simmering beneath the surface.

And yet, if he didn’t go to her tonight, then when? When she no longer loved Avington? What if that never happened? Would he live his life without the pleasure of a woman in his bed?

Henry was furious with himself; he’d married a woman in love with another man and he didn’t see their situation changing soon.

He’d hoped that Avington would have had the grace to leave Annis alone, but clearly that was not to be. Not even Henry’s warning had mattered. If anything, he’d seen a gleam of mischief in Avington’s far-too-perfect blue gaze that day. Clearly, Miles considered the women from the Stefani Academy to be his purview. He probably wrote letters to all of them.

Damn it, but such thoughts grated on him. Jealousy grated on him.

He threw back the rest of his whiskey, snuffed the candles, and went to his chambers. Norwich, who didn’t appear to sleep, was fussing around in his dressing room.

“I’ll have a shave,” Henry said.

His valet must have expected as much, because there was already a steaming pitcher of water.

Throughout undressing and being shaved, his temper ebbed and flowed. First, he’d tell himself that Annis had a right to correspond with whomever she wanted. Hell, she didn’t look at his letters or ask to read them.

Henry would almost convince himself, but then he’d remember the tragic, longing expression he’d seen her cast in the handsome lord’s direction more than once and jealousy would flare in his belly, threatening to choke him.

Did she simply tolerate Henry’s touches and his presence in her bed? After all, how could she like what he did to her body when she loved another man?

Henry couldn’t believe his touches disgusted her—unless she was a superlative actress.

Thank God he’d not allowed himself to develop any deep feelings for her. Loving somebody who loved another would be… unfortunate.

He might not love her, but he did like her a great deal. Too much, in fact.

It would be wise to put some distance between them. He would continue to go to her, of course—he needed an heir, after all—but he would no longer sleep all night with her. The closeness that had been developing between them would only lead to expectations on his part. And pain.