"Apparently," Theo murmured.
"They say the tailor's instructions got swapped with those of the staff at Whitchurch Abbey."
"Which has a taller staff," Theo noted.
Poppy gave a long-suffering sigh, her expression as dry as a biscuit. "Much taller," she agreed grimly.
A footman passed, the cuffs of his coat flapping well past his hands. Behind her, bootsteps slowed on the stairs.
"Should I be concerned?" Nate asked dryly, surveying the scene.
Theo didn't turn. "Only if you're particularly fond of silver platters."
He stepped up beside her, hands in his pockets, watching the footman retreat with tragic dignity.
Dinner was served nonetheless, and miraculously it was excellent. The long table was set in the smaller dining room, its hearth blazing, and the walls hung with faded but still elegant tapestries. Candlelight flickered across polished silver and slightly mismatched china. Theo sat at one end in her sage green gown, her hair neatly pinned. Nate took the other end, no cravat tonight, just a loosely fastened coat and sleeves rolled to the forearm. His expression was unreadable, but not closed.
They dined on roasted duck with honeyed parsnips, chestnut soup served in wide-handled bowls, and Yorkshire puddings crisped to golden perfection. For dessert, Cook had sent up a rhubarb tart so vivid in color it looked like stained glass.
Halfway through the second course, a crash echoed from the corridor, followed by a loud, "I'm fine!" in a panicked male voice. Theo didn't flinch.
Nate raised his glass. "The dignity of the Harkort name is clearly in safe hands."
Theo fought a smile. "They'll grow into the uniforms."
"I hope not too quickly. I rather like this version of our household. Flawed but upright."
She looked at him. "Is that how you see us?"
He met her gaze, and for a moment the candlelight caught something unguarded in his face. "I'm starting to."
Later that night, long after the plates had been cleared and the wine decanter returned to the sideboard, Theo sat curled on the settee in the smaller drawing room, a leather-bound book open in her lap. The fire was still going, soft now, but steady, casting light across the worn carpet and up the spines of the books lining the walls. Outside the rain had gentled to a patter.
She didn't hear Nate enter, but she sensed him, the way one senses another presence in a quiet room. He moved without sound, but the air shifted all the same. He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at her.
"What is it tonight?" he asked.
She didn't glance up. "Wordsworth."
"I thought you preferred Byron."
"Not tonight."
"Read it to me."
She looked up then—not startled, not suspicious, just searching. Whatever she saw in his face made her nod, and she turned to the page. Her voice was low, unhurried, not theatrical, not romantic, just true. The kind of voice you used when you knew someone was actually listening. He sat down at the other end of the settee, a bit awkwardly at first, as though unsure of the rules in this new version of their marriage. She didn't move away. She didn't shift to make room. She simply continued reading.
Halfway through the second stanza, he reached over to the small table beside them and passed her a cup of tea. Still warm. She took it without missing a line, and that too felt new. She finished the passage and closed the book without flourish. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then quietly: "You're calm like this."
She glanced at him. "Like what?"
"When you read. It suits you."
"I think I'm always calm. You just don't always look."
He leaned back slightly, his arm coming to rest along the back of the settee. Not touching her. Not quite, but near. "I look now."
She didn't smile, not fully, but her eyes softened and that was enough.
"I think I like hearing you talk," he said quietly.
Now she did smile. Just a flicker. "I've always sounded like this."
He shook his head, not quite looking at her. "No, you didn't."
There was no kiss, no confession, just the weight of two people beginning to lean toward each other, not out of obligation, but out of choice. And in the low firelight, surrounded by teacups and poetry and silence, it felt more binding than any vow they had spoken before.
Spring had crept in slowly at Greystone Park. The gardens had begun to show signs of life. Shoots pushing up from the soil, hedges trimmed into cautious shape, and benches scrubbed and repainted by footmen in new, ill-fitting livery. Everything was just shy of proper, still half in its transformation.
Lady Theodosia stood at the edge of the stone terrace, watching guests spill onto the lawn. She wore a gown of soft wisteria-hued muslin, its lilac-gray tones shifting gently in the spring light. The empire waist framed her figure with quiet elegance, the bodice shaped closely over her full bust and trimmed with a fine border of pale silver embroidery. Her sleeves were slim and graceful, ending in neat cuffs, and a ribbon of the same soft color was tied at the base of her back. Her golden-brown hair was arranged in a smooth braided twist pinned with a simple silver comb. She looked entirely at ease in the role she had come to claim—not as a guest in his world, but as the woman who had made it hers.
Today's gathering was her idea: a garden walk and tea to show that Greystone was not just occupied, but thriving. Poppy had seen to the arrangements. The scones were perfect, the weather was holding, and Nathaniel had agreed to appear. That was enough.
She spotted him across the lawn, standing beside the newly planted fountain, dressed in a slate coat, and speaking to a visiting landowner. He smiled, polite, reserved, and sipped his wine. And beside him, suddenly, uninvited, stood Juliet Langdon.
Theo's breath caught, not from jealousy, but from irritation so sharp it felt almost impolite. Juliet had not been seen since Theo, with polite but unmistakable firmness, hinted that her stay at Greystone had gone on long enough. There'd been whispers she'd returned to Bath, or married someone old and clever in Devon. But here she was, unannounced, dressed in a too-fitted plum gown, her auburn curls artfully arranged to frame her face. A statement, if ever there was one.
Theo took a step toward them, and then stopped because she saw Nathaniel's body shift. Juliet had reached out to place a gloved hand on his sleeve—a soft, practiced gesture. And Nathaniel stepped back. Not rudely, not theatrically, but clearly. He said something low and short. Juliet's smile faltered. One of the nearby guests, Lady Standish of all people, arched a brow as the scene played out.
Theo didn't need to hear the words. She saw enough in Juliet's stiff posture, the way she clutched her reticule tighter, the way Nathaniel didn't once look toward her again as he turned and walked directly toward his wife. He didn't rush, but he didn't hesitate.