Married to a Perfect Stranger by Jane Ashford

would have dismissed his antics as ridiculous, except that this was the pervasive culture of the Foreign Office—the glorification of the aristocratic amateur.
    He was going to have do something about Fordyce, make him stop these infuriating games. John had big plans and no time for his nonsense.
    The hiss and crackle of a log falling in two in the fire called John back to the parlor. Mary’s needle had gone still. She looked wary and as if she might have said something that he didn’t hear. The disaster of their last encounter came flooding back to him. Another tangle he had to unravel. “How was your journey? Not too tiring, I hope?”
    â€œNo, the weather was fine and the coach quite comfortable.”
    They might have been distant acquaintances meeting in the street, John thought.
    â€œThe plantings in the square are quite lovely,” she added. “I walked all around it earlier. There was no one else about.”
    His wife was looking quite lovely herself, John realized. Her rose-pink gown emphasized the warm color in her cheeks and lips. Her dark hair shone in the firelight. She’d been hemming a handkerchief, he saw—a picture of domestic tranquillity, of the gentle Mary he remembered from their wedding journey. Had that scene in Somerset really happened?
    She raised those huge brown eyes and met his gaze. The color in her cheeks deepened a bit. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “I ordered dinner for seven, but we could move it up a little. Or perhaps you’d like a glass of wine?”
    He was ravenous, John realized. He hadn’t had time for a bite since breakfast. “Starved,” he said. He rose and held out a hand. Mary took it. She set her sewing aside and stood to face him. Her fingers were small and warm in his. A hint of her scent reached him, subtle and flowery. Was it violets? He breathed it in. He thought it was violets—the shy, secret blooms hidden under fallen leaves and bracken deep in the forest. Her cheeks looked soft as violet petals, softer even than the hand he held. The pink cloth of her gown moved with her breath, the modest swoop of its neckline making him think of what was underneath. If he bent forward only slightly, he could place his lips at that edge.
    Down in the kitchen, something fell with a resounding clang. A spate of unintelligible words followed the sound. Mary turned her head, frowning. “Oh, what can it be now?”
    It was the voice she’d used in Somerset, the sergeant major chivying the troops.
    â€œI’d better go and see. I’ll tell Mrs. Tanner we’re ready to eat.”
    John let go of her hand. And with a last breath of violets, she was gone.
    They sat down to dinner a short time later. It was roast chicken again, but John didn’t complain. Mary had no way of knowing that he’d had chicken three nights out of five since the servants arrived. The maid reached past him with a serving platter. A carving knife slid along the edge and dropped off, spearing directly toward his lap. John barely caught the handle as she set the platter down with an audible thunk.
    â€œKate!” said Mary. “Take some care.”
    A dish of potatoes from the maid’s other hand hit the tabletop even harder. One bounced out; she snatched it up and replaced it.
    She was a ham-handed servitor. John had noticed it before, but now that Mary was here, the maid’s clumsiness seemed somehow his fault. He started to carve the chicken. “I trust your great-aunt is well settled?” he asked.
    â€œYes, I was quite right about Mrs. Finch. She is perfect for the position. Both kind and efficient. And the staff all likes her.”
    â€œThat’s good.”
    The maid’s footsteps coming up the kitchen stair and back into the dining room sounded like the tromp of a whole platoon. Something soft and creamy plopped to the floor behind John, followed by a muttered imprecation and scrabbling sounds.