papers.
“Over there,” he gestured without looking up.
Finding the desired surface on which to place the tray was more difficult than Pru had imagined. This office was nothing like the polished order of Papa’s mahogany desk and chairs.
Mounds of papers teetered on every surface that didn’t sport stuffed birds. The glassy eyes of feathered specimens gleamed throughout the room. Birds of prey, exotic tropical-looking creatures, muted little songbirds and broad-footed waterfowl stared at her from all directions.
She swallowed hard.
Life with Hatterly would take some adjustment.
Nonplussed by the feathered audience, Lizzy balanced the tray on a footstool. With a quick curtsey and a curious glance Pru’s way, she took her leave.
Pru clasped her hands, certain he would look up in a moment. When he didn’t, she scowled. Was he always so absorbed with his birds? Well, she had been warned.
She cleared her throat.
Charles gradually became aware that someone else was in the room with him. Lizzy generally left a tray and vanished. He roused himself from taxonomy to discover Miss Wemberly watching him with an expression that matched his own: one part annoyance to two parts bemusement.
“Is this a typical day, then?” she asked.
Charles blinked.
No, it was not a typical day.
It had been a thoroughly surreal day. He had repaired a woman’s bonnet. He had applied for a special license to be married on the morrow. He’d had a bizarre conversation with the man who had ruined his future wife, resulting in a wager. Oh yes, he had also presented a paper and sequestered himself in his study to work. That part was normal. The rest was most assuredly not normal.
She watched him expectantly.
“I don’t know how to reply,” he finally confessed.
That seemed to satisfy her and she nodded. “I’m at loose ends myself. This is so far from my normal that I might as well be in China instead of still in London.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“I brought you tea.”
He forced a smile. Having a wife meant concessions. In spite of his bold words about separate lives, he knew marriage would change things, had always known it would erode his autonomy. Self-preservation was why he’d fought the idea of marriage with such vigor for so long.
“I don’t know if you take tea with cream or sugar.”
She was proffering tea that he hadn’t even seen her pour. Charles took the cup and his smile was more genuine this time. “It’s fine as it is.”
Having a woman about was distracting. But as distractions went, she was a charming one, infinitely preferable to his brother interrupting him with his infernal inventions or his sister with her horses.
She plopped a stack of papers down on the floor, wincing at the dust that arose. He really should let Mrs. Forbes into the room more often, but this was his sanctum. He knew where everything was.
Almost.
“I prefer my morning tea without enhancement, but for afternoons, I do enjoy a bit of cream.” Miss Wemberly stirred her drink serenely. “I found the perfect dress today. Did I mention that? It will need to be picked up tomorrow from the modiste.”
“You mean it wasn’t among all those boxes?” She’d bled him so freely this morning there had scarcely been room in the carriage for the two of them.
“The gown required slight alterations. You can’t expect a wedding gown to simply fit, not like…other garments.”
Now that was interesting. She’d blushed remarkably there. What had the woman bought? “I’ll send Johnny tomorrow.”
“Johnny?”
“The footman.”
“We have a footman?” Her countenance brightened.
“Of course we have a footman! I may not maintain much staff at my townhouse, but it’s adequate.” More than adequate for a place he visited only a few times a year. “Mrs. Forbes. Cook. Lizzy. Two footmen. That’s surely sufficient for a house I don’t keep as an actual residence.”
Prudence’s lips twitched.
“What?” He
“Over there,” he gestured without looking up.
Finding the desired surface on which to place the tray was more difficult than Pru had imagined. This office was nothing like the polished order of Papa’s mahogany desk and chairs.
Mounds of papers teetered on every surface that didn’t sport stuffed birds. The glassy eyes of feathered specimens gleamed throughout the room. Birds of prey, exotic tropical-looking creatures, muted little songbirds and broad-footed waterfowl stared at her from all directions.
She swallowed hard.
Life with Hatterly would take some adjustment.
Nonplussed by the feathered audience, Lizzy balanced the tray on a footstool. With a quick curtsey and a curious glance Pru’s way, she took her leave.
Pru clasped her hands, certain he would look up in a moment. When he didn’t, she scowled. Was he always so absorbed with his birds? Well, she had been warned.
She cleared her throat.
Charles gradually became aware that someone else was in the room with him. Lizzy generally left a tray and vanished. He roused himself from taxonomy to discover Miss Wemberly watching him with an expression that matched his own: one part annoyance to two parts bemusement.
“Is this a typical day, then?” she asked.
Charles blinked.
No, it was not a typical day.
It had been a thoroughly surreal day. He had repaired a woman’s bonnet. He had applied for a special license to be married on the morrow. He’d had a bizarre conversation with the man who had ruined his future wife, resulting in a wager. Oh yes, he had also presented a paper and sequestered himself in his study to work. That part was normal. The rest was most assuredly not normal.
She watched him expectantly.
“I don’t know how to reply,” he finally confessed.
That seemed to satisfy her and she nodded. “I’m at loose ends myself. This is so far from my normal that I might as well be in China instead of still in London.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“I brought you tea.”
He forced a smile. Having a wife meant concessions. In spite of his bold words about separate lives, he knew marriage would change things, had always known it would erode his autonomy. Self-preservation was why he’d fought the idea of marriage with such vigor for so long.
“I don’t know if you take tea with cream or sugar.”
She was proffering tea that he hadn’t even seen her pour. Charles took the cup and his smile was more genuine this time. “It’s fine as it is.”
Having a woman about was distracting. But as distractions went, she was a charming one, infinitely preferable to his brother interrupting him with his infernal inventions or his sister with her horses.
She plopped a stack of papers down on the floor, wincing at the dust that arose. He really should let Mrs. Forbes into the room more often, but this was his sanctum. He knew where everything was.
Almost.
“I prefer my morning tea without enhancement, but for afternoons, I do enjoy a bit of cream.” Miss Wemberly stirred her drink serenely. “I found the perfect dress today. Did I mention that? It will need to be picked up tomorrow from the modiste.”
“You mean it wasn’t among all those boxes?” She’d bled him so freely this morning there had scarcely been room in the carriage for the two of them.
“The gown required slight alterations. You can’t expect a wedding gown to simply fit, not like…other garments.”
Now that was interesting. She’d blushed remarkably there. What had the woman bought? “I’ll send Johnny tomorrow.”
“Johnny?”
“The footman.”
“We have a footman?” Her countenance brightened.
“Of course we have a footman! I may not maintain much staff at my townhouse, but it’s adequate.” More than adequate for a place he visited only a few times a year. “Mrs. Forbes. Cook. Lizzy. Two footmen. That’s surely sufficient for a house I don’t keep as an actual residence.”
Prudence’s lips twitched.
“What?” He
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