Page 84 of The Traitor
He’d considered emigrating to America rather than assuming his baronial responsibilities, but concern for Freddy had stopped him.
With each confession, Milly became more Sebastian’s wife and more in awe of the man she’d married. Also more determined to see that he somehow laid claim to the happiness he was due.
“That field there”—Milly gestured with her whip—“that’s where you should try some lavender. It’s well drained, gets plenty of light, and lies on the southern exposure of the hillside.”
Fable sauntered along, apparently oblivious to whips, mares, and other aggravations.
“That area has always been pasture,” Sebastian said. “I suspect the ground is rocky.”
“All of England is rocky,” Milly retorted, “except for the parts that are boggy, which this is not. Get the sheep off it after harvest, marl it thoroughly, then plow up a portion this spring and see how your plants do.”
He did not dismiss her suggestions out of hand, as most other men would have. He petted his white horse—who sported a streak of green slobber on its shoulder, courtesy of Folly’s dubious affections—and glanced back toward the manor house.
“If we put lavender in here, the prevailing breeze would blow the scent back that direction, and we could see the entire crop from the family wing.”
Milly remained silent, because Sebastian’s commanding-officer mind grasped such details with a speed and thoroughness Milly could only marvel at.
“We’d need a drying shed,” he said as their horses wandered down the lane bordering the pasture. “A wooden structure, because stone attracts cold and damp.”
His command post in France had been a pile of stones.
“A small wooden structure,” Milly said. “You can add on as the size of the crop increases.”
“We have time to build something before next summer.”
The lane widened, it being one of the primary routes into the village. Milly listened to her husband think out loud, loving the sound of his voice along with the characteristic rigor of his plans.
He made love with the same focus, the same intensity of purpose.
“You sound very English, you know.” She’d meant it as a casual observation, maybe even a compliment, but Sebastian drew rein in the middle of the lane.
“When haven’t I sounded English?”
His intensity was focused on her now, so Milly searched her memory for details. “Do you recall when you came upon me in the music room, and the roses were in the wrong vase?”
From his expression, he knew exactly which encounter she referred to.
“You made an English flower arrangement,” she went on. “Symmetric, and every stem just so, but you sounded…Continental.”
“I sounded French.” He did not permit himself an emotional reaction to her observation, which Milly took for a reaction in itself. “When else?”
She wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, but to him, it did. It always would.
“When we walked in the park and you asked me about Alcorn.” He’d been not only French then, he’d been the commanding officer, in charge of the garrison.
Sebastian sat taller in the saddle, as if he wanted to see farther. “And what about when we went to Chelsea?”
“English,” Milly said. “You kiss and flirt in English, sir.”
His smile…oh, she lived to see such a smile on his face. Happy, rascally, smug, and very male. “How could you know such a thing?”
“I am an English baroness, lest you forget, married to a peer of the realm and soon to be mother of the next Baron St. Clair. I know an English kiss when my husband gifts me with one.”
Or dozens. Milly touched her heel to the mare’s side rather than belabor such a point in the very lane.
“Soon to be mother of the next Baron St. Clair? We’ve been married less than a week, madam. Do you know something else you ought to be telling your English husband?”
“I know we indulge in marital relations with a frequency that will yield inevitable results, given that we both enjoy great good health. Will you plant the lavender?”
