Page 35 of To Marry and to Meddle
“He’s already been down in the kitchens this morning,” Mrs. Larkspur said, a look of reluctant affection directed at the kitten. “I’m afraid the kitchen maids will spoil him dreadfully.”
“No worse than he’s already being spoiled,” came a voice from behind them, and Emily turned to see her husband entering the dining room.
“Wife,” he said, nodding at Emily. “Demon,” he added cordially to Cecil, who raised one paw to lick by way of reply.
“Hello,” Emily said, feeling strangely pleased to see him.
“Will you be dining at home, my lord?” Mrs. Larkspur asked.
“I will,” Julian said, still giving Cecil a suspicious look.
“I’ll let Cook know that you’ll be joining her ladyship, then,” Mrs. Larkspur said, beating a hasty retreat.
“Do you not normally dine at home?” Emily asked curiously, cuddling Cecil close to her chest.
“Not terribly often, no,” Julian said, glancing up at her. “I suppose I shall make more of a habit of it, now.”
“Don’t feel you must on my account,” Emily said a bit uncertainly. “I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated to keep me company.”
“We’re married,” Julian said, his mouth quirking up a bit in the corner. “I did think it likely we’d spend at least some time together, after all—particularly if we’re not to see each other much during the day.”
“Of course,” Emily said, with a faint pang of disappointment. She’d rather been hoping that Julian had not envisioned every day unfolding as today had—she was terribly interested in seeing him at work, even as the practical voice inside her head that usually governed most of her behavior reminded her that the Belfry was hardly a place she would feel comfortable.
But still, she was curious. And for as long as she could remember, she’d never been permitted to be curious about much of anything.
Suppressing a sigh, she said brightly, “Would you care for some tea? I was about to have some sent to the library—I’ve not yet had the chance to explore in there.”
“Something stronger, perhaps,” he said dryly, but nonetheless offered her his arm as they exited the room and made their way downstairs to the library. Emily’s parents’ library had always been her father’s domain—there were very few books of much interest to her within, and she was not permitted to linger there, anyway. Julian’s library, she had noted on her tour with Mrs. Larkspur, was quite inviting—it was not terribly large, but there were several overstuffed armchairsscattered before the fireplace, as well as a window seat. The shelves were full of books with broken spines: such a sight always made Emily feel unaccountably cheerful.
Something in her expression must have conveyed some of her thoughts, because after Julian had rung for tea and crossed to the sideboard to busy himself with the decanter stored there, he said almost casually, “You must buy any books you wish to add to our collection.”
Something within Emily warmed at these words. She’d always been faintly envious of Violet’s library at the house she shared with Lord James, and felt a small thrill run through her at the thought that she, too, could have a room full of books to call her own.
Full of books that did not have to be approved by her mother, moreover. She’d have to ask Violet to suggest some thoroughly improper titles.
Emily regarded her husband thoughtfully as she deposited Cecil on the window seat; Julian had turned back to the sideboard after he’d spoken, so she could only see the straight line of his back, his hands working swiftly to unstopper the decanter and pour some of the liquid within into a tumbler.
He glanced over his shoulder once more and caught her gazing at him. “Would you like some?” he asked, raising the decanter slightly, a wicked glint in his eye.
“What… what is it?” Emily asked. She should have saidno, thank youimmediately, of course, but she could not help but think that he was almost…
Daringher.
“Brandy,” he said, his gaze flicking up and down her body in rapid succession. “Very fine French brandy, in fact.”
Emily lifted her chin. “Yes, please.”
He raised a brow, then turned back to the sideboard, pouring a small measure of brandy into another tumbler. Wordlessly, he offered one to her, and she raised it to her lips before taking a healthy swallow.
Which she promptly spit out onto the closest surface at hand—which just so happened to be Julian’s jacket.
“Why,” Emily sputtered, coughing, “why would you drink that?”
Julian glanced down at the brandy dripping off his jacket, then at Emily, who was still coughing, and finally at the tumbler in his hand. He took a long sip before setting it down on the nearest side table and removing his jacket in businesslike fashion.
“I think a better question,” he said, sparing a mournful glance for the soggy fabric in hand, “is why on earthyouwould waste it?”
“How was I supposed to know what it would taste like?” she said indignantly, placing her hands on her hips. She’d stopped coughing, and now regarded him with suspicion. “No one’s ever seen fit to give me brandy before!”
