She considered using the opportunity to confirm her conclusions regarding his exasperating comment and what had occasioned his oops, but perversely, given her continuing obsession with those comments, something in her shied from addressing his meaning directly with him—as if questioning him on that subject might make him think that she was wondering anew about the basis of their marriage. About whether that had changed.
But she knew it hadn’t, and she didn’t need to hear him say so.
Thrusting all such thoughts deep, she beamed at Horry, who was delighted to have uncovered the bottom of her pudding bowl and was hitting it enthusiastically with her spoon. Therese cooed and deftly removed the spoon and dropped it into the bowl, then she pressed a kiss to Horry’s curls and, catching the eye of one of the nursemaids, hefted Horry up and handed the little girl, now happily squealing, into the nursemaid’s care.
While chatting with his sons, Devlin had been watching Therese closely. He’d seen the shifting hues crossing the silvery blue of her eyes; like shadows passing over a reflective surface, they indicated that, despite her occupation, she was thinking of other things.
He hoped she was thinking of his comment of yesterday and, most especially, his oops.
Across their sons’ heads, he met her eyes and smiled, then he rose, patted heads all around, and offered her his hand.
She placed her fingers in his, and he reminded himself not to seize too firmly. He closed his hand and, in ordinary, gentlemanly fashion, drew her to her feet. Once upright, she retrieved her hand, and he was forced to release it. After shaking her skirts straight, she farewelled the boys, blew a kiss to Horry, then preceded him to the open door.
He followed her into the corridor, and they strolled side by side toward the main stairs. “Portland assured me that the soup would remain warm, but I gather he and the staff are waiting.”
“I hadn’t realized it was so late. I’d forgotten that, given the season, I’d moved the time for luncheon forward.”
He glanced at her and waited. When she gave no sign of seizing the moment to launch into an inquisition, he cast about for some innocuous topic. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
They reached the stairs and started down.
Head high, she replied, “This afternoon, I have two at-homes that I must show my face at, and after that, if the weather holds, I’ll probably spend a short time in the park.”
“And this evening?”
“Thankfully, the balls are tapering off, but Lady Walton is hosting a soirée that she’ll expect me to attend.”
He guessed, “She’s a friend of your mother’s?”
“More a close acquaintance. But Mama mentioned the soirée and, as she’s at Somersham, suggested I should go and wave the flag, as it were.”
“I see.” He recalled meeting Lord Walton at a railway investors’ meeting.
They reached the front hall, stepped off the stairs, and turned toward the family dining parlor—a far smaller, more intimate room than the house’s main dining room, which could easily seat fifty.
Devlin saw Therese to her chair at the nearer end of the six-person table, then moved to claim the carver at its head. As soon as he sat, Portland, who had been hovering, swooped in with the soup tureen.
When, assured that one serving would be sufficient for each of them, Portland departed to carry the tureen back to the kitchen, leaving them with only Dennis, the footman, as witness, Devlin glanced down the table and waited for Therese to marshal her thoughts and commence her interrogation. He was perfectly aware that, when it came to anything to do with him, her curiosity was unbounded.
She was silent for so long, he started to wonder if something else was wrong, but then she looked up and met his eyes. “I’ve been meaning to ask…”
At last! He widened his eyes in invitation.
“Whether you’ve concluded your business dealings with the firms at the exhibition.” She set down her soupspoon, laced her fingers, and looked at him inquiringly. “It’s supposed to end soon, isn’t it?”
He blinked, then acknowledged that the so-called Great Exhibition currently filling Joseph Paxton’s Crystal Palace, presently sited within Hyde Park, was due to shut its doors in ten days’ time.
“I heard they intend to dismantle the palace and move it. Is that true?”
He nodded. “To Sydenham. Paxton designed the structure so it could easily be taken apart and reassembled.” And why was he discussing engineering with his wife, who ought to have been curious about something quite different?
Her expression in no way suggested she was overwhelmed by personal curiosity. “I daresay there’ll be a great deal of activity in the park over the following days.” She tipped her head as if considering the prospect, then looked up as Portland returned bearing a platter of sliced roast beef. “I must remember to mention the dismantling of the palace to Nanny. I’m sure the boys would like to see it.”
Portland smiled benevolently and offered Devlin the platter.
Devlin helped himself to the meat and to the vegetables Dennis duly offered. Then he followed Therese’s lead and addressed the food on his plate, but he was having trouble swallowing the notion that his avidly inquisitive wife was entirely uninterested in pursuing his deliberately provocative comments of the previous day.
While they ate, via a series of adroit questions, she steered the conversation down various avenues connected with the exhibition. He held up his end of the exchange, but as it went on, he felt increasingly off balance.
He hadn’t expected her to take this tack. He knew beyond question that she wouldn’t have forgotten what he’d said; he hadn’t imagined he might have to prompt her to address it.
The meal ended without him detecting the slightest sign that she was battling to suppress an urge to question him. She rose, and he joined her, and they strolled toward the front hall.
She smiled serenely as if she had not a care in the world. “I’d better head off on my afternoon calls.”
Devlin halted. Realizing he’d stopped, she halted and looked at him, her brows rising in transparently mild query.
He managed not to clench his jaw. “I realize that yesterday, at the wedding breakfast, I replied to a question of yours in a rather elliptical manner.”
Her chin rose a fraction; in the dimmer light of the corridor, he couldn’t read her eyes. “Ah—your oops?”
He nodded, and his uneasiness grew as a tight, rather sharp smile curved her lips.
“You thought I’d be bothered by it, enough to be insatiably curious?” She still sounded unperturbed, almost faintly amused.
He suddenly felt on uncertain ground and didn’t appreciate the sensation. After a moment, he admitted, “Curious, at least.”
Her expression dissolved into a more relaxed smile, one he wasn’t sure he believed. Reaching out, she patted his arm reassuringly. “I don’t need to wonder and speculate, especially not about our marriage.” She met his eyes, and hers held what appeared to be genuine assurance. “I know exactly what you meant.”
He eyed her with increasing trepidation. “You do?”
She nodded. “Clearly, you thought that in marrying Ellen, Christopher had been driven by the same reasons that motivated you to marry me, namely to secure the generally acknowledged benefits of the married state.” Her lashes veiled her eyes, and she arched her brows. “As we both know how our marriage came about, obviously, my subsequent questions—my assumption—was the oops, the mistake to which you referred. I’d misread what you were alluding to as the motivating force that drove Christopher to marriage.”