He’d gone to her, settling on the seat behind her so he could pull her into his arms and let her rest against his chest. They’d sat that way until Henry had finally stirred, demanding attention for his needs.
He had taken Henry down to the gardens to allow Eliza time to bath and dress, and the domesticity of it threatened to suffocate him.
He stood just inside the opened doors of his study, watching Henry investigate the shrubs he had so enthusiastically discovered just the day before as if they were entirely new to him.
Dax had vowed not to enter into a situation that would threaten his heart so, but here he was, watching his wife’s dog through the pouring rain and knowing he would run after the dog in the utter downpour should he so much as whine of an ailment or danger.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Sebastian had been right. That was becoming clearer now.
Henry dove into what must have been a promising bush with a yelp of excitement.
Would it be so bad if he did let himself love her?
The thought had him straightening, his hands dropping to his sides.
It was a dangerous thought, one that had his guard going up, but at the same time, a quiet voice assured him it was safe to at least think it over.
Eliza was not Bethany.
If he knew anything of a person, it was that how one treated animals was a true reflection of a person’s quality, and as Henry erupted from a different bush than the one he’d entered, Dax knew Eliza’s soul was pure and true.
But could he trust her?
Could he ever trust again?
Henry splashed his way back inside, seemingly done with the wetness of the day and trotted over to the carpet where he promptly rolled as if to get the rain off of his coat.
“I’m afraid it will do no good, mate.” Dax gestured to the door. “Best to find comfort in front of a fire on a day like this. What say we break our fast?”
Mrs. Donnelly had had a fire lit in the breakfast room as he’d suspected, and Henry found his way over to it, collapsing in a huff of air as if he’d not just slept the better part of twelve hours.
He’d just filled a plate with eggs when Eliza appeared in the doorway, turned out in another hideous gown that did nothing for her figure. Even as a man he could see that. He wondered what modiste she frequented in London and vowed to go with her the next she went to acquire something more appropriate for her.
The thought was ridiculous and rather unmanly, but he couldn’t help the image of her wet through and in nothing but her underthings to tell him her gowns were all wrong.
“How would you feel about visiting the seamstress in the village for some summer frocks?”
She straightened from where she’d been giving Henry some scratches to eye him suspiciously.
“I brought summer frocks with me. There’s no need—”
“You have a rather stunning figure that is not at all showcased in your gowns, do you know that?”
He hadn’t meant to startle her, but at the redness that appeared at her cheeks, he knew he had.
“I’m not so sure it’s the gowns—”
He set down his plate harder than he’d meant to. “It is the gowns. You forget I’ve seen you with far less clothing.” He gestured to her figure. “These garments practically hang off of you. That can’t be very comfortable when you’re trying to work with Henry.”
She blinked. “How did you know that?”
He went to get a second plate to fill for her. “It would be the same if I wore a riding habit that was over large. Hardly the proper thing for a good ride.”
The redness was already fading from her cheeks when he turned back.
“I suppose you might be right.” She bit her lower lip. “Is there someone in the village who could assist me?”
“Mrs. Fletcher. She’ll be able to help you.”
She took a seat next to his at the table. “That will be splendid then.” She picked up a fork, her eyes drifting to the window where rain still lashed. “Surely we won’t go today, will we?”
He laughed softly as he took his seat. “No. I’m afraid a sea storm is not something to trifle with. We’ll go as soon as it passes.” A dismal thought suddenly struck him. “Eh, I know you will be shut in doors today, and I—”
“There’s no need to entertain me. I’m not a small child.” She took a bite of toast and swallowed. “I should wonder though if there is a small room somewhere that I may have for my affairs. Returning correspondence and such.”
He looked up at the timid pitch of her voice, but she resolutely studied her eggs.
“There are more than enough rooms in the manor. You should have your pick.”
“Any room?” She lifted only her eyes, and even then, her voice held a note of caution.
He gave a nod as he swallowed his sausage. “I recommend finding one in the south corridor. You’ll have the most light throughout the day there.”
Her eyes sparked at his suggestion, and he paused in his careful chewing.
Eliza had a secret.
He’d known all along there was something more to her than she let on, but he had suspected it had something to do with a matter of more tangible quality. But the way her eyes had lit at his suggestion of a light-filled room had him questioning his conclusion.
After all, what tangible thing could allow a woman to remain so involved in a marriage the husband had declared a farce?
He swallowed at the memory of his own carelessness.
“I have some letters to return, but I’m sure Mrs. Donnelly would be happy to show you the south corridor so you can choose which room suits you.”
Her face relaxed into a genuine smile. “That would be lovely.”
He thought that would be the end of it.
He rang for Mrs. Donnelly after they’d finished their meal and had lingered for some moments over tea and coffee, but he could sense Eliza’ s urgency. She really did seek a room with good light. How odd.
He truly thought he’d be rid of the notion of his wife hiding things from him when he made his way to his study and immersed himself in the two days of post that had piled up on his desk. Sheridan had left some reports on the calving the spring had seen and what they planned for the following year. He needed to read over the harvest expectations as the farm was largely self-sufficient and needed to produce enough feed to manage the livestock it held.
But no matter how tricky the figures or engrossing the topic, he could not let the thought of Eliza’s expression stray.
Somewhere along the south corridor Eliza hid something from him.
He should let it go.
But the notion had nagged at him for weeks, and now he had something more on which to work, actual physical proof of her deception.
He set down his pen, appalled at his own thinking.
His wife was not capable of deception. It was his own storied past that had him even thinking it.
But it was his past that had him standing moments later, striding toward the door to see just what his wife was about.
He made it to the south corridor in moments, but he was met with absolute silence. The rain continued to beat along the roof of the manor house, and somewhere a clock ticked, but otherwise, the corridor carried nothing more than the ethereal quiet of a stately home.
He made his way down the hallway, peering into each room, finding each as empty as the last until he’d almost reached the end. It was a room his mother had used for music although his mother was the least musically talented woman in all of Britain, but she liked to have a place for her guests to retire to should they be stuck indoors on a day like it was then. She decorated the rooms in soft shades of violet, and the rear wall like all the rooms on this floor was a panel of windows casting out over a section of the cliffs.