her husband—for his smile, his embrace, the sound of his voice, the feel of him shifting the mattress beside her at night.
She cut those thoughts off ruthlessly and made her way to the back gardens, Nick’s latest letter in hand.
Beloved Wife,
If you will receive me, I will call upon you Monday afternoon. We have matters to discuss. I continue to miss you, and though it flatters me not, I am cheered to learn you miss me as well.
Your Nicholas,
Bellefonte
Leah eyes scanned those three sentences several times before it sank in that Nick was coming back to Clover Down, the very next day. She set the letter aside and reached for the teapot, thinking to pour herself a cup to steady her nerves.
Except her hands shook too badly to manage even that, so she simply went inside, jotted off a reply, and settled down to await her fate.
***
“Well?” Nick’s eyes bored into the hapless groom who’d pulled the duty of delivering Nick’s Sunday epistle to Leah.
“She seemed quite well, your lordship,” the man said, handing over the reply. “But I met her brother, Mr. Lindsey, at the foot of the drive, and he bade me pass along another message.”
“Go on.” Nick did not tear open Leah’s reply, not while the groom was still in the same room.
“He said he was making calls in Town tomorrow but would be expecting you and your lady on Tuesday for luncheon.”
“Thank you.” Nick nodded in curt dismissal. “But Druckman?”
“Your lordship?”
“Tell the lads I’ll be sending another note out to Kent tomorrow, this one to Blossom Court,” Nick said, his fingers itching to open the letter.
Druckman nodded resignedly. “Aye, your lordship.”
When he’d taken his leave, Nick crossed to the brandy decanter, eyeing Leah’s reply like a squirming sack. It could hold the key to his future, but was it snakes or kittens? Condemnation or happiness? Nick tossed back a brandy, marshaled his courage, and opened the letter.
Husband,
It will be my pleasure to receive you tomorrow afternoon.
Leah Haddonfield
Nick stared at the letter, trying to will insight from a mere handful of words. She would receive him—that was good—but that was all. No hint of concern for him, no admission that she missed him, no humor. Nick frowned and looked closer, thinking her handwriting was maybe not so tidy as usual.
Ah, well, tomorrow would come, and it would go, perhaps taking Nick’s last chance at happiness with it. Where were his friends when there was a brandy decanter and a long night to get through?
Seventeen
“I never anticipated how tiring separation from one’s husband would be,” Leah said as Buttercup was led off to the stables, “nor how many people call you friend, Nicholas.”
Leah sank down onto the front steps leading up to the Clover Down front door, and Nick realized his wife was delaying the moment when they were private. Well, to hell with that. He moved up a couple of steps and sat behind her so one of his legs was on either side of her. When Leah only watched him with veiled caution, he wrapped his arms around her and propped his chin on the top of her head.
“I love you,” Nick said, his voice a low, fervent rumble. “I need to get that out, before any of my well-meaning, infernal friends come trotting up that drive, your brother drops by, one of my brothers drops by, or some servant comes around to eavesdrop.”
“I beg your pardon?” Leah’s cheek was resting against his chest, her ear over his heart, where she’d once told him she liked to have it.
Nick pulled her away from him enough that their gazes could meet. “I said I love you, Leah Haddonfield. I hope it matters.”
He folded her back against him, unwilling to see her reaction in her eyes. What if he’d left it too late? What if he’d been too ridiculous, separating from a perfectly luscious wife because she was perfectly luscious? What if she laughed at him?
“I love you too,” Leah murmured against his chest.
Relief leavened his anxiety. At least she wasn’t laughing. All she’d said was… His hand in her hair went still, and he stopped nuzzling her temple.
“I’m not sure I heard you aright, Wife.”
Leah peeled back, met his gaze squarely, and pronounced sentence on him slowly.
“I love you, Nicholas Haddonfield,” she said, “but that is only a start. Why are you here today with me when you left a week ago, hell-bent on separation?”
“You love me?” Nick took visual inventory of the front court of his