To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,57

“Not at all, though I do hope he wasn’t a better me than I am.”

Hal lifted a brow and tightened her arms around him. “No one is a better you than you,” she insisted, earning herself another kiss, this one lingering. “Mmm, I must say this is an improvement over our former state of marriage, Mr. Pratt.”

“Happy to oblige, Mrs. Pratt.” He touched his brow to hers, his delirium nearly overwhelming. “And I quite agree.”

“Good.” She rested against him for a moment, then nuzzled in and laid her head on his chest once more. “I am so tired, John. What a night!”

He rubbed his hands up and down her back in slow, soothing motions. “Go to bed, darling. Get some rest.”

To his surprise, she shook her head. “No, I can’t. Not yet.” She sighed heavily but seemed to still against him. “I need to draw them.”

“Now?” he asked in surprise.

He felt her nod. “Now. And we need to identify as many as we can as soon as possible. Can you write down all we heard while I begin?”

“Of course.” He smiled as she yawned loudly. “And perhaps you need some coffee.”

“Indeed,” she quipped, though without her usual sprightliness. “And food, I think. We may be at this quite a while.”

When Hal awoke, her head pounded miserably. Even through her still-closed eyes, she could feel every thump of her heartbeat, and it hurt.

Her mind slowly worked on the situation, blurred images from the night before coming into only slightly better focus. She’d been up for hours getting preliminary sketches done, she and John sitting quietly in their parlor, minds on their tasks. At some point, John had built up the fire and fetched them both some food from the kitchen, which she only recollected because he had brought a plate to her on the divan, then kissed the top of her head with tender affection.

She sighed now at the memory, stretching out in satisfaction on the bed. Who’d have thought that kissing her husband, and receiving his kisses, would have been so delightful? And who would ever have imagined that John Pratt would kiss so very well? They possessed the same single-minded intensity as every other task he took on, and there was such power in them, such heart…

It was enough to make one giddy.

And Hal was giddy.

And her head ached. Staying in bed longer than she already had would only leave her feeling more lethargic, which would not help matters. What ailed her was too much work into the wee hours of the morning and insufficient sleep to recover from it.

If the light streaming from beyond the curtains covering her windows was anything to go by, she had already slept far beyond her usual time. That was a clear indication of her fatigue if nothing else was.

Pulling herself out of bed, she dressed herself simply, though the gown she donned was still finer than anything she would have worn at home in London. Sprigged muslin had never been her choice over a comfortable calico, but there was an impression to maintain, and she would hate for word to somehow get back to Tilda that she had ignored her work. Besides, she felt slightly pretty in this particular shade of green, and it would be vastly entertaining to see if John thought so, too.

She loosely pinned her hair in the same haphazard style she usually did at home and ventured out of her bedchamber towards the main rooms of the house.

The growling of her stomach would have sent her directly for the breakfast room, though there might not have been anything of breakfast remaining for her, when she was distracted by the sounds of very young shrieks followed by a blend of adult and young laughter. Curious, and expecting her cousin to also have some unwritten rules about roughhousing with his children, Hal moved towards the noises that rendered the house so different from what its formal appearance would imply.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sight that met her eyes in the large drawing room where they had first met her cousins.

It was not, in fact, the Baron de Rouvroy who was playing with his rambunctious and jubilant children.

It was her husband.

John was on all fours, no jacket in sight, and he bore little Clara and Paul on his back while Sophie and Aimée darted around him, tiny little Marie struggling to keep up with her sisters. John chased after the girls, his steps exaggerated to the great delight of