A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,44

set of shelves he had built for me the year before to store all of my supplies. In fact, I could smell sawdust clinging to his coat now, amid the scents of bay rum and his horse, telling me that one of the places he’d visited that afternoon had been the woodshop he occasionally used at a friend’s estate a few miles to the north. This was his third trip there in as many weeks, and I knew he was constructing something, likely for the baby, but I didn’t want to ruin his surprise.

“What did Dr. Fenwick say? Is the baby well?” Though he spoke calmly, I could see the strain tightening his jaw.

“Yes. Yes, the baby and I are perfectly healthy.”

He exhaled a relieved breath, and I stood to wrap my arm around his waist.

“I didn’t mean to worry you.”

He smiled down at me before pulling me closer. “Then why are you up here, in a brown study?”

“How do you know I wasn’t composing a painting in my mind?” I countered. I’d told him before that half the work was done in cognitive preparation before I ever set brush to canvas.

He reached out to clasp my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Because you could do so in a much more comfortable setting.”

“Perhaps the lingering odors of linseed oil and turpentine inspire me.”

His gaze softened. “Perhaps, but they didn’t stamp that furrow of worry upon your brow.”

“How do you know that furrow indicates worry? Maybe it’s a sign of concentration.”

“Kiera,” he chastised gently, halting any further attempts to distract him. His fingers fanned out along my jaw, the calloused pads of their tips lightly abrading my skin. “I can tell when something is troubling you.” His pale blue eyes searched mine, but rather than reassuring me, his words only made me more aware of all the things that were currently troubling me. All the things I was currently keeping from him. As if sensing my unease, he added. “But if you’d rather not tell me, I won’t pry.”

I considered telling him about Lord Henry but then dismissed the notion. Not now. Not when I was already smarting from Alana’s disapproval and rejection. I couldn’t stand to face his as well.

“Alana was here today,” I finally said.

He nodded, plainly trying to figure out where this was leading. “For your appointment.”

“Yes. Well, she was supposed to be anyway.” I frowned in remembered disbelief. “But she was late. Very late. And she didn’t seem to even realize it until she glanced at the clock in our drawing room.”

“And that troubles you?”

“A little.” I worried one of the gold buttons on Gage’s coat between my fingers, struggling to put it into words. “It’s not like her. She . . . she was frazzled when she arrived. Yet it clearly wasn’t about the time.”

“She was probably just preoccupied with something. A matter with her children or Philip.” He brushed his fingers through the wisps of hair that curled against my neck. “You shouldn’t let it overconcern you.”

I nodded without lifting my eyes, cognizant that I was stalling. As was Gage, ever attuned to the things I didn’t say as much as the things I did.

“And what did she say?”

I peered up at him through my lashes, before focusing on his button again. “That I make a spectacle of myself.” When he didn’t immediately reply, I risked another glance up at him to find him scowling.

“And I presume this preluded another attempt by her to convince you to stop assisting me in our inquiries.”

“It was more of a scolding than an attempt to convince me. But yes.”

Gage huffed. “I thought you and your sister had made up. That she’d accepted that this is your decision to make.”

I felt a pulse of annoyance. Was he being deliberately obtuse? He’d heard some of Alana’s barbed comments. “It’s more like she accepted our decision to take a respite from any murderous inquiries until after the baby is born as an indication that we agreed with her and would continue to do so.”

“Kiera.” He cupped my face in his hands, forcing me to look up at him. “You do not have to agree with her, and you are not wrong for it. In fact, I would go so far as to say you are very right.”

“Then I’m not displaying a lack of maturity and motherly instinct by choosing not to conform?” I asked, both craving his reassurance and hating that I needed it. Shouldn’t I be strong enough by