ever imagined.
He now knew why she'd wanted to tour the estate and why she'd dug in the dirt and taken notes. His wife was a scientist. He knew her to be intelligent, but this far exceeded his expectations, and he reveled in it. No simpering miss, no incessant shopping, or parties, she wanted none of that.
Sadly, she wanted none of him as well, but a grin stole over his lips as he recalled dinner the night before. He could hardly believe she thought him upset with her behavior. On the contrary he couldn't be more proud to call her his wife, he thought, and turned away to make for his study. If only he could claim her as such.
At least he'd granted her one thing in this new life, the freedom to work on her experiments. The sheer joy in her eyes as she spoke with Roberts pained him and pleasured him. He wished she could look on him like that.
And yet she had smiled at him at dinner the previous night. But the nagging question of whether or not it had been forced for his benefit, had kept him from dining with her at breakfast or lunch.
Settled behind his desk, he opened his ledger and studied the numbers, attempting to drive his wife and her damnable smile from his thoughts.
Barstoke appeared with the day's post. In a vein attempt to accomplish something in the course of his day other than think on his marriage, he flipped through the various letters until one in particular caught his attention. It was addressed to Agatha, forwarded from her father's townhouse in London, from one K. Reynolds of America.
As much as he wished to open the letter, he set it aside and continued with the remaining correspondence. Agatha's letter, however, stayed on his mind for the rest of the afternoon.
Did she have a lover?
Nonsense, she was innocent, her behavior was exemplary, not to mention she didn't seem the type. But the small sense of satisfaction with his reasoning didn't allay the jealousy eating as his soul.
Head pounding, he slammed the ledger closed. Dinner would be served within the half hour, he surmised, glancing at the mantel clock, and made his way to the small drawing room for a libation, knowing full well she rested there in the evenings, but had never intruded on her privacy. He'd always remained in his study with his ledgers until dinner was announced. But tonight, he would break his self-imposed rule, if for no other reason than he simply wished to look at her, and to deliver her mail personally so he might gauge her reaction.
He walked down the hall and across threshold into the drawing room only to find it empty. Pondering her absence, he poured himself a drink, and waited, albeit not patiently, for her to arrive, but she never came.
At the announcement of dinner, he asked of the butler, “I take it Lady Leighton is dining in her rooms this evening."
"No my lord.” He looked about the room, his brow faintly furrowed. “I'd assumed she was here."
"Send for her,” Magnus said, and finished off his brandy as Barstoke disappeared.
Tess, her maid, appeared a few moments later. Her worried frown, the tight fists she had on her apron, set off an alarm inside him.
"She's not in her room, my lord. She never came back from her walk."
"Her walk?"
Tess swallowed with a nod. “Yes, my lord. She takes a stroll every evening after she changes from—that is—"
"I know of her work in the shed,” he said, waving off her stammering. “Where does she walk?"
"Along the cliffs, sir."
He shot a glance toward the window and the increasing rain. “And you're sure she didn't return?"
Tess nodded as Barstoke appeared. “She's not been seen for some time, my lord,” he said. “I took the liberty of questioning the servants after finding Tess in her ladyship's rooms alone."
"Fetch lanterns, blankets.” He barreled toward the door, a muttered prayer on his lips. “God, please let her be safe."
He raced toward the cliffs, following the old path he'd walked as a child. Rivulets of rain seeped between his neck and
He now knew why she'd wanted to tour the estate and why she'd dug in the dirt and taken notes. His wife was a scientist. He knew her to be intelligent, but this far exceeded his expectations, and he reveled in it. No simpering miss, no incessant shopping, or parties, she wanted none of that.
Sadly, she wanted none of him as well, but a grin stole over his lips as he recalled dinner the night before. He could hardly believe she thought him upset with her behavior. On the contrary he couldn't be more proud to call her his wife, he thought, and turned away to make for his study. If only he could claim her as such.
At least he'd granted her one thing in this new life, the freedom to work on her experiments. The sheer joy in her eyes as she spoke with Roberts pained him and pleasured him. He wished she could look on him like that.
And yet she had smiled at him at dinner the previous night. But the nagging question of whether or not it had been forced for his benefit, had kept him from dining with her at breakfast or lunch.
Settled behind his desk, he opened his ledger and studied the numbers, attempting to drive his wife and her damnable smile from his thoughts.
Barstoke appeared with the day's post. In a vein attempt to accomplish something in the course of his day other than think on his marriage, he flipped through the various letters until one in particular caught his attention. It was addressed to Agatha, forwarded from her father's townhouse in London, from one K. Reynolds of America.
As much as he wished to open the letter, he set it aside and continued with the remaining correspondence. Agatha's letter, however, stayed on his mind for the rest of the afternoon.
Did she have a lover?
Nonsense, she was innocent, her behavior was exemplary, not to mention she didn't seem the type. But the small sense of satisfaction with his reasoning didn't allay the jealousy eating as his soul.
Head pounding, he slammed the ledger closed. Dinner would be served within the half hour, he surmised, glancing at the mantel clock, and made his way to the small drawing room for a libation, knowing full well she rested there in the evenings, but had never intruded on her privacy. He'd always remained in his study with his ledgers until dinner was announced. But tonight, he would break his self-imposed rule, if for no other reason than he simply wished to look at her, and to deliver her mail personally so he might gauge her reaction.
He walked down the hall and across threshold into the drawing room only to find it empty. Pondering her absence, he poured himself a drink, and waited, albeit not patiently, for her to arrive, but she never came.
At the announcement of dinner, he asked of the butler, “I take it Lady Leighton is dining in her rooms this evening."
"No my lord.” He looked about the room, his brow faintly furrowed. “I'd assumed she was here."
"Send for her,” Magnus said, and finished off his brandy as Barstoke disappeared.
Tess, her maid, appeared a few moments later. Her worried frown, the tight fists she had on her apron, set off an alarm inside him.
"She's not in her room, my lord. She never came back from her walk."
"Her walk?"
Tess swallowed with a nod. “Yes, my lord. She takes a stroll every evening after she changes from—that is—"
"I know of her work in the shed,” he said, waving off her stammering. “Where does she walk?"
"Along the cliffs, sir."
He shot a glance toward the window and the increasing rain. “And you're sure she didn't return?"
Tess nodded as Barstoke appeared. “She's not been seen for some time, my lord,” he said. “I took the liberty of questioning the servants after finding Tess in her ladyship's rooms alone."
"Fetch lanterns, blankets.” He barreled toward the door, a muttered prayer on his lips. “God, please let her be safe."
He raced toward the cliffs, following the old path he'd walked as a child. Rivulets of rain seeped between his neck and
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