A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(63)

“Which was your favorite?” he asked, and what followed was the first conversation between them where he felt she was completely herself. There wasn’t anything she hadn’t read, and his respect for her intellect grew. Especially when she said, “My own education is spotty. Father was not one for spending money on teaching women very much of anything that couldn’t snare them a husband. I didn’t mind dancing and learning French, but the lessons on handwork? You’d best not lose a button, my lord, or you will find yourself lacking.”

“That’s unfortunate, my lady, because you are very hard on my buttons.” He indicated his breeches.

She lifted a brow. “Am I, my lord?”

“Terribly hard. Fortunately, I can sew on a button.”

Once again, his reward was her laughter. Sweet, musical, and still slightly rusty from disuse—and he could not resist her. He reached for his wife.

“Soren, the driver—”

“Cannot see us.” His lips were almost upon hers.

“But he might hear us.”

“Not if we are quiet.” He kissed her then, and to his everlasting gratitude, she set the book aside to kiss him back properly.

Or perhaps she realized his buttons were fair close to popping and she wished to save him a bit of sewing.



There was only one way overland into Cornwall, and that was crossing the Tamar.

For the past two days, Cassandra had found herself lulled into the routine of digesting Miss Edgeworth’s very direct advice on children and their education, or, at least, one volume’s worth, and having her husband all to herself, which was a gift.

Their conversation on books had opened her to him. He didn’t act bored or dismissive of the topics that interested her.

It was as if he genuinely cared.

In turn, she allowed herself to share bits and pieces of her that she’d always kept to herself.

Of course, it helped that the rest of the world was at bay while they traveled. She could pretend the events of the past or the future had no bearing on her—not that they didn’t discuss the future.

She discovered Soren could go on for hours with his talk of cattle and sheep and his plans to reclaim a soggy patch of marshland for grazing. The herds were not where he wanted them. He had planned on using her money to add to their number. “But they will grow on their own,” he assured her. “They’ll breed, and all I need is patience.”

He was not afraid to dream big.

She envied him.

But his true passion was his son. The child was never far from his mind, but Soren seemed to tread lightly on the topic. She knew his hope was that she would be a good stepmother to Logan.

She wasn’t certain she understood how, but as time passed, and her respect for her husband increased, she knew she would try to be all he wanted from her.

However, passing this threshold into Cornwall warned her that the haven she and Soren had created during their travels was about to end.

She leaned against the window. As the horses pulled them over Greystone Bridge, the coach bounced as if the bumpy road was leading them into an entirely different world.

Many thought of Cornwall as miles of coast, but she was from the moors and the forests. “And to the moors I return,” she said.

Soren had been dozing in spite of the bouncing of the coach. He roused himself. “I beg pardon?” He sat up.

She shook her head. “I was just thinking. How much farther do we have?”

He looked out the window. “We crossed the Tamar, have we?”

“Yes.”

“Then three or four hours more, depending on the roads. Thank the Lord we’ve had good weather. Do you wish to take a stretch of the legs?”

She did. He called out for the driver to halt.

The ground beneath her feet didn’t feel any different on this side of the river than it had on the other. Even the wind was the same, and yet her senses warned her of the difference. There was the hint of salt in the air and the always present possibility of piskies listening. “Cornwall. The ends of the earth.”

“Or the beginning,” Soren said with his usual optimism. They walked along the road while the driver watered the horses. “It depends on the perspective. By the way, I had a thought. What if I asked for you to write a poem to me?”

“It would be a shabby thing. I’m no poet.”

“But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t write a book. Like Miss Edgeworth’s.”

“Are you trying to give me a purpose to my life, my lord?”

“I am,” he said, proving once again that he was very attuned to her thoughts.

It was an interesting idea. “What would I write about?”

“Whatever you wished. She wrote on a topic as deadly dull as education and yet you seem to enjoy her thoughts on the matter.”

“That is what I am saying, I don’t truly have an interesting direction.”

“One will come to you, Cassandra,” he said.

A strong wind blew around them. The day was fair but it could always rain. Her hair threatened to become undone. She tucked in a stray lock of hair. “I will find it here? Out in the wilds of England?” She let her doubts be known.

“You can only start where you are.” He put a challenge in his voice.

“It is easy for you, Soren. You are male.”