Muriel took two steps into the stable. “Uglycats.”
The two bedraggled ginger creatures blinked up at her from their makeshift bed in amongst the straw. “They’re darlings,” Ivy cooed.
“No, they’re strays.” Muriel put a hand to Ivy’s arm when she went to bend and offer out her hand. “And they could be diseased, my lady.”
“Nonsense. They just need a little bath and some good food, I would wager.” One of the cats closed its eyes, entirely unbothered by their presence. The other, slightly less ginger one, rose slowly, gave a long, languorous stretch and made a slow path toward Ivy.
“Be careful, my lady!” Muriel leapt in front of Ivy, so the cat skittered back.
Ivy shook her head. “It’s only a cat, Muriel. It won’t do me any harm.” She glanced at the animals then the dusty eaves of the building. “We’ll make your home much nicer soon, you shall see,” she told the animal.
“But of course you talk to animals.”
Ivy peered at the maid. “Whatever does that mean?”
“Well, look at you. All beautiful and pink cheeked and so patient and sweet—” Muriel paused. “Anyway, you are just the sort of person I would expect would talk to animals.”
“Thank you.” Ivy frowned. “I think.”
They made their way out into the fresh afternoon air. Thick white clouds covered the entire sky, offering no chance of spying blue sky or rays of sunshine but it at least looked like there would be no chance of rain. If she organized herself quickly, she could at least get the cats washed, and the straw removed and replaced with fresh.
“Oh look, there’s the viscount. Mr. Shah said he’s going into town today.” Muriel pointed toward one of the fields where Ivy just made out a man upon horseback.
A pang speared through her chest at the sight of her husband riding at speed away from the house. There was no urgency behind his ride, just utter skill. There was no doubting he was a fine horseman indeed.
“I’m glad at least one of us knows where he’s going.”
Muriel swung a sideways glance her way. “Is that a complaint I hear? The man gave you a stable, my lady. It’s certainly not a gift I would want from a man but, well, clearly you and I have different ideas of lovely gifts.”
“He did give me a stable,” Ivy conceded.
Which was odd indeed. His quick muttered words of the gift this morning before he headed out were so at odds with his annoyance at her last night. The kiss had been lovely. Wonderful even. She didn’t need to have kissed dozens of men to know that. Besides, she had seen his face after, when he had pulled slowly back. He’d enjoyed it as much as she did.
But of course she had to ruin it. She simply had to seek more. Had to give into curiosity and ask him about his eye. Did she not already know how sensitive he was about it after the Bath incident?
Foolish, foolish, Ivy.
He had so many secrets, though. Was it so very wrong to wish to know more of her husband?
And maybe if she knew more, she would rid herself of this horrible feeling that he was hiding something. Something big, something terrible.
A lover perhaps or maybe even a secret wife—it would not be the first time a man had married twice or even three times. She wanted to know more. needed to know more, especially if there were to ever be more kisses because with kisses like that, it would not be hard at all to fall entirely head over slippers for him.
***
Storming a garrison in France had to be easier than getting past this man.
Cillian peered down at him. From his higher vantage point, he had an excellent view of the man’s expanding bald spot. Little hairs clung desperately to the shiny skin, pasted down by some sort of pomade, Cillian suspected.
“I cannot let you in.”
Biting back a frustrated breath, Cillian gestured to the room behind him. “I already told you, I am Viscount Hartwood, and I am the whole reason this meeting is taking place.”
The man ran his gaze up and down Cillian. Admittedly, he had muddy boots and none of his clothing was exactly of the highest fashions, though he was hardly dressed like a peasant. “You shall have to come back another time.”
Cillian curled his fingers. Bloody officious little man. All he’d have to do was scoop the man up under his armpits and set him aside. He’d met too many men like this—too many short, fat, balding generals and captains and majors who thought it their job to make everyone’s life miserable simply because God hadn’t blessed them with being a little closer to the sun. Men like this, on the battlefield, were dangerous.
Here, in the offices of Mr. Pyke, it was just irritating.