Marguerite Kaye - A Wife Worth Investing In

Or at least, all that he would say. He wanted neither pity nor curiosity, that much was clear. Phoebe bit back her questions, opting instead for frankness. ‘As you have no doubt deduced from my appearance at your door at this most unfashionable hour Mr Harrington, my circumstances have also changed since we last met.’

‘Really?’ He pushed his saucer to one side, wincing as he shifted in his chair to stretch his leg out, before turning his attention back to her, his frown deepening as he did so. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I can see that you are different. It is as if the light has gone out of you. You can have no idea how sorry I am to see that. I had hoped that at least one of us would have been toasting their success in August.’

‘You remembered!’

‘Of course I did, and would have been there if it had been humanly possible, but as you can see, I’m in no condition to travel to the other side of the street, far less Paris.’

‘I went,’ Phoebe admitted sheepishly. ‘To the Procope. I hoped—’ She broke off, colouring.

‘You hoped as I did, that at least one of us would have something to toast. I take it then, that you do not?’

‘No.’

‘What happened?’

The sheer magnitude of recent events threatened to overwhelm her. She could not possibly ask him for help, not when he was so obviously enduring his own private hell. Phoebe got to her feet. ‘I wish you well with your recovery, but I really shouldn’t intrude any longer.’

‘Miss Brannagh, please wait.’

She was at the door, about to open it when a crash and a shouted oath made her whirl around. Mr Harrington was on his feet, but only just, clutching the edge of the table. His cup and saucer and the coffee pot were on the floor.

‘Spare me the indignity of having to call my butler to prevent you leaving.’

‘You have troubles of your own. I have no wish to further burden you with my tale of woe.’

He held out his hand, his voice softening marginally. ‘Then distract me from mine by recounting yours. If you can bear to.’

* * *

Miss Brannagh stepped reluctantly back into the room. Stooping to pick up the shattered fragments of crockery and the coffee pot, she paused, cast him an enquiring look, then completed the task when Owen reluctantly assented. His servants would see yet more evidence of his clumsiness, albeit neatly stacked on the table and not abandoned on the floor, but they were used to it by now. At least the coffee pot had been empty. ‘Thank you,’ he said as she sat back down across the table from him.

‘You haven’t eaten anything. It’s not good to start the day on an empty stomach.’

‘The food won’t go to waste, the kitchen staff get any leftovers.’

‘I am pleased to hear that, but it wasn’t my point.’

‘I am not a child who needs cajoled into eating, Miss Brannagh. You cannot fix me with coddled eggs.’ He regretted the words as soon as they were out, but it was too late to take them back. Owen sighed, exasperated. ‘Very well, I will take some of the damned—dashed eggs.’

She smiled at him encouragingly. ‘And perhaps just a sliver of this lovely ham?’

Lacking the will or energy to deny her, he shrugged, studying her as she set about creating a plate of breakfast for him that he had no appetite for. Her smile had momentarily lit up her face, reminding him of the glowing beauty he’d met in Paris, and making the changes in her so much more stark by comparison. She was dressed simply and elegantly in a grey travelling gown, but it hung loosely on her slender frame. He remembered her laughingly telling him how much she loved to eat. He remembered her figure as generous, like her smile. She had lost weight, and he was, unfortunately, willing to bet that it had not been down to working in the heat of the kitchen. As she handed him his plate—like an offering, he thought—smiling at him tentatively, pleadingly, it struck him that what she’d lost most was her confidence. Exactly as he’d said, the light had gone out in her. Ironically, since their paths had parted they had arrived at the same destination, not success but despair.

He eyed the dish she presented him with, the wafer-thin slices of ham curled elegantly into rosettes, the eggs topped with a knob of melting butter, two slices of bread, the crusts removed, cut into delicate triangles. He really didn’t want it, but he didn’t want to seem churlish by refusing. ‘Thank you, Miss Brannagh, this looks most appetising,’ Owen said, awkwardly picking up his knife and fork.

‘They say we eat with our eyes. Presentation is much underrated by most cooks. It is one of the first things I learned from—shall I have your butler bring fresh coffee?’

He shook his head.

‘In Paris, the juice of freshly squeezed oranges is often served in the morning, but the French don’t really take breakfast seriously as a meal the way we do. Are you sure you don’t want some fresh coffee with that? Or perhaps—perhaps I should simply be quiet and allow you to eat. I talk too much when I’m nervous.’

Her mouth trembled. When she poured herself some more tea, her hand shook. What the devil had happened to her! He’d wager her revered Solignac had some hand in it. He had already taken against the man before he’d finally turned up late at the Procope, and his appearance in the flesh had simply confirmed Owen’s dislike. An ill-mannered bully with an inflated sense of his own importance who took his lover for granted.

He forced the last mouthful of breakfast down, and was rewarded with a smile.

‘You see, you were hungry after all.’

‘Apparently,’ he said drily.

‘The eggs were a little over. It is very difficult to keep eggs from spoiling, but the simple solution is to add a little knob of butter, I don’t know why more people don’t realise it. Forgive me, the last thing you need is a culinary lecture.’

Owen pushed his plate away and eased himself carefully to his feet, biting the inside of his cheek as the anticipated fierce stab of pain shot through his damaged hip. ‘We’ll retire to the morning room, if you are finished with your tea. It is the second door on your left.’

Ushering her ahead of him, he followed her slowly, resisting the urge to use the wall for support, mortified by how vulnerable he felt without his stick. He would not fall over. He bloody well would not fall over.

Lowering himself into the wing-back chair by the fireside, he felt as if he’d completed an epic journey, closing his eyes, taking a moment to get his breathing under control, wondering if the doctors had been right after all, and that the pathetic and rudimentary exercise regime at least served to prevent his health from deteriorating further. The footstool was just out of reach, but as Miss Brannagh made to help, he nudged it towards himself with his good leg.

‘Thank you, but I’m not entirely helpless.’

He waved her to the chair opposite, where she sat, hands clasped tightly, on the edge of the seat. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop apologising. Please.’ Adjusting his foot on the stool, he tried to force a smile, but it felt strained, and probably looked more like a grimace. ‘Now, Miss Brannagh, that we are more comfortable, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’

‘Well first of all—I know it’s silly—but when you didn’t show up at the Procope I wondered why. I hoped that whatever your reason for not being there, that you had fared better than me.’

‘Then you have been sorely disappointed, I’m afraid. I assume you are on your way to visit one of your sisters or—did you say you had an aunt?’

‘Aunt Kate. Lady Elmswood. She lives in Shropshire.’ She gazed down at her hands, which were white at the knuckles, she was clasping them so tightly together. ‘I’m not planning on visiting family just at the moment.’