Lauren Willig - Masque of the Black Tulip

Some of the strain evident in Miles's face eased as he grinned unwillingly at her. "Hear me out before you argue with me, all right?"

Henrietta's heart clenched at the affectionate tone, and she nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak.

"I couldn't take you to Jermyn Street, because Turnip would be right, it would be havey-cavey. It would smack of…" Miles waved a hand helplessly in the air.

"Elopement?" supplied Henrietta numbly.

"Exactly. Hiding out in hired rooms… it would just be all wrong. You deserve a real home, not shoddy hired rooms."

"But, why here?" she asked. Was he planning to put her up in Lor-ing House for the night before conveying her back to her family for the inevitable conflagration? She supposed she could always go to Europe for a bit until the resulting scandal died down… the nunnery was beginning to look very attractive again.

"Well" — Miles stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the railing in his favorite pose, looking painfully boyish — "I couldn't very well take you back to Uppington House, and it might have taken a while to find a suitable townhouse to let. And my parents are never here to use this old pile, so… welcome home."

"Home?"

Miles began to look a little worried. "The furnishings are probably a bit out of date, but the house itself isn't that bad. It will need some cleaning up, but at least there's plenty of room, and — "

"You mean you don't want an annulment?" Henrietta blurted out.

"What?" exclaimed Miles, staring at her with evident confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh," said Henrietta, feeling about two inches tall and wishing there were a convenient toadstool she could crawl under. "Never mind, then."

"Hen." Miles put a hand beneath her chin and tipped her face up towards his, looking earnestly down at her. Henrietta didn't even want to think what she must look like, her face streaked with dust and grime from the road, her hair a snarled mess. "I have a proposition to put to you."

"Yes?" she said hesitantly, wishing she didn't look quite so much like Medusa after a particularly violent rampage.

"A sort of favor," Miles continued. "Not just for me, but for both of us."

Henrietta waited in silence, nerves stretched to the breaking point. She wasn't even going to venture to guess. Bad things happened when she did that. Like annulments and toadstools and cabbages.

"I know this hasn't been the most" — Miles cast about for words — "regular of courtships. But, if you think you can manage it, I'd like to put the manner of our marriage behind us. After all, we have more of a chance than most couples. We rub along fairly well together. And we like each other. That's more than most marriages have to start out with." Miles's hands dropped from her face to her shoulders, holding her just far enough away so he could see her face. "What do you say?"

What Henrietta wanted to say wasn't easily translated into words. Part of her was basking in sheer relief. Having braced herself all day for the moment when Miles would present all sorts of excellent arguments for the dissolution of their marriage, having him entreat for the contrary took her completely by surprise.

And yet… yet… there was a sting to it. It was kind, and it was sensible, but how meager kind and sensible felt. Henrietta certainly had no hopes for effusive declarations, but, in an inexplicable way, the lukewarm affections Miles had invoked were almost more hurtful than an outright repudiation. A line from an old poem flitted through her head: "Give me more love or more disdain, the torrid or the frozen zone." She had never understood it then, but now she did; love or disdain, at least either stirred the passions. But, oh, to be treated by the object of one's adoration with temperate fondness! It blighted any romantic illusions more surely than an outright rejection.

Gazing wordless into Miles's earnest brown eyes, Henrietta felt very small and very vulnerable. But it was, after all, not his fault if she didn't inspire him with burning passion, and he was doing his utmost to make the best of an awkward situation — which was more than she was doing. Henrietta gathered her scattered wits together. What Miles proposed was eminently sensible. And she was, she thought to herself wryly, always sensible. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than nothing. And maybe… in time… Henrietta squelched that thought before it could grow up. She was letting herself in for enough heartbreak as it was.

"Yes," she said tentatively. "Yes. I'd like that."

Miles let out a gusty sigh of relief. "You won't regret it, Hen." With one exuberant movement, he swooped down and whisked Henrietta into his arms.

"What" — Henrietta clung to his neck for dear life as he bounded up the front steps two at a time — "on earth do you think you're doing?"

Miles grinned rakishly. "Carrying my wife over the threshold, what else?"

"The threshold appears to be closed," pointed out Henrietta. "So little faith," complained Miles. "Watch and learn."

"If you even think of using me as a battering ram…" warned Henrietta, as Miles lifted a booted foot and rammed it hard against the door.

On the third kick, the door flew open, propelled by an indignant individual with white hair growing in tufts from either side of his forehead like the horns of an untidy devil.

"In civilized establishments," he began strongly, chest puffing out to alarming proportions, before registering the identity of the heedless hoodlum who had been battering at the hallowed portals of Loring House. Henrietta, held horizontal at just that level, watched with fascination as the irate personage's chest abrupdy deflated. "Master Miles! Master Miles?"

The butler's eyes flew from Miles to Henrietta and back to Miles in a state of evident alarm. The Loyal Retainer's Guide to Better Buttling, while excellent with regard to tips for polishing silver and removing the cloaks of foreign dignitaries, was highly unclear as to the proper protocol for receiving prodigal sons and prone women.

"Hullo, Stwyth," said Miles exuberantly, not in the least bit daunted. Henrietta resisted the urge to hide under his cravat. "This is your new mistress, Lady Henrietta."

Henrietta gave a sheepish little wave as Miles bore her triumphantly across the threshold beneath the nose of the flabbergasted butler.

"Stwyth?" she whispered to Miles.

"He's from Wales," Miles whispered back. "They haven't discovered vowels yet."

"My lady," stuttered Stwyth. "Sir. We weren't informed of your arrival. Your rooms… the house… we didn't know…"

"That's all right, Stwyth. Neither did I," Miles tossed back nonchalantly over his shoulder as he strode towards the stairs. "But we'll be staying here from now on."

The butler hastily gathered the tattered shreds of his composure, drawing himself up to his full height, which was somewhat shorter than Henrietta's, or what Henrietta's would have been, had she not been dangling several feet off the ground. Henrietta tried to remedy that fact by dint of rolling sideways, but Miles held firm.

"May I say, sir, on behalf of the entire staff," announced Stwyth, trotting along behind, "how delighted we are that you have finally decided to make your home at Loring House."

"You may," acceded Miles, starting up the stairs, Henrietta squished firmly against his chest, "but preferably some other time. You can go, Stwyth. Go…" What did butlers do when they weren't opening doors? "Go buttle."

Under the crook of Miles's arm, Henrietta saw Stwyth's rigid features curve into what, in a lesser mortal, would have been a grin.

"Indeed, sir," he intoned, and bowed himself hastily out of the hall.

Henrietta turned bright red and banged her head against Miles's cravat. "Oh dear," she moaned. "He knows."

"Hen?" Miles jiggled her to make her look up. "We're married. It's allowed."

"I still don't really feel married," admitted Henrietta.

"We can work on that," said Miles, kicking open a door at the head of the stairs. "In fact, we will definitely work on that."

The door opened onto a small room furnished with a writing desk and several delicate chairs. It was hard to tell what else the room might contain, because the drapes were drawn, and most of the furniture shrouded in Holland covers to protect against dust and the ravages of time.

Miles backed out again. "Damn. Wrong room."

"Shouldn't you put me down?" asked Henrietta plaintively, as her dangling feet narrowly escaped amputation on the door frame.

"Only" — Miles leered dramatically down at her — "once I've found a bed."

Just in case she had any ideas of escaping, Miles boosted her higher into the air. Henrietta let out a squeal of protest and clasped her arms more firmly around his neck. "Don't drop me!" she demanded, laughing.

"That's more like it," said Miles with great satisfaction, hefting her happily in his arms. His voice softened. "I like it when you laugh."

Something in his expression made Henrietta's throat tighten. "With you, or at you?" she quipped uneasily.

"Near me," Miles said, tightening his hold on her. He rubbed his cheek against her hair. "Definitely near me."

"I think that could be arranged," Henrietta managed, doing her utmost to refrain from blurting out embarrassing declarations of love that could only alarm Miles and put an end to their precarious entente.