Rising from his chair, he went to the high, narrow tower window. The rectangular sliver provided no view of the grounds, only of the sky. It was clear outside today, the sun burning as brilliantly as it had since Monday. There was no longer any sign of the fog and the damp that had greeted them when they’d arrived on Sunday.

A glance at his pocket watch revealed the time: half past twelve. The boys should be done with their lessons soon.

He exited his study and, locking the door behind him, made his way downstairs.

Julia emerged from the drawing room at the same moment he stepped down into the hall. Catching sight of him, she stopped where she stood, blushing to the roots of her hair.

An answering heat crept up from beneath his collar and cravat, sneaking its way into his face.

Bloody hell.

He wasn’t some raw lad. He was a man in his thirty-second year. A man who should be well past the point of blushing.

But she was his wife. A wife whose lushly curved body he’d held while she slept. One who he’d seen, not four hours ago, in a blood-stirring state of undress, her nightgown at her hips and her bosom bare, as perfectly proportioned as any sculpture of a Grecian goddess.

He swallowed hard. “Er, good morning.”

“Good morning.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Or, rather, good afternoon. It’s nearly one o’clock.”

“So it is.” He crossed the hall to join her. She looked unbearably pretty in her plain white frock with its violet ribbon sash at her waist. Soft and touchable. He suspected she wasn’t wearing her corset.

Without a lady’s maid to assist her, she’d been managing her own morning toilette. Of necessity, some components had gradually fallen by the wayside. The result was a softer, simpler style of dress that suited her far better than the overly constricted silhouettes of her days in London. Even her hair was lovelier than it had been in town. No longer pinned into submission, it was swept back into loose chignons or haphazardly tucked into silken nets.

Imperfection became her. Made her even more beguiling. Like a wild rose blooming in a hedgerow.

Noticing his regard, she smoothed her hands over her skirts. “I’m rather rumpled, I know. Mary used to press my gowns. I don’t know how to do it myself. Not yet.”

“I’d be pleased to do it for you.”

“Oh no,” she objected quickly. “I couldn’t ask that. You have too much to do already.” She didn’t specify what.

So far, his work had remained a mystery to her. True to their agreement, Julia never asked him what he was doing every morning in the tower—though she was plainly curious.

She’d referenced it only once in passing, and he’d responded vaguely, muttering something about estate business. It was true enough in a general way. Whatever he earned from his labors would go toward maintaining the estate.