Page 24 of Entwined By Error (Madcaps of Mayfair #1)

Was it a Declaration or Not?

Myra’s eyes flew open and she sat up, clutching her bedsheets to her chest as another crash sounded on her windows.

The wind whipped against the house, the outside shutters occasionally slamming against the windows in her bedchamber, so Myra slowly crept out of her bedchamber through the door that separated her room from Mr. Northcott’s.

The windows in his bedchamber were on the opposite wall, his chamber being the last one in that hallway, which meant the wind would not make such a ruckus in his room.

Her husband hadn’t written since he’d left a few days previously.

She couldn’t write to him since he hadn’t informed her of his destination, and so she had only his word that he would arrive home at the end of the week.

Surely, if he knew of the dreadful windstorm that night, he would not fault her for infiltrating his bedchamber.

Tiptoeing across the room, Myra nearly laughed at herself for the extreme measures she was taking to stay silent. There was no one to wake, and if there were, the wind would have done the job sufficiently.

Sliding under the covers, Myra moved around until she was comfortable, scooting to the middle of the bed.

As she closed her eyes, she took in a deep breath, loving the way Mr. Northcott’s bedchamber smelled like he had bottled sunlight and citrus.

It was no wonder his clothing always smelled like he had walked out of a lemon orchard.

Her eyes were slowly drifting shut, the exhaustion of her day taking over, when her mind imagined movement next to her, surely a manifestation of her desire for a loving husband. Her eyes closed, and she fell into a fitful slumber as she imagined an arm wrapped around her, pulling her close.

* * *

The morning sun filled the room, peeking through the bed hangings and hitting Myra’s face as she yawned. She turned to lie on her back, the blankets heavy across her middle, and then she suddenly froze. It wasn’t a blanket resting on her stomach.

Myra’s hand instantly went to her mouth to smother a scream as she realized it was an arm. A man’s arm. A squeak much like a mouse’s escaped her throat as she inhaled the scent of lemons. Only one man in the whole of England doused himself with citrus like he’d bathed in lemon custard.

She turned her head slowly as a little snore escaped her bedpartner.

Mr. Northcott was lying next to her, sleeping, a smile on his face as though he was far more comfortable than she.

She would have reprimanded him that very moment, if she hadn’t been the one who had snuck into his bed.

She was the intruder, the one who had broken their truce.

Slowly taking hold of his nightshirt, Myra attempted to lift his hand so she could silently slip out of the bed and escape his room before he woke to realize she was there. As she pulled on his sleeve, Mr. Northcott shifted.

Sleepily, he wrapped his arm around her more tightly. “Myra, your elbows are magnificent.”

“My elbows!” Myra whispered. There was no possible way he wasn’t awake.

But as she looked at him, his eyes remained closed and his breathing calm.

There was no sign of mischief, just a man sleeping and holding her as though she were a pillow.

“You, sir, are the madcap. Complimenting my joints in your sleep.”

With delicate precision, she tried once more to remove his arm by pulling on his sleeve.

She lifted and scooted, and then instead of dropping his arm onto the bed, she placed the pillow beneath him.

As she breathed a deep sigh of relief, Mr. Northcott pulled the pillow toward him as he had done with her.

“Tea,” Myra whispered to herself as she smoothed down her plaited hair and tiptoed toward the door leading to her bedchamber. She was nearly to her escape when Mr. Northcott’s deep voice stopped her feet from moving.

“I love you, Myra.”

Her breath caught, stopping her retreat mid stride.

His words had been soft and raw and impossibly clear, nothing like what she would expect from a man waking after a night of travel.

She turned slowly, heart thudding, expecting to meet his tired gaze, only to find he was still holding to the pillow and fast asleep.

She stared at him, mind whirring. Was he in earnest? Was it simply a dream? A wish? Her shoulders, tight with anticipation, sagged with relief and something dangerously close to disappointment.

A part of her wanted to wake him, to make him declare his feelings before he had time to dream of something else, but she couldn’t move her feet forward.

Instead, she blinked the errant tears gathering in her eyes away as she whispered, hoping he could hear her response as he dreamt.

“Then why does it feel like I am the only one who heard your words?”

It took a few moments to catch her breath and gather her composure before she was able to move once more.

After slipping back into her bedchamber, she sat at the dressing table, waiting for her maid.

It was difficult to think of anything other than Mr. Northcott, the way his arm had felt and how she’d slept pressed against his body.

It was strange how little she knew of her husband, yet somehow, this night had been much different than their wedding night.

Her heart raced, her head spun, and she wanted to run back into the room and cuddle up against his side once more. His arm was safe, as though she were his to protect. His to love. Pulling her fan out of the drawer, Myra was a blissfully fluttering mess when Lucy arrived with the breakfast tray.

“Did you sleep well, ma’am?”

Myra slowly walked to the table where the tray was placed. She didn’t respond, so the maid continued to talk.

“Horrid storm last night. I heard from the kitchen staff that a few trees lost branches. There will be much to clean up over the next few days. Good thing Mr. Northcott is home.”

At the mention of her husband, Myra’s head cleared. “What time did he arrive?”

“Early morning, ma’am. He’ll likely sleep most of the day. His eyes were practically closed as he stumbled into the house. Surprised the maids as they were opening the curtains for the day.”

Myra sat back, allowing Lucy to pour the tea.

If this was true, it made sense that he hadn’t noticed her lying in his bed.

She needn’t worry about his reaction; he would wake this afternoon without any knowledge that she had broken their truce and entered his private chambers.

Even so, as she slowly sipped her tea, savoring the taste, she realized it would be impossible for her to look at her husband without thinking about his arm protectively holding her and his admission that he loved her.

Cradling the teacup between her hands, Myra let the warmth seep into her fingers as her thoughts wandered back to the room adjoining hers.

She hadn’t allowed herself to consider love, not after the scandal that had bound her fate to Mr. Northcott’s.

Love was beautiful and meant for other women, not for her.

And yet, there was something achingly lovely about hearing those words, even if they’d been spoken in his sleep. A dream-born confession that had stirred a flutter of hope deep within, a feeling that seemed far too delicate and dangerous to entertain.

She smiled softly, remembering the way his hair had fallen across his brow, the ease in his sleeping features, the way the words had seemed to settle naturally on his tongue, as if they’d always belonged there.

It was possible he would not remember the dream.

He’d wake that afternoon and go about his day as usual, detesting her and the situation that had brought them together.

But still…the thought of it pleased her more than it should have.

She took another sip of tea, the taste suddenly sweeter, and allowed herself to wonder, just for a moment, what it might feel like to fall in love with her husband. Not out of duty, or consequence, or survival. But because she wanted to. Because, perhaps, she already was.

Lingering a bit longer in her bedchamber than usual, Myra allowed the tea and her food to grow cold.

When she was finally dressed for the day, she skipped the morning meeting with the housekeeper, as she was unable to focus on anything except her husband.

She sewed her skirt into her embroidery, only noticing the error when she tried to change from brown thread to green.

Forgoing another hour of sewing, she slowly walked to the music room to sit at the piano with her hands resting on the keys, yet not pressing them.

Giving up on practicing, Myra sat on the cushion in the window seat, staring out at the estate.

She was completely useless. Servants walked about the estate cleaning up after the storm, tree branches and torn-up hedges dotting the landscape, but she could not spare a thought for any of that.

Her mind was focused upon a man she had convinced herself to loath for eternity.

Just as she was attempting to clear her thoughts, Myra’s gaze fell upon the object of her rumination.

Mr. Northcott was walking, rather quickly, along a path she had not yet explored.

She’d never noticed Mr. Northcott leaving his study during the day.

She had convinced herself that he spent all his time reviewing the ledgers or reading books.

Curious, Myra lifted her skirt and ran to the doors at the back of the house that led out to the gardens.

It didn’t take long for her to find the path he’d taken, his footprints still visible in the mud.

Quickening her step, Myra followed behind him until she was certain she’d left the estate, and yet she still followed his footprints. Just when she was ready to turn back, she came upon a little building, much like a greenhouse, nestled on the cliff overlooking the sea.