“Lady Harper of Thames,” he said.
“You’re late.” I grinned at him.
“I was detained by politics.”
“That sounds contagious.”
“It is. I recommend avoiding noblemen entirely.”
“That advice feels personally inconvenient.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
The Baron, who had been reviewing correspondence at the table nearby, looked up briefly. “You may woo Harper after you explain why three men nearly killed each other over grain tariffs in Hertfordshire.”
I found Geoffrey later in the study sorting through correspondence beside the fire. Candles burned low across the table. Maps, seals, ribbons, and folded reports covered nearly every surface except the small space he had apparently cleared for me beside his elbow.
“You’re working,” I said.
“My father believes sleep encourages weakness.”
“A fascinating theory.”
“He’s hoping to publish a pamphlet.”
I sat down beside him and immediately reached for the nearest parchment before ink dripped across the cuff of my sleeve.
Geoffrey caught my wrist lightly.
“A moment.”
His hand disappeared briefly into one of the saddlebags beside the chair.
Then he placed a small object carefully atop the correspondence between us.
Gloves. Soft brown leather lined at the wrists with darker wool.
I blinked at them.
“Your sleeves keep staining,” Geoffrey said.
“You bought me gloves because I spill ink?”
“I bought you gloves because you fret over ruining your gowns.”
I picked one up. The leather was softer than anything I had worn since arriving in the thirteenth century.
“You noticed.”
Geoffrey looked briefly confused by the question.
“Of course I noticed.”
That shouldn’t have affected me as much as it did.
* * *
Three nights later rain closed around Thames so heavily the lower courtyard vanished entirely beneath mist.