Free Worth Winning by Parker Elling Page B

forget the first few meals of the day, leaving his tea and snacks untouched. Nagging was of no use: if she interrupted Mr. Morland during his studies and told him it was time to eat, he would usually look up, smear his shirt with ink or whatever he was experimenting with, nod absently, and then promptly forget the conversation had ever taken place.
    Phyllis had discovered early on in their marriage, however, that if she sat with him and listened to him talk about his studies, it was another matter entirely. As long as he had a topic that interested him, he would eat. So she’d learned to place food in front of him, to arrange plates of snacks so that there was a variety of options within reach while he lectured.
    She’d even had fun experimenting at one point: she could almost get him to gain weight if she just fed him sugary things for long enough. He rarely commented on what he ate; she doubted he noticed, much. She even arranged his clothes. She’d once put the same shirt on top three days in a row and hadn’t been particularly surprised when he’d put it on, day after day, without comment or notice.
    Phyllis shook her head. She would never understand how he’d survived without her or how his first wife had managed to . . . well, manage him. She knew him to be completely infatuated with her, that he was as devoted to her as any husband could be, and yet . . . there were still days when she was sure that he didn’t give her a second thought, days when he was so immersed in his studies that he would have to be forcibly reminded that there was a world outside his overpacked, overfurnished study, always overflowing with books.
    Early in their marriage, she’d suggested she could help organize his study. Well, she’d never make that offer again. The look of horror on his face would’ve rivaled the expression of a great actor pretending to see a ghost.
    She’d relented, and proposed instead that there ought to be some amount of time where Mr. Moland was away from his actual studies, and allowed instead to cogitate in the company of his family. It had taken time, and several awkward, fitful starts, but they had eventually gotten used to having meals together. Dinners where Mr. Morland was encouraged to expound upon his readings and his experiments. Which brought her back to her present mission. Though Phyllis had never been a particularly active parent in Julia’s life—not for lack of trying; she simply had nothing in common with her stepdaughter—she did care about the young woman and felt that it was well past time she married. She was, what, twenty-five, almost twenty-six? Where had the time gone?
    She waited for her husband to finish his thought—something having to do with maths or a proof, or both—before cutting into her dessert; she’d allowed herself to be a lax stepparent for far too long. She’d be seeing to Claire’s season next year (delayed already, because of her husband’s illness last year), which meant that it was well past time she married Julia off. If the matter were left to Mr. Morland, Julia would probably grow old and gray at the vicarage.
    “I hear that you’ve had a run-in with the viscount.”
    Julia’s eyes darted toward Claire, who gave the tiniest shake of her head. Watching the exchange, Phyllis’s eyes narrowed: she hated being kept out of the loop.
    After a strategic pause, Julia answered, “I did briefly see Lord Robeson.”
    Mr. Morland looked up from absent-mindedly pushing the treacle tart around his plate. “Robeson, Robeson—he inherited Langley, didn’t he? Years ago?”
    A shadow crossed over Julia’s face, and Phyllis bit her lip. She’d been so excited about meeting the new viscount—she hadn’t lived in Munthrope the last time he’d come around, before he’d unexpected become a viscount—that she’d only gradually noticed and began wondering about Julia’s lack of excitement. Julia had never spoken of having a previous attachment, and yet