She pressed her finger to her chin, feigning thoughtfulness. “What is that verse about not throwing stones?”
“People will think—”
“What, Stephen?” she suddenly snapped, and her annoyance was almost better than her indifference. This was what he’d become—a dog begging for scraps of nourishment. Taking whatever damn thing he could get. “What will people think?”
“They will think you’re cuckolding me,” he said through gritted teeth.
“God forbid,” she said, so drily he wanted to shout at her.
“Are you?” he asked. He didn’t know what possessed him. Surely, if she was, it would be better not to know. But the words were wrenched from him by anger and bitterness. By months of feeling utterly, terribly alone when he’d imagined a far, far different sort of marriage. One could only bear so much weight before breaking.
“No, Stephen,” she said. “I’ve been a good wife. Have you been a good husband?”
“What, exactly, are you asking?”
Her mouth tightened, strained at the corners. She leaned back, so heavily the chair creaked. “It doesn’t signify.”
“Why did you marry me?” he asked, finally voicing out loud the question that haunted him. He knew the answer, of course, but some devil in him wanted to hear the words from her lips. This thing they lived with and never ever discussed. “If you don’t feel anything for me, why did you marry me?”
For a long moment, she didn’t answer. She simply stared at him, whatever thoughts she had churning behind her eyes were quickly hidden when her lashes flickered downward. “My parents thought having a future earl in the family would be capital. All the dukes were taken.”
His heart contracted, but he recognized the truth. They’d married each other for the wrong reasons, and now it was driving a wedge between them. Whatever foolish hope he’d had for their marriage was vanished. Love was like a flower—it couldn’t grow in an absence of light.
He stood, pushing back his chair so abruptly the legs screeched along the wooden floor. “I’ve changed my plans. I’m leaving early.”
She turned to stare out the window. “It looks like rain.”
He glanced at the window, where the clouds were low and dark through the glass, and then at his wife. But she wouldn’t face him, and she hadn’t told him not to go.
With his heart feeling like it was being crushed in his chest, he strode from the room.
Last Summer
Upon entering the drawing room to await dinner, Stephen strode toward the back, where he would be the least observed. He hated attending these formal dinners—he felt as though he were on display, like one of those moths or butterflies stuck through with pins.
The thought brought the memory of the Midsummer Ball into focus. He didn’t even know the woman’s name, but he couldn’t stop picturing her in his mind or remembering the warmth of her hand clasped in his.
He had his head tipped back, thinking, when his father’s voice reached him.
“The Cartwrights are supposed to attend tonight,” the Earl of Ravenhall said. “Stop daydreaming.”
The cutting disapproval in his father’s voice made Stephen’s head jerk up. “I wasn’t daydreaming,” he protested.
“No? What do you call it then, musing about insects?”
Stephen’s father had the ability to make his son feel very, very small and just as awkward with the fewest words possible. Things had been much easier when he’d been the overlooked second son.
“There,” his father said, nodding to the other side of the room surreptitiously.
Stephen followed the nod. To a man with a stocky build and a woman beside him whose red hair gleamed in the candlelight. Stephen drew a deep breath—he hadn’t seen hair like that since…and then she appeared just behind her parents, wearing a white muslin gown—the young woman who had whispered in his ear as they’d crouched in the shrubbery and watched a scandalous embrace.
The woman who said she liked to take long, muddy walks, more than watercolors or the pianoforte.
“That common girl has more money to her name than any other woman here,” the earl said. “Pursue her. Charm her.” At the word ‘charm,’ his father turned back to Stephen, casting a disapproving glance at him. “Or ruin her, if you have to, but for God’s sake, don’t breathe a word about butterflies.”
Stephen frowned. “Ruin her?” He didn’t like the way his father spoke about Miss Cartwright—as though she was simply a means to an end.
“Smile,” his father hissed. “They’re approaching.”
Stephen pasted an unnatural smile on his face as Lady Wynne led the Cartwrights across the carpet. Miss Cartwright finally looked at him. Her steps faltered for an instant before she resumed her pace, smiling beatifically, as though they hadn’t already met each other under somewhat disreputable circumstances. She was better at this sort of thing than he was, and she hadn’t even been born into it.
A little depressing, that.
Lady Wynne introduced Stephen and his father to the ladies, and both Mrs. and Miss Cartwright dropped into graceful curtsies. They came from trade—Mr. Cartwright had, either intentionally or unintentionally, taken after the ancestor his family had been named for and made carriages for a living. They said his operation had started small, but he’d set his ambitions high and his quality higher. The finely crafted vehicles now sold widely—and expensively—among the upper class.
The gossip about the family’s common origins followed them wherever they went. But they must have used some of their vast fortune to hire discreet tutors. They were polished enough to fit in with the aristocracy. On the surface, at least.
At the mention of the title Ravenhall, Mrs. Cartwright glanced at her husband quickly. It was almost too quick to be noticed, but not quite. The Earldom of Ravenhall was one of the oldest in the country—a lofty goal for the Cartwrights, but not as unreachable as it would have once been. Because the prestigious earldom was also, thanks to a line of bad investments, hovering near poverty.
And now it was up to Stephen to fix his father’s mistakes.
This Summer
Jane walked. And walked. And walked. Eventually, one had to admit that one could only walk so far before stopping or turning back. Plutarch, a mongrel she’d picked up on the streets of London who’d been so malnourished his ribs had been visible under his skin, followed at her heels. Now he was plumper, and happier, and he fit right in with the menagerie of animals Jane took care of.
They crested the rise, and the aptly and somewhat whimsically named Goodview House appeared. Goodview, though called a house, was more like a large cottage. There were many smaller properties associated with the earldom that weren’t used much amongst the family. Stephen had shown her several of them so she could choose a country residence, and this was the one she’d fallen in love with.
The choice was probably only a verification of every horrible thing Stephen and his father thought of her, but she’d made her decision.
Goodview was a simple house—there had been no renovations in the past two decades and the red brick façade and small windows were very much early Georgian. But it was cozy inside and they didn’t need a hundred servants to run it. The house reminded Jane of a simpler time, before her father had made his fortune, when nothing much was expected of her.
It reminded her of freedom.
And, as the name suggested, the view was wonderful. From the second story, one could look out and see the glittering blue of the ocean on sunny days, or the gray turmoil of cloudy days. When the weather was warm, Jane left the windows open and the smell of salt and sea drifted through the house.
Goodview was within a day’s carriage ride to London, so she could visit her parents, who spent more of their time in the city than in the country, as often as she wished.
She should have been happy. But whatever pain sh
e experienced now was her own fault. She knew how marriages worked in the aristocracy—though she hadn’t dreamed her own marriage would work out the same way.
Perhaps she’d been too hopeful. Perhaps she was a fool.
She reached down to scratch behind Plutarch’s ears. She named all of her pets after Greek philosophers, poets, or historians. When she’d introduced Stephen to Plato, an abandoned ferret she’d rescued and treated the same as her cats and dogs, he had laughed, as though he was delighted by something most others would find bizarre.
At the time, she’d been warmed by his reaction, reveling in his acceptance. Now she simply wondered if he’d hidden his disgust with her.
But of course, her reserved, polite husband would never say anything cruel to her face.
Sometimes, her jaw ached from clenching her teeth so hard, and she wanted to slap Stephen just to see what he would do.
But those were the thoughts of a bitter woman, and she wouldn’t allow bitterness to eat her away from the inside, as it wanted to do.
Before she realized her direction, she was in view of Linhurst. She saw Sophia Wakefield walking with her brother, Viscount Barton, along one of the paths that ran in front of the house, and waved. Plutarch, who could do with a little more training, yelped and ran to the strangers.
Sophia smiled, bending down to pat the dog before she moved toward Jane. Lord Barton followed.
“It seems we had the same idea,” Jane said to her friend.
“The weather by the sea changes so suddenly, we must enjoy the sun while we can,” Sophia said, linking her arm with Jane’s.
If Jane hadn’t met Miss Wakefield, she would have gone mad. As much as she liked to roam by herself, she was also very close to her parents, and she was used to having companionship of the human variety. She’d thought when leaving her parents’ home that her husband would be her companion. Another foolish hope.
Lord Barton caught up to them and bowed. Jane greeted him with a warm smile. She knew his reputation, and maybe it was deserved, but he hadn’t made any improper advances. She liked the viscount, no matter what Stephen said.
“Lord Somerby’s carriage went past the other day,” Sophia remarked. “Is he traveling?”
“To London,” Jane said. “I shall meet him there before the month ends.”
The Duke and Duchess of Milton’s Midsummer Night’s Ball was approaching and as far as Jane knew, no one who received an invitation declined it. But inside, she was dreading the ball. It would be the one year anniversary of meeting Stephen. It would remind her of how attracted to him she had been at first, and of how completely her dreams had been shattered.
“I’ll be sad to see you go,” Sophia said.
“I don’t think I’ll stay long,” Jane replied.
Sophia tipped her head back to glance at Jane from beneath her bonnet. Then she exchanged a glance with her brother. Jane’s stomach clenched. She wondered if they’d discussed the state of her marriage.
If they had, she thought bitterly, there wasn’t much to discuss. The state of her marriage was more or less nonexistent. Stephen hadn’t come to her bed since…
Jane shook her head.
No point thinking about that.
“There was a hedgehog in the garden, Jane,” her friend said. “It looked like it had been injured.”
“Oh dear,” she replied. “Will you show me?”
“And now we’re rescuing hedgehogs? Ferrets I can tolerate, but hedgehogs are simply pests,” Lord Barton remarked, though not unkindly.
“I think they’re adorable,” Sophia said.
The viscount shot a long-suffering glance at Jane, which made her smile. “My sister thinks every awful, prickly creature is adorable…which, come to think of it, may be why she puts up with me. Perhaps I complain prematurely.”
“We’ll save the hedgehog,” Sophia said decisively. “Even awful, prickly creatures deserve a small amount of kindness.”
Lord Barton laughed. “Oh, very well. Afterward, shall we take the path to the shore? It’s too good a day to miss the outdoors…or the companionship of a lovely woman.”
Jane agreed, flushing slightly at being called lovely. And if the smallest twinge of uneasiness occurred at being in Lord Barton’s company when her husband had asked her not to, she shoved it aside ruthlessly.
Her husband wasn’t here.
Chapter Two
“Why is my daughter writing about going on a picnic with Viscount Barton?” Mrs. Cartwright asked Stephen without ceremony.
Stephen had been startled enough when he’d been handed his mother-in-law’s calling card. He’d thought, for a dizzying instant, that something might have happened to Jane, but then he’d rushed out into the entrance hall, where the butler was waiting to take Mrs. Cartwright’s bonnet, and she’d asked the question before she’d even turned around.
Now she turned, casting a clear, penetrating gaze at him. Her eyes weren’t the warm brown of her daughter’s, but a cool, merciless green. Stephen supposed he didn’t need to wonder where Jane’s implacability had come from.
He caught a glance of his bewildered expression in the tall, gilded mirror hanging on the wall behind Mrs. Cartwright. He forced his expression to turn smooth. “She wanted to stay in the country longer,” he said. Though he really didn’t see why he answered the woman at all after she barged into his house and threw out invasive questions as easily as she handed over her bonnet.
“Oh, I’ll wager she did,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “Lord Barton is a fine specimen.”
Stephen gaped at his mother-in-law. “What?”
“A fine specimen,” she repeated calmly. “I thought you, of all people, would appreciate the analogy.”
“You…I…” he stopped and glared. “If you are suggesting my wife is…is…”
“Cuckolding you?”
He balled his hand into a fist. “She’s not, and how dare you come into my home and insult me?” He was so angry he could barely see straight.
“How do you know she’s not? You are in front of me. She is in Suffolk.” Mrs. Cartwright peered at him. “Have you invented some device that lets you see across counties? Miraculous.”
“I would like for you to leave,” he said through gritted teeth.
“And I would like to know why she appears to be having the time of her life with a man who’s not her husband—they go on picnics, they walk, they go riding—she says he even helped her rescue a hedgehog!”
His stomach churned like he’d been kicked in the gut, but he did his best not to show it. “My understanding is that Miss Wakefield is always present during these adventures.”
Mrs. Cartwright looked at him strangely. “Indeed?”
“Yes, indeed,” he bit out.
“Well, she never mentioned a Miss Wakefield in her letters.”
All of the blood seemed to rush from his head at once. He stepped back, as though that would help him regain his equilibrium. He’d been worried, yes, but some part of his mind or his stupid, pitiful heart must have refused to believe Jane would take things so far because the news still shocked him. And shocked him deeply.
He spoke dully, through a roaring in his ears. “What?”
“She didn’t mention Miss Wakefield in her letters to me,” Mrs. Cartwright repeated patiently. “If you don’t want everyone to gossip about you when news of this gets out, might I suggest going to Goodview House to put an end to it?”
He didn’t hear her suggestion. He was already turning, caught in the grasp of a hot anger that bordered on fury, to order a carriage be readied for his immediate departure.
Jane walked beside Lord Barton as they made their way back from their favorite path along the shore. Sophia had gone ahead to Linhurst to have tea, lemonade, and cakes prepared.
Jane was surprised when Lord Barton touched her elbow, bringing
her to a halt. He’d taken his hat off and was holding it in his hand, turning it awkwardly. “I’m not very good at conversations like this,” he said with a rueful smile. “But I want to thank you.”
“For what?” Jane asked.
“For being such a good friend to my sister,” he answered. “She adores you, you know.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” she said. “Sophia is a wonderful friend to me, as well.”
He looked down at her, his hand still on her elbow. He opened his mouth to speak again but stopped when the plodding of horse hooves and jingle of reins reached them. They turned to see a carriage approaching, throwing up dirt from the main road.
Plutarch—stupid, stupid dog—barked and darted for the carriage, completely unaware of the danger.
Jane dove to reach the dog before he got too far—she scooped him from the ground and clutched him to her chest, but in her haste, her foot caught in an unseen hole and twisted, upsetting her balance. She was falling headlong toward the ground when a strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back up.
“Are you all right?” Lord Barton asked. His face was rather close to hers as he studied her. And his chest—she could feel the warmth of it through her bodice. They were pressed together. Thoroughly pressed together.
Heat rose in her face as her blank mind fumbled for the right way to extract herself without hurting his feelings. But another voice penetrated her confusion. A gravelly, dark voice that sounded somehow familiar and somehow not.
“Unhand my wife.”
Lord Barton released her, and she turned to face Stephen, who must have leaped down from the carriage that had just pulled up beside them without waiting for the steps to be brought around. He stared at her with a harsh expression, his eyes narrowed, his lips thin.
She was so flustered by the way he looked, which was so different from his usual self, that she asked the exact wrong thing. “Why are you back so soon?”
A muscle in Stephen’s jaw twitched. “Am I interrupting?”
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