Chapter Six
This was his mother’s fault, Leo thought, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth as he waited for Florence.
The former Marchioness of Rainton was the parent from whom he’d inherited a conscience, one that had been gnawing at him ever since he’d parted ways with his new bride outside her bedroom door two nights ago.
Yes, he’d told her the truth that she’d asked for, but he’d been rude—again—allowing his anger to govern his behaviour when he ought to have been sympathetic.
And so, whilst he couldn’t bring himself to apologise to a woman who’d manipulated and trapped him into marriage, he’d decided the least he could do, now that she was back on her feet, was invite her to join him for dinner, here in the cavernous dining room with its deep crimson walls, painted ceiling and twelve-foot mahogany table.
It was a matter of honour, no matter how much he’d prefer to eat alone, as usual, at the desk in his study.
And this time he was determined to behave in a polite and gentlemanly fashion.
The only slight flaw in his plan was that she didn’t appear to be coming.
He spared a glance at his pocket watch, wondering how much longer to wait before telling his footmen to start serving. Five minutes, he decided. Five…or ten. He owed her—and his mother—that much.
Conscience aside, he was also curious to see how she would behave now that his words, the whole brutal truth about their marriage, had had a chance to sink in.
As far as he could tell, their last conversation hadn’t triggered any memories, but maybe by now?
Despite his resentment, he’d been impressed by the strength of her conviction in her own innocence.
Her blue eyes had seemed to shine with an even brighter lustre than usual.
She’d actually offered him a divorce and pressed for an annulment!
It made him wonder whether her actions on the evening of the Wadlows’ ball had been less the result of pre-meditated calculation and more spur-of-the-moment opportunism.
It didn’t change the result, but the idea that she wasn’t quite as conniving as he’d initially assumed made him feel marginally warmer towards her.
Of course there was another possibility…
He took a sip of wine, pondering. Was it feasible that she’d been telling the truth all along and there really was some other explanation for their having been compromised?
Could she be a victim in this whole sorry mess too?
In which case…had he been too harsh on her?
No. He set his glass down again, so roughly that wine almost sloshed over the rim. He’d witnessed her actions with his own eyes. She’d cornered him, lied to him and then trapped him. End of story.
So why did he feel as if he was missing something? Why did he still feel like the villain?
‘Sorry I’m late.’
He jerked his head up at the sound of Florence’s voice.
He’d been so deep in thought, he hadn’t noticed her enter the room, but it seemed she’d arrived just in time to catch him scowling.
He’d become so used to seeing her in a nightgown, it was almost a shock to see her in a dress again, a pretty, pale blue evening gown with matching elbow-length gloves and a simple gold locket around her throat.
Her hair was dressed too, pinned up at the back, with a few curls left free to frame and soften her face, accentuating the slender column of her neck in a way that made him want to reach out and stroke the delicate skin there.
He blinked, mentally comparing her appearance now with that of the wild-eyed wraith he’d found in the entrance hall just two nights before.
Thankfully, the bruise on her forehead had faded and her nose had returned to an almost normal colour, and yet despite that, she seemed diminished somehow, like a shadow of the woman who’d argued with him so vociferously.
Her shoulders were slumped, her brows were drawn, and her mouth was turned downwards at the corners.
As for her eyes, all the brightness he’d admired had faded completely away.
Something about that caused an unwonted pang in his chest.
‘Good evening.’ He stood up and bowed. ‘I was starting to think you weren’t hungry.’
‘My lady’s maid wanted to try out a new hairstyle, but it was more complicated than she expected.’ Her voice sounded different, almost listless, as she gestured vaguely at her head. ‘Eventually, we settled for this.’
‘Ah. Well, it looks…nice.’ He cleared his throat as a footman pulled out a chair for her. ‘Mrs Fitch tells me we’re having cream of asparagus soup, followed by salmon with broccoli and beef a la mode. I trust that’s acceptable?’
She paused halfway into her seat. ‘Of course. I’m sure that whatever Mrs Fitch chooses is fitting.’
‘Good.’ He sat down again, perplexed by the sudden edge to her voice. ‘How are you feeling today? Any headaches?’
‘Yes.’ She pressed her brows together. ‘But not from the accident, I think. More from everything else, the things you told me.’ She paused, a pained expression passing over her features. ‘I wish I could stop thinking, even for five minutes, but it all keeps going round and round my mind.’
He felt a pang of guilt. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken so bluntly the other evening. I should have waited to tell you.’
‘No. I was the one who insisted on hearing the whole story. The consequences are my own fault.’ She hunched forward, as if her body was curling in on itself. ‘I just never imagined it would be anything like that.’
‘Well…’ He reached for his spoon as soup bowls were set before them. ‘Perhaps some food will help.’
‘Perhaps,’ she murmured, staring at her cutlery for several seconds before turning her head to meet his gaze full-on. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
He grimaced. ‘Considering how the last one went, perhaps we ought to wait until after dinner?’
‘It’s not about what happened. It’s just… Why am I here?’
‘Here?’
‘Why did you invite me to dine with you this evening?’
‘You’re my wife.’
‘But you don’t like me. You admitted as much the other night.’
‘I didn’t…’ He stopped, shifting awkwardly in his chair. She was right, he had. ‘None the less, it’s fitting that we dine together.’
‘Have we ever done so before?’
He paused before answering. ‘No.’
‘Then why invite me now?’
‘Because…’ He faltered again. Because things are different now, he almost said, except that they weren’t, not really.
She might have banged her head and lost her memory, but she was still the same person underneath.
As was he. Nothing fundamental had changed.
It was only his conscience that was now compelling him to spend some time with her.
‘The reason doesn’t matter,’ he said finally. ‘The fact is, we’ve been married for almost a full month and it’s time we shared a meal, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so.’ She held on to his gaze, her own narrowing, as if she was trying to see past the words into his mind.
‘Do you have another question?’ He supposed he might as well get it over with.
‘Yes. How should I address you? As Rainton? Or should I say my lord every time?’
‘Leo.’ He inclined his head. ‘You may call me Leo.’
‘Leo.’ She gave him another long look before dipping her spoon into her bowl and moving it around slowly.
‘What about you?’
‘Mmm?’ She blinked, as if her thoughts had been elsewhere.
‘What should I call you? I mean, obviously your name is Florence, but is there a shortened form you prefer? Or perhaps a middle name?’
She shook her head. ‘My brothers call me Florrie when they want to annoy me, so not that. As for my middle name…definitely not.’
He quirked an eyebrow. Did he know her middle name? It must have been read out during their wedding ceremony, only for the life of him, he couldn’t remember.
‘It’s Patience,’ she admitted, noticing his expression. ‘After my grandmother. I loved her dearly, but as a name, it’s always felt like a lot to live up to.’
‘I understand. I have five names, my own and those of the former marquesses, all the way back to my great-great-grandfather. As you say, it’s a lot.’ He lifted his eyes to the clouds painted on the ceiling before dropping them back to his soup, struck with the feeling he’d just revealed too much.
He cleared his throat again. ‘I understand that Mrs Fitch continued our tour?’
‘Yes.’ Her spoon scraped loudly against the edge of her bowl, though she didn’t eat anything, he noticed.
‘I hope it was illuminating?’
‘Oh, yes, I learned a great deal.’ The edge was back in her voice. ‘She was very thorough.’
‘She always is.’
‘I think she hopes you’re going to start collecting prints of mountains soon.’
‘I know.’ He grimaced, then nodded towards her bowl. ‘Don’t you care for the soup? Would you prefer something else?’
‘No… I mean, yes.’ Her expression wavered before shifting to one of sudden resolve. ‘I want to go back to London.’
He blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I want to go back to London.’
‘For dinner?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘That’s quite a request.’ He put his spoon down and pushed his bowl away.
‘I know.’
‘Especially since we left less than a month ago.’
‘Not to me.’ She tossed her head, a flicker of defiance returning to her face. ‘For me, it’s like I was picked up in my sleep and deposited one hundred and fifty miles away overnight.’
‘I still don’t think…’
‘Please.’ She clenched her fists on the table. ‘Everything you told me…it all feels so unreal. I can’t… I just can’t accept it. I need to go back and see if I can remember anything for myself.’
‘I told you what happened.’
‘I know, but…’ a shadow of something like guilt flickered in her eyes ‘…I have other questions too, and maybe if I can get the answers to those then I can find some way out of this marriage for us.’
‘There’s no way out.’
Her face blanched. ‘Maybe not, but familiar surroundings might help to jolt my memory.’