Chapter 28 #3
He brushed his fingertips at her temple where no curls dared to go as they had in her youth. “Are you going to open it?”
She drew out the bow, and he found inexplicable pleasure in the murmur of velvet sliding on velvet. Lifting the lid, she swallowed. He marveled without conceit at the sparkling rivière of pink tourmaline and diamonds.
“Is it good enough?” he asked her.
“G-Good enough?” She looked up, and he could not discern if she was pleased for the gift or if the glint in her eyes were happy tears. “It is beautiful. Thank you.”
“I’ve had my fill of condolences,” he said, chuckling. “It’s time you shed your widow’s weeds.”
Turning her around by her shoulders, he latched the pendant on her neck.
His fingers grazed her skin, and warmth spread from where he touched her, coursing in waves up his arms. Inside was a woman to be sure.
She could satisfy him. More than satisfy him.
Though as a wife she was not expected to.
A wife was for keeping a home and bearing children. Neither of which he had given her.
He turned her to face him. On her tiptoes, she pecked his cheek for a pendant he had conceived and sketched and chosen each gem.
He escorted her to the dining room, and a miracle of sorts, Miss Dixley had absented herself. With Ollie begging at their feet, Kitty apprised him on their business through three courses. The specifics of the food he couldn’t recall when a dessert of spice cake was set down in front of him.
He needed to tell her he had been faithful. That he had no desire to be free. He wanted always to be faithful. And more. He had forgiven her for leaving him. He didn’t know when this forgiveness had happened, but it had. He was lighter and happier for it. And nervous as a cat up a tree.
He explained his plan for building merchant ships to be fitted later for a war. She agreed and praised his forethought. He sat through a report on the social doings of Southampton, Robert Carleton and Althea Dixley’s burgeoning romance, the merchants she had decided to patronize.
“Listen to me, going on,” she said with a laugh, without a real smile. “Do tell me about London.”
She finished her third glass of wine, and thinking on the day she had imbibed laudanum, he worried for her. Here was his chance. He recounted the plays he had seen with Anthony and his friends, including Lady Sybil and Lady Daniels. She didn’t flinch at either female name.
“And the opera? What was it like?” She dismissed the footman and poured another glass of claret.
“It was the opera,” he said dryly.
“Then why did you attend?” she asked.
“Anthony likes opera.”
“I saw your receipt for Vauxhall. I’ve never been. Are the closed walks as romantic as they are reported to be with their lanterns and dark corners? I imagined walking them myself as a girl.”
His heart lurched in his chest. Louisa had lured him into those closed walks. Nothing had transpired. “Yes, they serve one purpose. Luring heiresses into a scandal, necessitating a marriage proposal.”
“Did you?” She sipped her wine.
“I am married,” he said quietly.
“Did you walk in the parks? I’ve read the afternoon is the fashionable hour, but for me, I would much prefer the early morning. So much more private, you see.”
“I ran through St. James nearly every morning. Alone.” He inhaled long through his nose, and suddenly he smelled Louisa’s perfume clinging to his coat.
Damn him! Damn him to hell. That was what she had smelled on him when he had stood close to her at her bedroom window. He wanted to rip off his clothes.
“Kitty,” he started, “I spent the majority of my time in business dealings. Anthony can attest—”
“How is Anthony? In good health?”
“He is. He sends you his regards. In London, there was a woman—”
“Anthony was always a friend to me,” she said into her glass with an actual smile, a wistful smile. “You know, he came upon the name Madame Féline.”
This and the smile sent his reeling brain in a jealous direction. “Did he? Why?”
“A jest. You know Anthony.”
His voice was bitter and jealous to his ears. “You could have been a countess.”
“I never cared for titles.”
He lifted his arms wide. “As evidenced by your choice.”
She finished her wine and rose unsteadily from the table.
He shoved back in his chair and reached for her as she passed, catching her hand and pulling her to his chest. She looked up at him with wide eyes, her legs pressed to his, the slim softness of her body stirring within him desire, regret, pain.
Memories assailed him of each moment provided where he could have told his pride to go to hell and tried to make something of his marriage.
Just simply remembered who Kitty was and not selfishly defined her by one act.
He warred with letting go of her. If he didn’t, he would do more.
She was drunk. He wouldn’t take advantage.
And it felt cheap and desperate to attempt a seduction on account of guilt.
Not for the crimes he didn’t commit, but for the ones he did.
Proposing a marriage in name only and sticking by it.
Accusing her of being unlovable, undesirable.
For telling her he did not love her. How many times had he thrown that in her face?
“Nothing happened in London,” he said. His wife, starkly beautiful in black, gazed back in aplomb.
“I was a saint. No, I should clarify. I was as close to a saint as I can ever be. This perfume you smell—I’m sorry.
It’s from a woman who I did nothing with.
Nothing. Except escort her, with Anthony, to various events I’d rather have forgone. I did try to—”
“Please stop.” She pulled slightly against his hold.
“I forgive you. Whatever your reasons for leaving. I forgive you. I should have forgiven you two years ago.” He held her tighter, and then he was done for, clasping her head to his shoulder and murmuring into her hair, “Do you believe me?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters. It damn well matters.”
His jaw clenched uncontrollably. Was he going to cry? How could Kitty not break down and cry? What a mess he had made.
He released her. She stepped back on her heels and walked from the dining room, leaving him alone to eavesdrop on her light tread through the hall.
He dropped to the chair with his head in his hands.
He couldn’t spend the rest his life like this.
Or, knowing there was more than his own feelings involved, the rest of their lives.