Chapter 2
Scarlett eyed the candle that sat atop the small yet elegant mahogany table next to her.
The wick was burning dangerously low. Would she have enough to finish this last chapter and still be able to return to her room?
She could get up and find another, true, but she was rather comfortable at the moment with the huge quilt thrown over her as she snuggled deeper into the depths of the navy bergère chair in the corner of the library.
She tried to make out the time on the mantel clock overtop one of the room’s three fireplaces, in which just the embers burned low in the grate, the marble chimney stretching far above it.
As hard as she squinted, however, she couldn’t quite read it in the dark, though if she had to guess, she would assume it was just past midnight.
A time when the rest of the house was asleep, of course.
Lavinia had departed for home after dinner, and the servants were now all abed.
Scarlett always prepared for sleep early so that Marion, her maid, didn’t have to wait up for her, but then she would sneak back down to the library.
She had never been one to sleep early or even overly much.
If she did go to bed at what others would consider a proper time, she would spend the night tossing and turning, and so she usually read until her eyes felt heavy enough to promise sleep.
One thing she did have to commend her husband on was the depths of his bookshelves.
They were filled with tomes of every sort, from gothic novels to histories to children’s books.
Lavinia told her that all of the books from their London home and her parents’ second country estate were sent here when her mother decided to redecorate.
They were supposed to have been collected and returned, but her mother decided to instead buy books that “looked like they belonged.” Whatever that meant, thought Scarlett with an eye roll.
She was reading about the third earl. It was a romantic story.
He was originally rejected as a suitor by his initial prospective father-in-law, as the earl was in rather ill health.
His friends arranged another marriage for him, and when he met this woman on his wedding day, he instantly fell in love with her; they had two sons and a wonderful life together.
“Hmph.” Scarlett closed the book. Did she trust this romantic portrayal, or was it simply a fairy tale?
She leaned her head back on the cushion behind her. There was a chance it might be true. But that didn’t mean love was worth the risk — at least, not for her.
Hunter eased open the door as he let himself into the house. While he hadn’t been able to see the familiar red brick in the darkness of night, when he stepped into the entrance hall, the home welcomed him like a mother with open arms. Well, like most mothers would. With the exception of his own.
He had always loved this house, and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed it until he had neared it. If only his bride would welcome him, then perhaps he could begin to spend more time here once again, at least when Session was out.
Spicer, his valet, had gone around the back and said he would prepare everything within his chamber before Hunter went up to bed.
He was tired — it had been a long trip from London — but he decided a glass of brandy wouldn’t hurt to warm him up some after the frigid air that had made its way into the carriage and through the wrapper around him on the journey here.
He and Lavinia had always preferred this home, and once they were old enough, they chose to spend most of their time here as opposed to the cold, stately home their parents currently occupied and preferred.
The oak floorboards creaked under his weight as he strode down the foyer and Oak Hall.
He strode through the Green Room, turning left around the inner courtyard until he came to the room that was always home to him — his library.
He was surprised when he pushed open the door and found the room warm, the embers in one of the hearths still lit as though the fire had just died out.
Had someone been in here — his wife, perhaps?
He made his way over through the dim yet familiar room to find the decanter of brandy just where it always was and he poured himself a drink.
Eyes half closed, he meandered around the furniture to find his favorite chair, the one that knew his body better than any woman ever would.
Seeing the quilt his grandmother had made for him already draped over the chair, it was as though it had been waiting for him. Nothing was quite like coming home.
He bent and sat down, letting out a shout as something moved beneath him.
The body emitted a yelp of its own, before coming off the chair faster than he could have ever anticipated, barreling into him with the ferocity of England’s best wrestler.
“What in the hell?” he shouted as his drink went flying, spilling its amber liquid all over the Aubusson carpet as he came down with a thud beside it. But he was currently more worried about the wildcat atop of him.
“Who are you, you brute?” it yelled, and it took Hunter a moment to recognize the voice. He had heard it before, though not often. It was the anger behind it that allowed familiarity to sink in.
“Scarlett!” he yelled out as he attempted to grab hold of her wrists to keep her from continuing to pummel him. “It’s me, your — your husband!”
“My who?” She sounded a bit confused but sat back on her heels, and he took the opportunity to come to his knees and shuffle back, out of her reach.
“Your husband,” he repeated, more calmly now. “Hunter.”
She stood then, making a hasty retreat away from him. “What — what are you doing here?” she asked in confusion.
“Well, this is my home,” he said dryly. “I should be able to come here anytime I wish without fear of being beaten to death.”
“You came upon me in the middle of the night with no word of warning!” she protested. “You could have been anyone. How was I to know that you would decide to return home after darkness, prowling about like a thief?”
“You seem to be forgetting that this is my library, wife ,” he said. “I can come and go as I please. If you ever deigned to write me, perhaps you would learn more of my movements.”
Not that he himself had known he would be here until this morning, but it wasn’t as though he was going to share that information with her. She had chosen to distance herself from him, so any lack of communication was solely on her.
“You never told Lavinia,” she accused, and he didn’t need light to know that a smug smile had crossed her face.
“No, I did not,” he said dryly, looking for a match and lantern in the darkness. “Nor do I need my sister’s approval. I am the master of this house, am I not?”
“That is what I am told, though I have yet to see you act as one,” she said, and he took a deep breath to wrest hold of his temper.
“Is that not what you wanted? For me to remain in London?”
“It is.”
“Then don’t pester me about it, Scarlett,” he said.
“Lady Oxford.”
“You are my wife, so Scarlett you shall be.”
They were both silent for a moment as he finally found a match and lit the lantern, though she was far enough from him that he could only see the shadows of her face. They were at an impasse, it seemed.
“You have been making yourself comfortable,” he remarked, now trying to ignore the way her body looked, silhouetted by the dim light.
She was wearing nothing but a nightgown, her thin wrapper currently hanging off one arm after their struggles.
She must have seen him staring, for she began to hastily pull her other sleeve back up.
In his pent-up frustration toward her, he had forgotten how alluring she was.
She had curves in all of the right places, her body tempting him to dismiss the words that came out of her mouth.
But then she spoke and the tension came rushing back in.
“Your house is quite comfortable, Lord Oxford, I must admit,” she said, tilting her head. “’Tis a pity you neglect it.”
“Hunter.”
She said nothing.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Unable to stand there staring at her any longer, he picked up his glass and returned to the sideboard to pour himself another.
“I am unsure of what I have done to hold such low esteem with you, Scarlett,” he said, his back to her. “But you are my wife, and there is nothing you can do to change that fact now. Can we not find some sort of peace between us?”
She looked down at the ground, where the stain was beginning to spread over the carpet.
“We need to clean this,” she murmured, apparently choosing to ignore his words. She walked over to him, knelt down by his feet, and before he could ask what in the blazes she was doing, she began to rummage around through the cupboard’s contents until she found what she was looking for.
“Here we are,” she said, pulling out a piece of fabric. How had she known where to find it? She returned to the carpet and began to blot out the liquid.
“Let me help you,” he said, putting down his glass, though not before taking a gulp of the brandy, letting it burn its way down his throat.
“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” she said, but he dismissed her resistance, taking one of the pieces of cloth in hand and beginning to blot out the liquid with her.
He moved when she did, and their hands brushed against one another.
He was startled by the jolt of heat that shot through him.
He sat back on his haunches and looked at her, but her gaze remained rooted on the floor.
Was her hand shaking slightly? He quickly shook his head, dismissing the notion.
Now that he was closer, he could better make out her features.
He had nearly forgotten what she looked like, their time together having been so brief while their separation so long.
He could see the smattering of freckles over her nose, though much of her face was hidden by the long curtain of her deep brown hair, which hung straight and loose around her shoulders.
If only she hadn’t built such a wall around herself, he thought with resignation. How very different this time together could be.
“That should do it,” she said abruptly, gathering the cloth and placing it by the door. “Your Aubusson is saved.”
“Thank you for your noble deed, my lady,” he said with a slight bow in jest, but she only raised an eyebrow at him.
“I will be to bed then,” she said.
She turned to the door, but he called out to her before she could go too far. “Scarlett?” She stopped. “Why are you awake at such a late hour?”
“I cannot sleep,” she said with a shrug. “I have never been able to.”
And neither could he. Perhaps they were more alike than either of them realized.