Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was torture. Sleeping in the same bed as Nathaniel.
Frances hated it and couldn’t wait for his room to be ready.
But at the same time, she’d never felt so alive.
Or happy. Every night was like a sleepover with a bosom friend, only instead of giggling about potential suitors and their mother’s antics—as she’d heard her sisters do—it was whispered secrets, childhood memories, and knowing her husband in a way she definitely wouldn’t have otherwise.
Nathaniel was witty. And vulnerable. Frances fell harder every time she looked at him.
She fell asleep with a smile on her face and woke up the same way.
Especially when she woke up and saw he’d moved closer instead of keeping to his side of the bed.
That he’d rolled over so he could face her. Or fell asleep holding her.
That only happened once, but his hand often reached for her, though the bed was wide enough that they never had to touch.
It was moments like that where she wished she moved around in her sleep, but she always woke in the exact same place, and as much as she might want to, she could never pull off purposely moving closer to him and pretending it happened when she was sleeping.
She would turn beet-red and admit it the second he commented.
She was also terrified he would wake up, see their positions, and pull away, as he had done the day her sisters left.
Luckily, he tended to sleep later when they had nowhere to be, so she could wake up and watch him sleep for a few moments before she went to change in her dressing room.
Nathaniel was always gone by the time she dressed, though she had no clue where he was dressing.
It was nice to have the nights when they spent most of their days apart.
And she loved his devotion to family dinners.
Frances could break her fast whenever she chose, and skip lunch for all he cared, but come six o’clock, she was at the table.
As was he. It was clearly something his parents had instilled in him, because even when Rebecca came to call, she left in time for dinner at Wiltshire Manor.
Frances’ parents often ate separately, one at the club and another at a ball or at home, but Nathaniel either made it home from Parliament or sent the carriage to bring her to his grandmother’s so she would never have to eat dinner alone.
She felt taken care of.
Which was why, after another encounter with Miss Hargrave, Frances convinced herself she could confront Nathaniel about the promises he insisted on keeping.
“Can I ask you a question?” Frances kept her eyes on the ceiling, knowing she would lose her nerve if she looked at him.
“Is that not what we do every night?” She could hear him smile. “You can ask me anything,” he promised her.
“I understand that you feel it would betray her memory and the future you dreamed of, to have it with me.” She swallowed, taking all her courage to keep going once she felt him tense beside her.
“And not that I listen to such rumors, but you yourself told me about Miss Hargrave, and I…I’m not sure I understand.
” She hated the way she made it seem like she was too simple to comprehend what was going on, when really, he was being hypocritical, and she was trying not to call him out on it. At least not in so many words.
He let out a breath, and there was silence before he said, “My intention was to avoid love, marriage, and children, because those were the things I promised her.” He coughed, but it sounded like he was forcing the emotions back.
“Nameless women who didn’t matter to me, it didn’t feel like a betrayal, because it never meant anything.
I made sure there were no children, so it was simply two adults filling a need with no expectations.
” He paused, but this time it felt more like he was awaiting her judgement.
He’d never so explicitly told her about his past, but it wasn’t like she hadn’t heard about it from the papers and Miss Caulder.
“When we married, things became complicated. The lines blurred, so I have to do whatever I can to make sure I don’t cross that line. Because I care about you. I want your happiness. But taking advantage of you when I can’t give you my heart would be cruel, and doing otherwise…I can’t.”
“I see,” she said, but in truth, she didn’t.
Was sleeping together—in the biblical sense—something he worried she couldn’t handle without falling for him?
Because she already had, so this would just be two consenting adults seeking comfort and pleasure from each other.
Her heart was breaking regardless. Unless he knew how she felt, and that was why he couldn’t, now he’d saddled himself to her for life and couldn’t run away once she became attached.
He’d done a terrible job of explaining it in a way that, once again, made it seem like he was fine to do all those things with anyone else but her. Which was perhaps the case, but not for the reason she was probably thinking.
“Meaningless sex would be fine if we were just strangers who happened to be married. Or if we were just enjoying each other in that way, like I have done countless times before.” He saw her flinch at the mention of ‘countless’ others, but she needed to understand that he’d spent time with other women, gotten close to them, yet not a single one affected him the way she did.
“But sex with you would not be meaningless, Frances.”
Lydia was the closest he could compare her to, as she was a friend he occasionally had sex with, but that was how he knew trying anything with Frances would ruin him.
Lydia was a safe space, because she was in love with her husband, and he was in love with Jo.
The sex was purely physical, and the friendship was a completely separate entity.
But the closer he got to Frances, the closer he wanted to be, and he knew that if he let down those walls, he would never be able to get them back up. Wouldn’t want to.
“Because it could lead to children,” Frances said it like a statement, but it was also a question. A dare for him to contradict her.
“That too.”
He’d told her that before, and the guilt from not being able to give Frances what she wanted pained him.
He wondered if she knew that it was visions of the children he would never have with Frances that broke his heart tonight.
He hoped not; she would think him selfish, or cruel, to deny her something when they both wanted it.
If Jo had died after they’d married and had children, people would have understood his devotion.
And perhaps he would have eventually felt ready to love again after years of grieving, knowing a new wife and mother could never replace the one they’d lost. But Jo had died before they had the chance to do anything.
He’d already married Frances, but if he let himself fall for her, let himself have her, then raised children with her, she would eclipse Jo in every way. Like she’d never even existed.
The way his heart constricted at the thought told him he wouldn’t survive it.