Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
William Sutton had never considered himself a patient man, and the discovery that marriage had done nothing to improve that particular deficiency was one of several disappointments he had not anticipated when he had agreed to it.
He sat now in the small drawing room at Sutton House, one elbow braced against the arm of his chair, his fingers pressed firmly against the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to ward off the dull, persistent irritation that had taken hold somewhere behind his eyes, while opposite him, entirely untroubled by his silence, Verity continued to speak.
And speak. And speak. It was as eternal as hellfire.
She spoke so incessantly, so endlessly, that most days he simply managed to ignore it. Like the drone of bees in summer.
Of gowns, most recently. Of colors. Of fabrics she had been obliged to forgo during her debut season and the many ways in which she now intended to remedy that deficiency in her wardrobe at great expense to him.
Her voice carried on with such enthusiasm he found it increasingly difficult to tolerate it as she detailed the precise shades she would favor upon their return to London, no longer bound, as she so frequently reminded him, by the insipid pastels deemed appropriate for unmarried girls.
After all, she now had a husband. She talked about marriage as though it were some sort of trophy.
As a married woman, she informed him—more than once—her options were greatly expanded.
She meant to take full advantage of it, a declaration she delivered with a certain sharp satisfaction that suggested the world itself had been withholding something from her, and that she meant now to claim it in its entirety.
William said nothing. Even if he could have gotten a single word in, there was little point.
She required no response, no encouragement, no acknowledgment beyond her own continued ability to speak, and though he had once imagined that marriage might bring with it some degree of ease, some measure of domestic comfort, he found instead that it had merely introduced a new and more persistent form of irritation into his daily life.
It was not that Verity was entirely intolerable—he had encountered far worse—but there was something in her manner, in the sharpness of her voice and the cold calculation that seemed to underpin even her most trivial observations, that grated upon him in a way he had not anticipated when he had chosen her.
Chosen. The word sat uneasily now.
He had not chosen her, not in any meaningful sense.
Rather he’d accepted the terms put to him by his grandfather on his deathbed.
Marry Lady Lyndehurst’s goddaughter or be disinherited.
In truth, there had been no choice at all.
To do otherwise would have ruined him. Deeply in debt, socially bankrupt due to his brief and impetuous rebellion—a rebellion fueled more by brandy than by his heart.
No, Verity was not his choice. She was his grandfather’s choice for him and that goaded him.
He resented the old bastard. Three months dead now, and the level of resentment, of quietly impotent fury, had not yet abated.
Marrying Verity had been the practical decision, a necessary one, and at the time. But having been forced to endure her company day in and day out, found himself less certain of whether the sensible choice was the better one. .
He lowered his hand from his face at last, though the pressure behind his eyes remained, and allowed his gaze to settle upon her as she spoke, taking in the whole of her in a manner that was entirely devoid of feeling.
The sharpness of her features, the keen, appraising look in her eyes, and the particular way in which her mouth seemed always poised on the edge of something unkind twisted what might have been passably pretty features into something else altogether.
She was not without appeal, in a certain sense, but it was not the sort that invited ease or warmth, and he found himself, with increasing frequency, recalling the contrast she presented to someone else.
Caroline.
The name came unbidden, but once there, it did not readily depart.
Caroline, who had never spoken merely to fill silence, who had possessed a quiet steadiness that he had once taken for granted and now found himself missing with an irritation he could not entirely explain.
Caroline, who had been far more agreeable, far more accommodating, and, if he were inclined to honesty, far more pleasing to look upon than the woman who now sat before him detailing the virtues of satin over silk as though it were a matter of grave importance.
It was not that he had not intended to marry Caroline from the outset.
In truth, he had. Her loveliness had been such that every man had wanted to win her during her first season.
And he had done so much to the chagrin of his rivals.
There had been, initially, a sense of pride in walking into events with her on his arm.
After all, when one was in possession of a thing others coveted, it put him in a position of power, of prestige.
But his grandfather had found her to be too common, the generations of her family not distantly enough removed from trade for his rarified sensibilities.
But the idea of letting her go, of watching someone else swoop in and claim what was his—that had rankled.
So he’d done precisely what she’d accused him of and kept her on a tether.
But what else did one do with women? They were all tethered in some fashion.
It was simply the way of the world. Despite all that, there had been times in their six-year courtship that had been pleasant.
The recollection was not accompanied by any great surge of regret, nor by any sudden awakening of feeling, but rather by a practical consideration that settled into place with unwelcome clarity.
Had he done so—had he followed through on what had been expected of him for so long—he would now be spared this particular irritation, spared the endless monologue, spared the sense that he had exchanged one inconvenience for another without gaining anything of substance in return.
It was not that he loved her.
The notion was almost laughable. He had never loved Caroline.
Oh, he was fond of her. And he’d uttered all the pretty words and phrases that were expected of a gentleman courting a young lady of quality for the purpose of marriage.
And whatever his grandfather’s opinion, she had been eminently suitable.
More than suitable. She had been pleasant, and predictable, and easily managed, and in retrospect, those qualities took on a significance he had not properly appreciated at the time.
Verity’s voice continued, uninterrupted, now turning from gowns to people—local families, their connections, their deficiencies—and he allowed it to pass over him without effort, his attention shifting inward as the practical implications of his situation began to arrange themselves into something more coherent.
He was married.
That much could not be altered, at least not without consequence. Divorce was neither simple nor desirable, and even if it were, it would introduce complications he had no interest in navigating. Society would not forgive it easily, and the inconvenience would far outweigh the benefit.
But marriage, he reflected, was not an absolute condition. There were always… alternatives.
The thought came gradually, not as a sudden inspiration but as a logical extension of his current dissatisfaction, and once it had taken shape, it proved difficult to dismiss.
He shifted slightly in his chair, his attention sharpening despite himself as he considered it more fully, the irritation that had previously occupied him giving way to something more focused, more deliberate.
Widowers were not so bound by the rules of mourning in the same way as widows.
Society allowed for a certain latitude, a flexibility that did not extend equally, and while a lady might be expected to observe a period of mourning with all the attendant restrictions, a gentleman was afforded rather more freedom.
A few months, perhaps. A respectable interval. And then—
He could pursue her again.
Caroline.
The notion settled into place with a quiet certainty that surprised even him, not because it stirred any great emotion, but because it made sense.
Time would have softened whatever displeasure she had felt toward him, distance would have dulled her temper, and with his circumstances altered, his position secure, there would be nothing to prevent him from renewing his attentions in a manner that would be both acceptable and advantageous.
Provided, of course, that the obstacle presently seated across from him were removed.
Memory crept in, of their unfortunate run in the day prior.
It had been a shock, no doubt, for Caroline to see him wed to another so soon.
That, he reasoned, was why Julien Harcourt had steadied her.
It was not a romantic inclination for him.
To his knowledge, Julien Harcourt had no romantic inclinations.
The man was a cold fish. Incapable of passion.
Carolinewas far too tender of heart to be drawn to such an automaton.
So he dismissed that as any true obstacle and turned his attention back once more to the true hurdle in his path.