The day yawned before her, both empty and fraught.
To remind herself that she was in some way wanted, she read again the letter that was somehow tantamount to both signing her own death warrant while receiving a stay of execution. Perhaps there was something she’d missed.
Particularly the part that haunted her.
I will expect you to dutifully participate in the more intimate features of marriage that occur in private between a husband and wife as well as attend to my comfort in other wifely ways.
Well. What was she if not “dutiful”? She was proud, that’s what she was. But she would naturally be expected to share a bed—and her body—with the earl. And while her pride balked against the notion of submitting to anything he wanted, it also shied away from the notion of fleeing duty simply because it was distasteful.
In other words, she couldn’t see herself going out the window on a bedsheet again.
If she married the earl, perhaps she could take refuge in... gratitude.
She had less than a fortnight to decide the rest of her life.
An icy mist pooled in her gut. Her hands were suddenly clammy.
Given how thorough a man he seemed to be, the earl had no doubt imagined what she looked like under her clothes, and included that in his calculus before he’d written that letter.
She ought to wonder what Athelboro looked like underhisclothes.
She pressed her cold hands against her scorching cheeks and closed her eyes, like a child attempting to hide. But waiting for her there in the dark was the indelible image of Lorcan’s abdomen as she’d peeled up his wet shirt.
Clearly there was no safety in the dark.
She was a pragmatist above all, was she not?
She forced her eyes open again, and willed her mind to practical matters. She drew in a long, shuddering breath, and brought her hands down to her thighs. But her fingers curled there, remembering the jump of Lorcan’s cool skin against them.
After another frenzied (thanks to the German boys) yet satisfying dinner, Daphne returned to their suite rather than joining the gathering in the sitting room, which meant she’d miss the next installment ofThe Ghost in the Scullery. She regretted this. But it seemed the best way to forestall questions about her husband’s whereabouts.
Because Lorcan hadn’t yet reappeared.
Eventually she braided her hair and slipped into her night rail and climbed into bed.
She waited in vain for sleep. She felt oddly weighted and desolate, yet uncomfortably restless. The combination finally drove her out of bed.
She swathed herself in a coverlet and paced over to the blue settee, curled her legs up beneath her, and stared into the fire, contemplating her future. Fancying she could see the ghost of her stockings.
She didn’t know why she should feel so haunted and bleak.
Or why, when the knob finally turned on the suite door at some time past ten o’clock, her heart should so painfully leap.
Lorcan entered quietly.
She watched as he hung his hat and coat on the little rack near the door.
He froze when he saw her on the settee.
After a moment he said, “Good evening, missus.”
“Good evening, Lorcan.”
“Were you... waiting up for me?” He sounded surprised.
And in truth, pleased.
If a little wary.