crushing. She’d told
him she loved him, and he’d offered her nothing more than a cool “good morning”
before disappearing. Perhaps she had made a grave mistake in allowing him into
her bed, for in so doing she had also allowed him back into her heart. If
indeed he’d ever left it.
Her bed still smelled like him. She wished he hadn’t gone.
It was as if he’d demolished the bridge they’d built between one another.
Reluctantly, she rose and sought out her wrapper, still pooled on the thick
carpet. Odd, but she felt more alone now than she had in all the months he’d
been gone.
With a sigh, she headed to the bell pull and rang for Keats.
Although she’d like nothing better than to hide from her husband for the
remainder of the day, she knew doing so would merely be a childish postponement
of the inevitable reckoning. She crossed the room as she waited, pulling the
drapes aside to stare down into the slightly gloomy sunshine of the day.
If only he’d said something more than “good morning”.
* * * * *
William was still cursing himself for being an ass by the
time his wife glided into the morning room for their customary shared
breakfast. He could have managed a bit more than a polite greeting earlier, and
he knew it. He paused at her entrance, in the act of helping himself to the
kippers, bacon, eggs and toast on the sideboard.
She wore a vibrant morning gown of deep indigo with French
lace peeking from a high décolletage and an embroidered skirt that was cut away
to reveal more lace beneath. Although her attire was quite modest, he could
envision the delectable curves and breasts beneath her fashionable wasp waist
and acres of silk. When last he’d seen her, she’d been nude and he’d just been
inside her.
He swallowed hard, willing his instant arousal to subside.
“Good morning,” he offered through suddenly stiff lips.
Christ, she was turning him into a halfwit, let alone a fool. Here he was,
tossing her the same meaningless pleasantries that had already put an invisible
rift between them. He could sense her withdrawal from him just as surely as he
could smell the crisp aroma of the bacon before him.
As if to prove his point, she cast him a look that was
positively frigid. Her diminutive features were immobile in her ordinarily
expressive face. Rather than meeting his gaze, her eyes were trained upon
something on the far wall of the breakfast room. An old family portrait,
perhaps, the one of his grandfather posed with his favorite hunting dog.
Anything but him.
He’d hurt her, he realized, and just when he’d promised not
to. He winced, watching as she allowed the butler to seat her in an equally icy
silence. Though she did thank poor Wilton with a forced smile.
Time for him to pay the forfeit, he decided. He finished
adding a heap of eggs to his plate. “May I put together a plate for you, my
dear?”
She still refused to look directly at him, but she did deign
to give him a regal nod. “You may.”
The ever-efficient Wilton appeared at his elbow, kind enough
to take Pembroke’s plate back to the table for him so that he could dedicate
his attention to his wife’s. He selected an array of meats, toast and jam. He’d
noticed that she never touched her eggs, but she had a fondness for marmalade.
He placed her plate before her with a flourish. “Your
breakfast, my lady.”
He was near enough to her to catch a whiff of her sweet
perfume. Her golden locks had been twisted into an artful coiffure by her
lady’s maid, the tresses so shiny they glinted beneath the gas lights. She
refused to turn toward him, leaving him only with her profile. A lone sapphire
earring dangled against her creamy neck. Damn if he wasn’t jealous of the
bauble for its proximity to her soft skin.
“Thank you, Pembroke.” Her voice possessed an underlying
note of emotion. “Please do enjoy yours.”
He’d been dismissed.
It occurred to him that he was lingering like a lovesick
swain at her side. What the
him she loved him, and he’d offered her nothing more than a cool “good morning”
before disappearing. Perhaps she had made a grave mistake in allowing him into
her bed, for in so doing she had also allowed him back into her heart. If
indeed he’d ever left it.
Her bed still smelled like him. She wished he hadn’t gone.
It was as if he’d demolished the bridge they’d built between one another.
Reluctantly, she rose and sought out her wrapper, still pooled on the thick
carpet. Odd, but she felt more alone now than she had in all the months he’d
been gone.
With a sigh, she headed to the bell pull and rang for Keats.
Although she’d like nothing better than to hide from her husband for the
remainder of the day, she knew doing so would merely be a childish postponement
of the inevitable reckoning. She crossed the room as she waited, pulling the
drapes aside to stare down into the slightly gloomy sunshine of the day.
If only he’d said something more than “good morning”.
* * * * *
William was still cursing himself for being an ass by the
time his wife glided into the morning room for their customary shared
breakfast. He could have managed a bit more than a polite greeting earlier, and
he knew it. He paused at her entrance, in the act of helping himself to the
kippers, bacon, eggs and toast on the sideboard.
She wore a vibrant morning gown of deep indigo with French
lace peeking from a high décolletage and an embroidered skirt that was cut away
to reveal more lace beneath. Although her attire was quite modest, he could
envision the delectable curves and breasts beneath her fashionable wasp waist
and acres of silk. When last he’d seen her, she’d been nude and he’d just been
inside her.
He swallowed hard, willing his instant arousal to subside.
“Good morning,” he offered through suddenly stiff lips.
Christ, she was turning him into a halfwit, let alone a fool. Here he was,
tossing her the same meaningless pleasantries that had already put an invisible
rift between them. He could sense her withdrawal from him just as surely as he
could smell the crisp aroma of the bacon before him.
As if to prove his point, she cast him a look that was
positively frigid. Her diminutive features were immobile in her ordinarily
expressive face. Rather than meeting his gaze, her eyes were trained upon
something on the far wall of the breakfast room. An old family portrait,
perhaps, the one of his grandfather posed with his favorite hunting dog.
Anything but him.
He’d hurt her, he realized, and just when he’d promised not
to. He winced, watching as she allowed the butler to seat her in an equally icy
silence. Though she did thank poor Wilton with a forced smile.
Time for him to pay the forfeit, he decided. He finished
adding a heap of eggs to his plate. “May I put together a plate for you, my
dear?”
She still refused to look directly at him, but she did deign
to give him a regal nod. “You may.”
The ever-efficient Wilton appeared at his elbow, kind enough
to take Pembroke’s plate back to the table for him so that he could dedicate
his attention to his wife’s. He selected an array of meats, toast and jam. He’d
noticed that she never touched her eggs, but she had a fondness for marmalade.
He placed her plate before her with a flourish. “Your
breakfast, my lady.”
He was near enough to her to catch a whiff of her sweet
perfume. Her golden locks had been twisted into an artful coiffure by her
lady’s maid, the tresses so shiny they glinted beneath the gas lights. She
refused to turn toward him, leaving him only with her profile. A lone sapphire
earring dangled against her creamy neck. Damn if he wasn’t jealous of the
bauble for its proximity to her soft skin.
“Thank you, Pembroke.” Her voice possessed an underlying
note of emotion. “Please do enjoy yours.”
He’d been dismissed.
It occurred to him that he was lingering like a lovesick
swain at her side. What the
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