“A shame, that one. Such a talent, but she wanted to marry me. She imagined I gave her some suggestion that I loved her. I refused, of course, out of loyalty to you.”
“Me?” she parroted, wondering if she was dreaming. Nothing about this made sense, and her mind spun, searching for verity in her surreal surroundings.
“A mistress is just that, no feelings involved. You knew why I visited her, and I’m grateful for your understanding.” He gave her a smile like he would a small child. Well, like akindman would give a small child.
She wanted to scream, to hit him, to run back to Archie’s arms and stay in the circle of his embrace until this all went away.
“You’re wrong,” she managed, swallowing hard. “I d-d-didn’t know about her.”
His smile developed a knife’s edge. “Oh, dear. Your mind must be faltering yet again. You told me to take a mistress. After Matthew was born, don’t you recall? You refused me from your bed.”
The air punched from her lungs. She did recall those days, the melancholy so intense she’d never wanted to leave her bedroom, the cries of her newborn child only making her cry more herself. Did he really come to her bed? She couldn’t trust any recollections from that time. Was she in the wrong all along?
“No man can be expected to constrain his urges when his wife refuses him.” His expression turned glum, although his eyes held a blade-like glimmer that kept her on its point. “It would be unnatural, you see.”
“I d-don’t remember.” The ground beneath her feet seemed to waver, her head spinning.
He hummed as he stepped closer. “You’re having a fit again. I should call Dr. Sandringham and have him come by. One of his tonics will calm you—”
“No!” she bellowed, and he recoiled.
The single word echoed through the empty hall and bounced off the faces of her children’s ancestors, the antiques Reggie would one day inherit, the entire marquessate of Croydon. “No,” she repeated, her breathing labored. “I’m in my right mind, and I’m not changing it. My b-b-barrister will send the p-papers.”
“Marigold.” He took her hand, and the touch of his bare skin against hers made her stomach want to toss itself from her body. “There is no need to cause a fuss.” He released a belabored sigh. “I acquiesce. Reginald can stay here and we’ll find some other form of school. A proper tutor, perhaps.” He gave her a beatific smile, as though he’d solved all the world’s problems. “That should calm you down.”
She nodded dumbly, without realizing what she was doing. She’d grown so accustomed to docility that the concept of standing up for herself felt foreign, unnatural. “I’ll consider it,” she said after a long moment, the words pulling from her throat without her releasing them.
The marquess beamed, revealing the yellowing teeth that always smelled of onions. “Excellent.” He removed his gloves from his back pocket and pulled them on. “Have Addington prepare a supper for Sir Phineas and myself, with the good wine.” He looked her over. “There’s no need for you to attend.”
She stood in place, long after his footsteps faded from the marble stairway, after Addington encouraged her to come take tea with his brows knit in concern, after the sun had completed its descent.
When the static between her ears began to fade, she continued standing, forcing her mind to pick through her memories. She was certain she’d never approved of her husband having an affair, let alone advocated for it. Everything he’d said smacked of lies, but he’d said it so convincingly she almost believed him. If he denied the truth long enough, would he convince everyone to believe him?
Could she even believe herself?
She stood until the bands around her chest eased enough to walk, focused on putting one foot after the other until she reached the doorway of her home. Whathad beenher home. Because now she had nothing but a choice between her children and her soul.
Chapter 15
Archielearnedalotabout Jasper’s mood by how he knocked on the office door. The knock on Thursday mid-morning, a full week since he’d seen—and kissed—Marigold at the theater, was laced with enthusiasm, a rapping series of taps that had barely reached his ears before his assistant pushed his door open.
“Mrs. McAuley is here to see you,” he said, then his voice dropped in register. “And she brought pie.”
Archie’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “What kind of pie?”
“A strawberry tart.”
His favorite.Shite.“Let her in.”
If it were a simple fruit pie, or even a pasty, Archie wouldn’t be concerned. But if his oldest sister was on his doorstep with a tart in her hands, he was in serious trouble.
“Florence,” he gushed when she walked into the room, wrapping her in a tight hug after she passed the tart off to a covetous Jasper.
“I’m angry with you,” she replied, her face pressed somewhere between his pectorals. How someone of his size had six diminutive sisters was beyond him, but he was wise enough not to let their stature deceive him.
The Grant girls were nothing but trouble.
“Why are you angry?” he asked as he released her, gesturing towards the open chair. “And why you give Jasper my pie?”
