“I’m sorry. The joke was in poor taste, but the gift of flowers I sent you was heartfelt—I ordered them in New York to be delivered this morning. I couldn’t possibly guess how our first evening together would turn out, but it was never my intention to make you cry.”
She cried now. Indignant little tears pooled in the corner of her eyes, and she smeared them as they spilled down her cheeks. She announced, partly to save face and partly to convince any nosey onlookers, “It is the wind! Oh, it’s the wind…”
His wife had more courage than some men. Her bravery and spirit were two of the reasons he’d chosen her over all other heiresses, for Louisa Thurston Reid possessed the backbone necessary to see this game through to the end.
“Of course, it is the wind,” he said, loudly. Intimately, he whispered, “Please, don’t cry.”
Giles searched his pockets for his handkerchief, but then he remembered…
None of this—his debts, the Herberts, those thugs who’d bloodied his lip—was her fault, yet fate insistedshepay for the bad hand he’d been dealt in life.
“I’d offer you my handkerchief, but I seem to have lost it.” He tugged off his gloves and dabbed her eyes with the pads of his thumbs. Her skin was soft, warm, and wet. Even now, after he’d been such a cad, she tipped her head back and trusted him.
“I will learn to be good to you,” he vowed, “if you’ll be patient with me.”
The dressing bell sounded. Passengers began to move toward the doorway, drawing nearer to where Lord and Lady Granborough stood. In a moment, there would be no more room for intimate conversation.
Would all ofCampaniawitness their quarrel?
“Let me escort you back to the cabin.” Giles carefully extended his arm to her, praying she’d take it. She was still upset. She could turn on her heel and disappear into the ship, leaving him standing with his arm in the air like some lovestruck fool. “Come now, Louisa dear, we must dress for dinner if we’re to make an appearance.”
She reluctantly laid her gloved hand on his sleeve. “Very well.”
“Thank you,” said he, softly. He’d been afraid she’d leave him hanging, but Giles ought to have known better.
Louisa would never let him down.
CHAPTER TEN
They returned to a stateroom littered with shattered glass and broken blossoms. His Lordship paused at their bedside table, frowning down at the destruction of his thoughtful, if poorly-timed, gift of flowers.
“What has happened here?” His eyes slid to search Louisa’s. She stood silent and defiant, yet in only twenty-four hours of marriage, he’d learned to read her well.
Oddly, he didn’t seem angry at what she’d done. He seemed amused. Impressed, even. “Louisa,” he teased, “you petulant child. Did you suffer a tantrum?”
She truly had been hurt by his callous treatment of her. Lord Granborough had made a hash of both the wedding night and their first day of married life.
Louisa knelt to pick up the pieces. Her skirt hems sopped up rose-tinged water as she searched through the wet pile of carpeting for each shining sliver of glass.
Her husband stopped her. “Don’t. You’ll cut yourself.”
Lord Granborough crouched beside her. His woolen trousers pulled taut over the muscles of his thighs, and Louisa recalled the sensation of those long legs sliding between hers. In the closeness of their cabin, the scent of his shaving lotion mingled with the heady fragrance of flowers, making her dizzy. She’d awakened with the smell of him clinging to every intimate inch of her skin.
He fell to his knees beside her, holding these jagged fragments of glass like a handful of diamonds. He offered her a dozen thorny, splintered stems of American Beauty roses like olive branches.
“Allow me to see to this whilst you dress.”
She met his gaze, remembering his promise:“I will learn to be good to you if you’ll be patient with me.”
Louisa wanted goodness. She was starved for sweetness—a gentle touch, a smile, however fleeting. She dreaded growing bitter, feeling shattered. How long could a woman be patient?
A day.
A week.
Her lifetime?
She only had one of those, and it was too precious to waste.
