No.
He could admit a truth to himself in this quiet moment with no one else about: he loved his wife. He loved Boadicea, the woman who was equal parts interloper, siren, and spitfire. He loved her so bloody much that his heart was a physical ache in his chest.
He loved her so much that he would let her go.
She deserved more than he could give her.
She deserved everything.
And he was not what she deserved. He was less. He was a broken man, too damaged by death and betrayal to ever be worthy of her love.
The sounds of her leaving continued to linger in the air, all muted. Servants knew better than anyone to have a care for those around them. They were quiet in their packing. Had he not already been awake, he would never have realized that his wife was leaving him.
He should not feel the knife of loss in his gut now. Instead, he should feel relieved, for this was what he had wanted, what he required: time and space between them. Control. His ability to withstand the way she attacked his every defense. Perhaps distance would hinder the effect she had upon him, or at least grant him the strength he required to continue to keep her from scaling the walls he had so carefully built around himself.
The door adjoining their chambers slid open in a hushed rush of sound over carpet. He closed his eyes and lay still, feigning sleep. Footfalls approached, soft and hesitant. Denied his vision, he became acutely aware of every sense, and he had no doubt of his visitor’s identity. Her silken skirts swished. The scent of jasmine trickled over him, just as it had in his nightmare. The hair on his nape prickled and he knew she stood near and silent, watching him.
A touch, featherlight, smoothed through his hair. He almost jolted from the contact. From the tenderness. It took every bit of his willpower to keep his breathing steady and even, not to turn his face into her palm and kiss it, to dart his tongue over the lines intersecting its smooth perfection. Not to haul her into the bed atop him and beg her to stay before taking her so hard and fast and deep that they lost themselves.
But he remained there, pretending he was lost to the bliss of unconsciousness, too much of a bloody coward to trust himself.
“Goodbye, Spencer,” she whispered.
He steeled himself against the stab of pain tunneling through him. He felt the loss of her touch, heard her quiet footsteps retreating once more. As she walked away, he told himself letting her go was the right decision—theonlydecision—he could make.
o arrived in London a tired and bedraggled mess,not because her journey from Oxfordshire had been arduous or even long. The train ride from Oxford lasted not an hour and a half, but she had spent the duration of her trip alternately crying and glowering at the countryside.
A discreet look into the small mirror she kept in her reticule as the hired coach she had procured delivered her to the Earl of Ravenscroft’s townhome confirmed her sorry state. She bore red-rimmed eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and a pink nose. Clara would take one look at her andknow.
But wasn’t that why she had decided to accept her friend’s invitation? For support and distraction? For a respite from the daily reminder that her husband did not and would never love her, while she loved him more with each passing moment? Yes, for those reasons and more. Helplessness, for one. Companionship, for another. She could have gone to any of her sisters, of course, but she missed Clara. They had been thick as thieves during their finishing school days and best of friends ever since.
In some ways, she wished she could return to those simpler times, when she’d had no concern more pressing than how she could get even with the odious Miss Caroline Stanley.
Bo sighed, weariness sinking into her bones. She had left for the station terribly early, eager to leave the stultifying atmosphere of Boswell Manor behind. Leaving Spencer, however, had not been an easy decision or one made lightly. She had done it because her heart could not bear his icy withdrawal. She should not have gone to see him before departing.
Watching his beautiful face in restful repose had torn her apart. Touching him had been even more foolish, for she had wanted, with everything in her, to cast her pride aside, strip away her traveling gown, and slide into bed beside him. In the place she had come to feel she belonged. She had lingered there, willing him to wake and tell her not to leave. But he had not moved, and her pride had won, and she had gone.
The carriage slowed to a stop.
She had reached her destination. Part of her wondered about Spencer back at Boswell Manor. He would have risen by now and discovered her gone. Would he care, or would he be relieved? Would he miss her at all?
Bo swallowed lest she embarrass herself by bursting into tears on her way to the door and forced all thoughts of Spencer from her mind. Her heart was his, but her brain, at least, remained hers, if unruly. She descended from the conveyance, gripping her reticule, and took a moment to compose herself.
A grim, silver-haired butler answered the door. She presented him her card, feeling somehow that he had passed judgment upon her and found her lacking, even though she was now a duchess. Perhaps it was the puffy eyes and the strawberry-hued nose?
She awaited her fate while he checked to see if Lady Ravenscroft was at home.
“Bo!”
Her friend rushed to her in a whirl of navy satin skirts. Her golden hair was braided and pinned at her crown, a fringe of bangs adorning her forehead. She was as strikingly lovely as ever, but there was more to Clara’s appearance than normal. Bo’s gaze narrowed as she studied her. There was something she could not quite define, beyond the fact that she radiated sated happiness. She almost…glowed.
Bo was denied further contemplation when her friend reached her and threw her arms about her in an unabashed embrace. Clara had been born and raised in Virginia, though she had come to England at fifteen, and she still possessed a vitality and warmth coupled with a sweet drawl that were not always appreciated amongst theton.
Bo loved her for being who she was, not to mention for daring to help hide a frog in the knickers of Miss Caroline Stanley during finishing school. The squeals of horror alone had been worth the effort, in Bo’s opinion. She hugged her friend and fellow finishing school hellion tightly. It had been so long since they had last seen each other. Too long.
“My dear friend, you look positively wonderful,” Bo said as she stepped back. “Life as the Countess of Ravenscroft is happy, I trust?”
Clara’s smile lit up her eyes. “More than happy. Our honeymoon was wonderful, Bo. I wish you could have seen Virginia—the lush green grass and the honeysuckle blossoms. My God, I can still smell them. And then New York, such a bustling, thriving metropolis! Why, I cannot believe you have never been to visit your sister and her husband there. I have Julian’s word that he will take me back to America at least once a year. I find that I do miss it after all.” She linked her arm’s through Bo’s. “Come, you mustn’t stand on ceremony. Will you stay, or is this a mere call?”
