Not that.
Never that.
“I cannot,” he admitted, the truth torn from him. “You are my wife, Nell. Nothing will change that.”
“Divorce will change that, which is what I have asked for.” Her nails raked over him again. “Damn you, Needham, what do you want from me?”
“I want you to be my wife. Not just in name but in truth.” His fingers tightened on her waist.
“I was your wife once,” she hissed. “You forfeited the right the day you welcomed Lady Billingsley into your bed.”
This argument was an old one. How surreal it was that days, weeks, seasons,yearscould pass, and they were right back where their impasse had begun.
“I never welcomed her into my bed,” he defended himself. It was the truth, though he had little hope Nell would believe him now when she had not three years ago, and when it was apparent she had spent all the time they had been apart believing him a faithless reprobate.
“I do not believe your lies any more now than I did then.” Again, she dug her nails into his flesh.
“Nor do you welcome the truth,” he bit out.
He could not deny her lack of belief in him hurt. Distance had soothed him. But now that she was once more within reach—now that he was touching her, breathing in the same air—all the stinging agony had returned. The wound had not healed as he had supposed, but rather, it festered.
“Go to the devil, Needham.” With a feral cry, she tore herself from his grasp.
He allowed it this time, knowing he was only torturing the both of them with his insistence. He had not returned for a skirmish or even one battle. He had returned to win the war.
He met her seething gaze. “I have been dwelling in hell for the last three years, darling wife. It is time you joined me there.”
With that warning, he turned on his heel and stalked from the chamber.
One way or another, this cursed house party was coming to an end.
Chapter Two
NELL WOKE TOa splitting headache.
And pounding. Dreadful pounding. Horrible, unrelenting pounding.
“Go to the devil!” she croaked, blindly grappling with the bedclothes about her before seizing a pillow and pressing it over her head.
How much port had she consumed yesterday? Had she said anything offensive to her guests? Shown anyone her drawers? Cast up her accounts? Kissed any of the lords in attendance? More importantly, was the pounding coming from within her skull or from somewhere else?
Issuing a pathetic moan, she rolled over onto her stomach.
“Nell?”
There was a masculine voice coming from somewhere. The pounding had stopped,thank heavens. The unmistakable sound of window dressings being pulled aside invaded her chamber next. And light.
Godawful, violent, head-splitting light.
“No,” she groaned, grappling for another pillow, her eyes shut tight.
The soft sack of feathers buffeted her head, blocking out the brightness. She inhaled slowly, trying to gather her wits. Like so many house parties before, she had drowned her sorrows in drink. There was always the initial warm glow, then the wild abandon of overindulgence. Followed by the morning of megrims and regret.
“Nell.”
The voice was back. Alongside her bed. Insistent. Muffled by the pillow soothing her aching head. Just who was this interloper?
And where the devil was her lady’s maid? Had Tom arrived early? What time was it?
