And she was thankful for his faithlessness now.
If she had married him, and if she had become Mrs. Arthur Penhurst, she had no doubt she would be hopelessly miserable. Saddled with a husband who only spoke of and cared about himself. One who put his own needs and hopes first, who had discouraged her from following her aspirations.
His words came rushing back to her.As my wife, it would be unseemly if you chose to publish scholarly papers, my lady. Surely you know that.
He had been disappointed in her that day, and his censure had stung. She had tucked her paper away, where it likely still remained, in a forgotten box somewhere in the attics at Talleyrand Park.
“Is something amiss?”
Zachary’s concerned voice stole through her tumultuous musings.
She blinked, realizing he had already emptied the entire contents of the picnic hamper while she had been daydreaming. “Of course not. Why should you ask?”
“Because you were staring into the fire for the last five minutes, frowning mightily, as I unpacked the hamper,” he explained gently.
The blanket was laden with plates, a bottle of wine, a plate of cheese, another offering of ham, one of cold fowl, some thick chunks of bread, some jams and pastries, and fresh fruit from the extensive, modern Haines Court orangery. The conservatory was fully heated and equipped with electric lighting and piped with running water, coupled with an ingenious device that watered the vegetation on its own. A sprinkler, it was called. Papa would be impressed, as would Ellie. She must tell them all about it and request Greymoor to issue invitations to her family.
She worried her lower lip, not wishing to tell her husband she had been thinking of the man she had once wanted to wed. “The fire is lovely.”
“Or, and likely the more correct answer to the question, you do not wish to tell me what you were thinking of,” he guessed.
Accurately.
Drat.
“Zachary,” she began, hoping to dissuade him of pursuing the topic.
“If you wish to keep it from me, the choice is yours,” he continued, pouring himself a glass of wine with a fluid grace she could not help but to admire. “You are entitled to your own thoughts, your privacy.”
He was being sweet and understanding.
Again.
Just as he had from the moment they had arrived. It was disconcerting. Endearing. And, she would not lie, a trifle frustrating.
Because aside from their wild moment of passion in the carriage and some lingering kisses and touches, her husband had made no further effort to bed her. And while part of her appreciated his patience, another part of her—the wicked and lusty and sinful Izzy—wished he would cease being so tender and perfect and simply make love to her again.
“I was thinking about Arthur,” she blurted, wanting to be honest. Needing to be.
Keeping the truth from him felt somehow wrong.
His expression changed, his jaw going rigid, his posture altering. The relaxed ease disappeared from his frame. And she instantly regretted telling him she had been thinking of her former betrothed. For it sounded altogether different than what it was.
“I see,” he said stiffly.
“No, you do not.” She pushed forward, tucking her legs to the side so she was in an alert, upright position. For this conversation mattered. It would not do to appear at ease. “What I meant to say, and what I should have said, is that I was thinking about how different he is from you.”
Her effort to ameliorate the situation was met with an unimpressed look.
He raised a brow. “Indeed.”
“He was a self-important bag of wind,” she rushed to explain. “He never asked about me. Every letter he wrote me was filled with nothing but himself. What he wanted for his future, what he thought of the state of the world, whom he met, what he believed. He never asked about me. Not once. Even when we were together, because I do realize that epistolary communication is quite different from speaking in person, he did not seem interested in anything other than himself. Only, I had not realized it until now.”
“Of course he was,” her husband said calmly, settling into a casual sprawl that seemed somehow elegant, even if he was seated as informally as she on the floor of her chamber. “If he had been anything less than a vainglorious prig, he would be your husband now instead of me. I thank him every day for his stupidity.”
“You do?”
He held her gaze, his unwavering. “Of course I do,cariad. How can you doubt it? Can you not feel in your heart how much you mean to me?”
