Henry nodded, and a moment later, a smile came over his face. “I do have a gift for you, Beatrice, as it turns out. I suppose since it’s your birthday, I might as well give it to you now. I sent for it from London.” He went to the chest of drawers on the far end of their bedroom and opened the bottom drawer.
Some of her resentment dissipated. Perhaps she’d been too quick to jump to conclusions. Hehadbeen gone to war for years, after all. With all that he’d been through, perhaps a birthday wasn’t something he thought about very much. Curiosity filled her when she saw the small brown-paper parcel.
When he gave it to her, the weight of the package surprised her. A sense of excitement filled her, as she wondered what gift he’d sent for, all the way from London. It couldn’t be the sapphire bracelet, for this was too heavy, and she’d sold that, years ago. Silver, perhaps?
She untied the strings and folded back the paper only to reveal a set of three brass doorknobs, complete with locks and metal keys. It took her a moment to realize that yes, he had indeed given her doorknobs for her birthday. Not silver. Not a token of affection.
Doorknobs.
A tightness took hold in her stomach, and she couldn’t find the words to say anything.
“After the fire, I thought we should protect ourselves with a set of new locks,” Henry explained. “I’ll have them put in, and then you’ll be safe from the danger.”
Beatrice set down the doorknobs, forcing the air in and out of her lungs. He truly thought it was a good gift. That was what rattled her the most. He didn’t know that anything was wrong.
With extreme effort, she kept herself from breaking into tears. “Take them, if you want,” she said quietly. “I wish to be alone for a while.”
“Don’t you… like them?” He rewrapped the doorknobs in the paper, staring at her as if he genuinely didn’t understand why she would be upset. “They’re made of solid brass, Beatrice.”
“I’m sure they will be fine. Please go.” Before she made a fool of herself and started weeping in front of him.
Only when the door closed behind her husband did she realize how utterly hopeless it was. She was wedded to a stranger who had been away to war so long, they didn’t know each other. She let the tears fall, gripping her handkerchief in one fist.
The door opened again, and he caught her crying. “Beatrice, what is it?”
“Nothing,” she sniffed, reaching for a handkerchief. She didn’t want to discuss it, especially now. Her own daughter had sent her a lovely gown, remembering her fondness for the color blue. And as for her husband—she knew he hadn’t remembered her birthday.
“You didn’t like them, did you?” he said.
A bitter laugh caught her. “What woman would want doorknobs for her birthday, Henry?”
At his bewildered look, she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need anything. Just… try to remember to come to supper tonight at seven. Your daughter will want to see you.”
His expression grew shielded, but he nodded. “I’ll be there.”
She went to sit beside the window, resting her face against one hand. Henry wasn’t going to change. She’d grown old while he was gone and had become the wallpaper wife. One always there, hardly noticeable at all.
She’d simply never expected it to hurt so much.
Although they’d gone their own ways in the house, Paul could see that Juliette didn’t understand why he needed the distance. He’d been an utter fool when he’d thought he could marry her and be content with not making love to her.
It wasn’t as if she were walking around naked. No, she was dressed like a lady, she behaved like a lady, and he needed to stop thinking of her in that way.
But his mind would not let go of the sensation of having her bare skin against his own. She’d been so trusting, letting him have that moment. He’d wanted to spend all night exploring her body, watching her unravel before him. She was the girl he’d dreamed of marrying… and he wanted her to be happy.
He’d never expected that the night they’d shared together would cause such resentment in him. Not toward her, but toward the man who had hurt her.
Paul walked outside, hoping the physical exertion would give him the peace he craved. Jealousy was darkening his temper, and he needed to control it before he lashed out against the person he cared most about. Strathland had been inside her. He’d made her pregnant and given her a son she loved with all her heart. A son she’d had to give away.
Because of the violence, he couldn’t destroy those memories or eradicate Strathland’s presence. Every time Paul looked at his wife, he imagined her pain and fear. It broke him apart to know that he hadn’t been there for her. He hadn’t saved her.
And he still couldn’t save her, teaching her what it was to be with a man who loved her. She would never be mother to a son or daughter of his blood.
His gut twisted with anger and the need to kill Strathland. That would have to be his purpose now. Damned if poverty was enough for the earl. Paul wanted blood.
For nearly an hour, he walked across the land, unable to accept that it now belonged to him. It felt as if he’d stolen an inheritance from a more worthy man. He didn’t know the first thing about managing an estate or making sense of the ledgers.
But he knew someone whocouldmake sense of them. He’d promised her the ledgers, after all.
