But they had been no illusion.
Yes, I am Mrs. Harlow. Maxwell Harlow’s wife of less than a month. The wife who is eagerly waiting for him to return from his business trip to South Shields. But you’re not in South Shields are you, Maxwell? You’re in Knaresborough, strolling through town with another woman on your arm.
You bastard!
“I’m fine, Archer, thank you.” The response came without thinking. Louisa was far from fine, in truth. The next few words, however, were uttered with absolute aforethought. “But, upon consideration, I don’t think I’m quite done shopping yet.”
Later that day, back at Northcott Manor, she walked into Maxwell’s office and put Francesca Corvinelli’s invoice on his desk. Then she went upstairs to soak in the bath that had been prepared for her.
The warm, scented water helped to dispel the chill that had held her in its grip for the past few hours. She closed her eyes and settled back, silently commending herself on maintaining her dignity thus far, even as her tears demanded release. Hiding her shock and pain from Archer and Francesca had taken some effort. Indeed, she had decided against staying in town for luncheon. The prospect of sitting in a tearoom, nibbling on dainty sandwiches and little cakes, had been beyond her ability. She wanted to go home, to be alone with her thoughts and fears, to confront them in private. So, after leaving Francesca’s, she’d declared a headache and sent Archer off to find McKinney.
For the entire way back, the image of Maxwell with the strange woman played out in Louisa’s head, torturous in its implications. Mentally adrift, she reached for explanations,desperate to find something reasonable to cling onto. The woman couldn’t have been a relative—Maxwell had no relatives. And how long had he been in Knaresborough? One day? Two? She had no way of knowing. Had he even been to South Shields? Yes, she decided, of that she had little doubt. He and Finlay had talked openly about the trip in front of her. But he obviously hadn’t stayed there any longer than necessary. And instead of coming straight home to her—to hiswife—he’d gone to Knaresborough to be with that woman.
Would he even be coming home that night?
There was nothing Louisa could do except wait and see.
A tap came to the door and Archer poked her head around it. “Are you feeling better, ma’am? It doesn’t do to stay in the water too long. You’ll get chilled. I have some warm towels here.”
Louisa sat upright. “Warm towels sound wonderful, Archer. And I’d like to take dinner in my room this evening, and then get to bed early.”
*
Louisa opened hereyes to darkness, pulled from sleep by an unsettling dream, the details of it already forgotten, though a feeling of despondency remained. She heaved a sigh and turned onto her back, wondering at the hour. No sooner had the question formed in her mind than the grand clock in the downstairs entrance-hall began to strike.
One. Two. Three.
The depth of night.
Her gaze drifted to the adjoining door. Had Maxwell returned? Did she dare investigate? She wanted to, yet dreaded what she might discover.
A need-to-know pulled her from the bed. She tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear to it, hearing nothing from the otherside. Her fingers closed around the doorknob, turned it, and pushed. It opened with its usual soft creak. She held her breath and squinted into the darkness, her gaze trained on Maxwell’s bed. Seeking. Hoping.
The bed was pristine. Undisturbed.
Empty.
Disappointment, in an agonizing form, pressed down like a weight on Louisa’s chest. The ink on their marriage certificate was barely dry, and already, it seemed, Maxwell had cast his wedding vows aside.
Louisa shivered and moved back into her chamber, closing Maxwell’s door quietly behind her.Think, Louisa. How are you going to handle this? Ignore it? No. No, you cannot do that. But an offensive approach might only make things worse.
“Make things worse?” She released a soft, bitter laugh, wandered over to the window, and pulled the curtain aside to gaze out, unseeing, into the night. Things could be worse, of course. Maxwell was an even-tempered man. Not willfully cruel, either, though the thought of him keeping a mistress—or maybe several of them—hurt Louisa more deeply than she’d ever openly admit.
Simply ask him to explain. Let him know you saw him. See what he says.
Her reflection in the glass stared back at her.
And then what?
“I don’t know.” She closed the curtain and scrubbed a tear away. “I really don’t know.”
Despite the hour, she had no desire to return to bed and tempt further unpleasant dreams. She needed a distraction. Something to shore up her crippled spirit. After lighting her lantern, she shrugged on her dressing gown, stepped into her slippers, and headed downstairs.
The East Parlor beckoned, specifically the bay window-seat, where one could curl up and watch the arrival of a new day, perchance to prepare for whatever challenges it might bring. Louisa padded her way through a silent house, aware of being watched by a dozen pairs of Northcott eyes, staring down at her from their ornately framed portraits.
The parlor door opened with a mere whisper, and Louisa paused briefly on the threshold, wondering if she’d imagined a hint of bergamot in the air. She filled her lungs through her nostrils, smelling only beeswax and turpentine. Folly, she thought, closing the door behind her. Lantern held aloft, she moved toward the window, its curtains drawn against the night. She set the lantern on a nearby occasional table and went to pull the curtains back.
“Louisa?”
