“Actually, yes, I did.” She lifted her head to look him in the eye. “And before you interrupted me with your kiss, I was about to apologize for my false accusations. I’m truly sorry, Max. I assumed wrongly.”
“It was a misunderstanding, now resolved.” He touched her cheek. “One of these days, I’ll take you to meet the lady. I think you’d like her.”
“That would be nice.”
“Perhaps you can wear one of your new outfits from Francesca’s.”
It was, quite obviously, a pointed remark, albeit spoken with a hint of levity. She cringed, inwardly. “You saw the invoice.”
“Yes.”
She winced. “I did spend rather a lot.”
“A little more than expected, perhaps.” He cleared his throat. “I’m curious. Did you finish shopping before you saw me with Jane? Or after?”
She couldn’t lie. “After.”
“Ah.” He grimaced. “Well, that probably explains it.”
“It was peevish of me, Max. I’ll send a message and cancel—
He tightened his hold on her. “You most certainly will not. I trust you purchased some nice things?”
“Many.” She wrinkled her nose. “I purchased many nice things.”
He laughed. “And I shall look forward to seeing you in them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dear, I’m going to take to my bed for a few hours.”
Disappointment returned, this time succeeding in dampening her spirit. She’d have been quite happy to spend the rest of the night on the settee, in his arms. She sat up. “Yes, I’m sure must be tired. How long are you home for?”
“Till Monday, then off to Sheffield again for several days.” He tugged gently on the braid hanging over her shoulder. “Perhaps, if the weather holds, we might go for a ride this afternoon.”
“That would be nice.”
“Are you still going to watch the sunrise?”
She nodded. “Will you not stay and watch it with me?”
“Another time, perhaps.” He got to his feet and arranged his disheveled clothing.
The passionate lover had gone, and her sober husband had returned. Louisa smiled to hide her disappointment. “Of course.”
He bent and kissed her cheek. “Till later, then.”
After he left, Louisa wandering over to the window. She slid into the cold space behind the curtains and shivered, questioning her decision. Then she saw the folded blanket on the window-seat. Moments later, she sat cocooned in its woolen warmth, watching the eastern skies turn pale. It appeared, after all, that the day ahead would be quite pleasant. Certainly, better than she’d originally thought.
I have no need of a mistress. I have a wife. And, God knows, she is more than enough for me. Indeed, I am well pleased.
More reassuring than poetic, but that was his way. She had little choice, after all, but to accept it. Better that, she supposed, than a false declaration of love. And they still had the rest of their lives together. One day, she told herself, she would hear what she wanted to hear. And she would know it had been spoken from the heart.
Chapter Thirteen
The days meanderedgently into the depths of summer. On this particular August morning, sunlight slanted through the windows as Louisa settled at the desk in her sitting-room. She opened her journal to the previous day’s date, the page still blank, the events yet to be recorded. Maxwell’s return the previous evening, this time after a six-day absence, meant that the journal entry had been abandoned in favor of a more physical exercise. If there was a positive side to Maxwell’s absences, it was surely the eager display of passion each time he returned home. Louisa’s cheeks warmed as she recalled the details of their amorous evening.
“One would think he actually missed me,” she muttered, without malice. He’d never said such a thing, of course. Whenever he went away, however, she missed him terribly. She had not become acclimated to his absences at all. If anything, each one became harder to bear, though she did her utmost not to show it. As for his declaration of love… that, too, remained noticeably absent.
Shrugging off a threat of melancholy, Louisa turned her thoughts to the more mundane events of the previous day and began to write. Not ten minutes into her account, the door opened, and Maxwell entered, waving a paper.
“A letter from Jane,” he said, handing it to her. “We’ve been invited to luncheon with the Fairburns next Saturday and I’dlike to accept. Providing nothing urgent crops up this week, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
