Not at all.
Unfortunately, he could not say the same about his response to it.
True, the lass had been a little out of sorts since returning from Knaresborough the previous week. He’d feared the visit to St. Giles House might have been upsetting for her, and indeed, it obviously had been. Not because of any snobbish revulsion or feminine fragility, but because of a simple game of dominoes with a pitiful soul who’d touched her heart. Maxwell had usedthat to make allowances for her emotional behavior at dinner that night, and later, when they argued in their chambers. But her arguments on both occasions, he had to admit, had teeth.
As she’d stated, up till that point she hadn’t complained once about his business trips. To the contrary, she’d been fully supportive, wishing him a successful trip and a safe journey each time he’d left. Not a hint of melancholy or resentment to be seen. She’d made it easy for him.
In the beginning, at least.
As time went on, however, things changed. Louisa still never complained, but her cheery farewells had lost a little of their previous enthusiasm, her smiles hiding a truth she didn’t think he could see. But Maxwell wasn’t blind. He knew his frequent absences were increasingly hard on her.
At first, he’d ignored it, but it had become progressively difficult to do so. Lately, he found himself dreading every new departure, when he had to look in her eyes and see the sadness behind the smile. At the same time, he resented what he saw as a loss of control and an unwelcome shift in his priorities. It was a situation he hadn’t bargained for, leaving him disconcerted.
Nor had he been prepared for Louisa’s declaration of love, made during their passionate encounter in the East Parlor a few weeks before. Those three little words had knocked him off his pragmatic pedestal. At the time, he’d thought about responding in kind—till it occurred to him that having to actually think about it surely negated its sincerity.
An avowal of love should at least be truthful.
Such declarations were often made on impulse, and especially in moments of high passion. Consequently, he couldn’t be certain Louisa had actually meant what she’d said either. It seemed unlikely. They hadn’t been married very long, after all. And Maxwell had never declared his love to anyonebefore, in truth or falsehood. Quite simply, he’d never felt compelled to do so.
While he respected women and enjoyed their company, the concept of romantic love had always left him a little mystified. It had no clear definition. It could not be categorized. It seemed to be a cumulation of emotions, oft times spontaneous and unpredictable. Much like women, in truth.
Affection, admiration, satisfaction—these things he recognized. They could be cleanly applied to many aspects of life, together or individually. And Maxwell, without hesitation, applied all of them to his wife. Louisa had quickly gained his affection and his admiration. And, whether between the sheets or atop a silk-damask settee, she gave him great satisfaction. He considered himself a fortunate man and had said as much to her several times.
But, of late, none of the recognizable epithets seemed to sufficiently describe what he felt for his wife. Love, with all its mysterious depths and complexities, seemed to be far more fitting.
He’d been struggling with that reality since he’d left Louisa standing on the doorstep four days earlier. A sad apparition dressed all in white, face pale and drawn, feet naked upon the cold stone. The image still haunted him. Her parting words had been the second declaration of her love, and there could be no doubting the sincerity of it this time. The tearful glint in her eyes, the heartfelt tremble in her voice, had caused his throat to tighten.
At that point, he’d almost told Ashbridge to leave without him. The desire to take Louisa in his arms, to carry her back to bed and make love to her, had been close to overwhelming. He wanted to hold her, to tell her that her objections had been justified. That he’d misspoken and deeply regretted it. Instead,to his utter shame, he’d left her, tears and all. She had not failed him. He had failed her.
Miserably.
No, there was no getting away from it. After four days of exhaustive contemplation, he’d finally arrived at a couple of conclusions.
He’d behaved like an arse. And he’d fallen in love with his wife.
Yet, despite his conclusions, or perhaps because of them, doubt still plagued him. Did his heartless behavior mean hedidn’tlove her? The thought wandered through his mind, seeking a definitive answer. Instead, it returned with a different question.
Could you live without her?
Aye, I could.An ache took hold of his heart.But I wouldn’t want to. In fact, I can’t even bear to think of—
“Will you be joining us in the bar, Harlow? If we stay here much longer, they’ll be serving us breakfast.” Ashbridge’s strident voice snapped Maxwell’s attention back to the dining room at the Crown Hotel. The dozen or so shareholders, including Finlay, who’d had been seated with him at the supper table, were rising to their feet. This being Wednesday evening, it had been a productive couple of days, with things going more smoothly than he’d anticipated. There were still a few minor issues to be ironed out, all fairly straightforward. By tomorrow night, everything would be officially signed and sealed, metaphorically and otherwise.
Finlay cleared his throat. “We’re removing to the bar for a nightcap, Max.”
“Yes, of course.” Maxwell rose also. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I was elsewhere for a moment. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall retire for the night. Fin, a quick word, if you please.”
With parting mumbles, the others went off to the bar.
Finlay gave Maxwell an enquiring look. “What do you need, brother?”
“Nothing more tonight, but I’d like you to give my apologies to the others in the morning. I’d do it now, but I’m not in the mood for their questions.”
Finlay’s brows lifted. “You’re leaving?”
He nodded. “Going back to the manor, first thing. You can finish up here.”
The brows rose even more. “Me?”
