“I’m sorry,” he said.
“So am I.” But she meant for the way things had been, and perhaps he understood.
He kissed her hand and then her lips, gently, probably offering comfort, but it became warmer, inviting more. But this time resentment and disquiet simmered in her and she couldn’t respond.
He stepped back. “I leave you to your domestic labors, my dear.”
Kitty was left feeling guilty about having rejected him, but she couldn’t change the way she felt.
Why had he questioned her right to drive?
Why had he asked about her around Town?
Why did he seem determined to probe matters she’d rather forget?
***
Braydon took refuge in his bedroom, needing time for his anger to simmer down. He wanted to thrash Marcus Cateril, but he couldn’t do it, even if the man were alive. How many of Kit Kat’s admirers had felt the same, guessing that Cateril’s surly rage at his condition was sometimes vented on his wife? Had they seen bruises, or even witnessed attacks? Had the puppy been offered in consolation?
How had she responded? When she’d said she’d be no Desdemona, she’d meant it, but had she felt able to hit back? She would have given as good as she got with words—that was sure. He’d married her for her fighting spirit, but he wished she’d not had to learn to fight.
He wanted to return to her and find a way to make it right, but her simmering anger had been like a wall.Breaking it down would do no good. He sought refuge in his office and paperwork. The sooner the administration of the viscountcy was in solid order, the sooner he could leave for London. He could be gone by Christmas and only obliged to return on occasions.
After mere minutes he tossed down his pen, realizing how little he wanted that now.
He’d be leaving Kitty alone in this hostile house, as she had perhaps been alone in a hostile marriage, despite her flock of admirers. More than that, he’d miss her company already, in and out of bed. There was so much to learn and explore in bed. And out of it...
Perhaps he could remain over Christmas. Town would be thin of company, and the troublemakers had gone quiet. There were probably rural rites he was supposed to take part in. Wassailers. Mummers. Gathering holly and mistletoe.
Quite likely the dowager was of the modern mind that saw such things as pagan.
He smiled at that. He’d encourage a riot of them.
***
Kitty paced her boudoir, tense with the residue of anger and with anxious unhappiness. She’d let out another side of herself—her ability to rage.
But then he’d guessed.
She hated that.Hatedit! The violence in her marriage was her secret, hers and Marcus’s, and he’d taken it to the grave. It shamed her that she hadn’t been able to avoid it, to be kinder and gentler. In that, she’d failed as a wife.
Sillikin whined, nudging at her leg.
Kitty picked her up and hugged her. “At least he never hurt you, little one. Even when you told him off.”
Kitty sat to comb Sillikin’s long coat, easing tangles and removing leaves and twigs. Sometimes it was a tedious task, but often it was soothing.
“You cared for him, too, didn’t you? And he for you on his better days. You knew when he was most in pain.”
Marcus had tried to hide his pain, largely, she thought, because it was proof of his damaged state. In some ways he’d been like his mother in trying to pretend that the damage was less serious than it was, and that some of it might heal. Sometimes Kitty had thought he’d married her in expectation of a miracle cure, and that his bursts of anger grew out of disappointment.
“Braydon isn’t Marcus,” she said, working on a little tangle. “I must remember that.”
The task did ease her mind, but that allowed in other concerns.
“I’m woefully unprepared for this. I knew that, but I didn’t expect to trip over little things. Like the Town house. Itisfoolish to leave it empty for such a long time. If the viscountcy doesn’t need the money, it could have been given to the poor.” She paused, and examined her dog’s solemn expression. “The supportive silence, I see.”
Sillikin’s silence was bliss, not philosophical.
