“Good evening,” he said, laying down the paper he was reading. “To what can I attribute this honour?”
“Where were you?”
“I rather suspect the answer is obvious.”
“You never ordinarily eat in here.”
“I thought we had agreed that things were not to progress along ordinary lines.” His voice was mild, but she heard the dismissal in it, and it infuriated her.
“So you let me sit and eat alone, all the servants knowing you would prefer to be separate from me?”
“I think you’ll find that is hardly unusual.”
“It is unusual forus.”
“Perhaps. But I proposed we live as though we were not husband and wife and you agreed, so what else am I to do?” He picked up his quill, the tip of it brushing his chin. “You did not want a husband. Congratulations—you do not have to have one.”
“And yet I am still a wife. Mistress of this house.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, I cannot change that. Would you rather live elsewhere?”
At the thought of her mother descending on her, she shuddered. “I would rather we kept up appearances.”
“Even inside the house?” The look he gave her now was so gently chiding, it made shame curl in the base of her stomach. “For what purpose? Your pride? My darling, you beat mine into the ground some time ago.”
She knew, logically, that what he was saying made sense. She had never wanted his attention, or his tenderness. He had bestowed both on her against her will. Yet now, forced to confront the realities of that choice, she found she did not relish the idea of a life spent lonely in this house.
“You are still here,” he said when he next glanced up, and there was the trace of irritation in his expression now. “What more do you have to say to me? You cannot have it both ways, Cecily. Either you welcome me as your husband, or you do not. If you do not, then why should I go out of my way to welcome you as my wife? I am not the kind of man to force you when you are unwilling, but you must allow me this freedom.”
She stared at him, an unnameable emotion clawing at her throat. Anger at his dismissal, she decided. At, once again, his intention of making a decision for her.
He turned his attention back to his papers. “My mind is made up. If you would please leave me to enjoy the one room in this house which is mine, I would appreciate it.”
“One room in this house? The entire property is yours.”
He made a low noise in his throat—one that might have been an agreement if she didn’t know him so well. Strange how even in a marriage where she had done her best to ignore him, his habits and oddities had imprinted themselves on her psyche.
Furious, both at herself and him, she whirled and slammed the door behind her. Fine—if that was how he was determined to act, then so be it. She would not stoop so low again. Forcing her to ask him to join her for dinner was the outside of enough.
Next time, she would merely not eat at home. Thiswasno home for her.
She slammed every door on her way to her bedchamber, but instead of bursting into tears, which was admittedly tempting, she stormed to her vanity. What was it about Percy that brought out the very worst in her? And why, when she had never wanted his affection, never sought it, did his refusal to give any leave such a bitter taste in her mouth?
Chapter Four
It transpired that living separately from one’s husband, while one’s former lover made no effort to see one, proved for an unhappy existence. Cecily spent the next few days flitting from room to room, unable to find anything to entertain her for long. Percy, in their new definition of normal, now took to avoiding her at seemingly every juncture possible.
After singing at the pianoforte for a determined hour, Cecily retired to the library with a husky voice, intent on finding a book to distract her, and came up short at the sight of Percy seated before a fire that was more embers than flame.
Sunlight streamed through the half-drawn curtains, and dust motes danced in the light. Percy’s head was bent, revealing the silver that streaked through his dark hair. His fingers grazed the corners of the page as he read.
For an instant, Cecily hesitated. The image before her was so decidedly domestic that she felt as though she was intruding, which was ridiculous. Yet she had never seen Percy so . . . at peace. As though this domesticity, the quiet, was what he craved.The pads of his fingers scraped against the corner of the paper, and the sound worked something free inside her.
When they first married, she told herself she would never, under any circumstance, want him. Yet as she watched his fingers, the idleness of them, the strength in his hands even during such a mundane task, she could not help wondering what they might feel like against her skin.
A part of her hated herself for it.
A different part of herself, one dipped in desire she could not repress, burned.
