How ridiculous that she’d been denying herself because of a man who’d never wanted anything more than her innocence.
The blow was crippling.
“Circe?” he asked, and it sounded so like her name when he said it like that. “What’s the matter?”
I’m a fool. But not just a fool—one who had hurt her husband so much she couldn’t be certain that this one night of dancing would be enough to bring him back.
His thumb swept across her inner wrist, urging her into speech with that kind, patient way he had. Even when she knew she was being a brat.
The carriage pulled up to the house, and her heart clenched. This was the end of Odysseus and Circe; now they must return to being Percy and Cecily, with all the complications that went along with that.
He released her hand, and she felt the loss like she had lost the hand itself.
“We have arrived,” he said.
“When we step inside?” She couldn’t hide the plea in her voice—though for what, she couldn’t be entirely sure. “What then?”
“Then?” He inhaled slowly, and softness crept back into his voice. “Ah, my sweet love. Then we will have to face the dawning of the day.” He rose, crouching a little in the confined space, and leant in close. Certain she would receive another kiss, Cecily closed her eyes. But instead of her lips, his mouth ghosted across her cheek. “Goodnight, my darling,” he whispered.
Tears, as unexpected as they were inconvenient, stung her eyes, and she remained where she was, hands entwined tightly in her lap, as Percy climbed out of the carriage.
By the time she, too, entered the house, his figure had long gone.
Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Cecily woke with an aching head. For a long time, she lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Last night had been . . . it had been . . . Well, it had been eye-opening. When Percy was not Percy, she liked him. Perhaps she always had.
Before last night, she’d assumed he would continue his mission of avoiding her at every given opportunity, and ending their marriage in all but name. But last night he had come for her. Followed her. Danced with her, flirted with her,kissedher. Ardently.
And she . . . Well, she had no desire to return to the way things had been.
Which meant, logically, that she would have to go about changing them. Perhaps Percy would also come to that conclusion: he wanted her, and she wanted him, and she did not wish to be married to anyone else. That, surely, would be enough to welcome her back into his life. They could talk aboutmusic again. Or myths and legends that they’d both familiarised themselves with. Or, perhaps, sing.
Impatient, because it was almost noon—though they had arrived home past dawn—she rang the bell for her maid. If she was lucky, Percy wouldn’t have risen yet, and they could breakfast together for the first time in over a week.
Had it really only been that long? It felt like a lifetime.
She stumbled out of bed and rubbed her eyes, trying to think of what she would tell him. That she wanted more from their marriage than she had ever done before. And, she supposed, to hope that he felt the same way.
Though she dressed quickly and hurried into the breakfast parlour, she entered the room to find it empty. She rubbed her eyes and stared at the neatly laid table, her place laid with precision and the folded newspaper beside Percy’s place, a sure sign he had come and gone. Despite the fact she’d risen early to catch him.
Her newfound optimism deflated. Evidently he did not feel, despite the intimacy they’re shared the previous night, that anything needed to change between them.
She turned to the footman by the door. “Where is Sir Percy?”
“I believe he went out for the morning, ma’am.”
“I see.” No longer hungry, Cecily toyed with the laced edge of her sleeve. “Do you know when he will be back?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”
The old Cecily would have flounced out, determined to spend not one single thought on her errant, and notably absent, husband. But that had been the Cecily who hadn’t experienced the subtle thrill of her husband’s hands on her.
They really had to talk about that.
She glowered at his empty place setting. Difficult to talk to a man who had fled at the first opportunity.
