“That is unfortunate because I invited them to dine with us on Wednesday, in my home. Mine and Kate’s. I suppose you will have to dine elsewhere.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have invited my brother and his wife to dine with us. I am not sure where the confusion is in that statement.”
I broke in. “Hugh…” My voice was too thick with emotions. Nothing but his name would break free. Gratitude, astonishment, feeling, it was all too much to bear. Somehow, in my absence, my husband became the kind of man I could love. It was an overwhelming realization. It would be all the more crushing if it were temporary.Please let this be true. Please.
Once again, we were interrupted by the arrival of almond cakes. Argument temporarily suspended until the servants left, I couldn’t resist a fortifying bite of a favorite treat. The hint of orange flower and citrus offset the nutty earthiness of the almonds in a perfect balance.
I caught Hugh’s eyes from across the table and I knew. He planned the menu. He selected my favorites. Whether he had learned them without my notice or whether he had asked Mrs. Hudson, he arranged this welcome supper for me. Who was this man? Where did he come from? How did I make him stay?
Thirty-Four
THORNTON HALL, KENT - OCTOBER 15, 1814
HUGH
The first noteswashed over me from where I braced against the doorframe. Dark and rich like the finest drink, with the same warmth that built in my chest. She was playing again, deft hands dancing over ivory keys with an unstudied air. She was unbearably talented, my wife. The melody was unfamiliar to me but watching her play… I thought I understood how much I missed her. But, having her here, it was as though a limb had regrown. The tightness in my chest that had become so familiar that I no longer noticed its existence was now gone. I could breathe again.
The piano bench seemed to sooth her, too. Her back straightened, her motions became more fluid, confident, elegant. Why did I not spend every evening watching her play? Instead, I had spent the evenings shrouded away in the study, only leaving the door cracked so some of her notes might find their way to me. I could have spent night after night with this vision before me. My wife in her favored sanctuary, waltzing with fingers and keys.
Faced only with her back, I was treated to the sight of a jasmine blossom tucked in her dark hair, the crisp white contrast of the petals against mahogany tresses drew the gaze. A curl escaped her coiffure and now called the base of her neck home. The desire to brush it away warred with the need to hear her, undisturbed.
Mother had, most fortunately, decided to take to her bed with a megrim. I was free to my own, uninterrupted, musings. Had she been particularly awful tonight? Or was I oblivious the entire time? Nearly every comment had been a purposeful slight against my wife in some subtle or less subtle manner.
That could not stand. Frankly, I felt a twist of shame low in my gut for allowing it to go on for as long as I had. I was a poor excuse for a husband. No longer.
Never again would this woman be made to feel unwanted or unappreciated. I was the luckiest man alive, and I would be ungrateful no longer. I would endeavor to deserve her.
The piece ended softly, each note decreasing in volume until there was nothing more than the suggestion of a note, a whisper. She startled at my applause, turning to me with hopeful eyes.
“You do not usually join me,” she breathed.
“A travesty I plan to rectify.”
“I thought you didn’t care for music.”
“I do not play myself, but I have always appreciated the skill and passion you demonstrate.”
“I didn’t realize.”
“No, you would not have, I suppose. I did leave my study door open so I could hear you though.”
“Why did you never join me?” she asked.
Because I was busy sorting out years of financial neglect. Because I was determined to dislike you. Because I was afraid you would be ashamed of me when you discovered what a fraud I am. This was the part I dreaded. Much as I missed her, much as I prayed for her return, I wished to avoid this for as long as possible.
“We have some things to discuss. Or—that is—I need to tell you some things. Are you overtired from your journey? Or is now acceptable.”
Her gaze narrowed warily, and, without moving a single muscle, she closed herself off from me. Perhaps it was the stiffness in her posture, I could not be certain how, but the reality was plain before me.
“I would prefer now.”
“Very well,” I answered with a weary sigh.
Shoving myself off the frame and closing the door behind me, I made my way to the settee. Her improvements had not been implemented here. The room still bore the markings of my mother, down to the ostentatious brocade on the furnishings. But Kate’s orange blossom and floral scent had already begun to overtake the lilac my mother preferred.
I gestured toward the chair across from me and she took it as indicated. Much as I wished her close, I must face her judgment head on. My heart was making a valiant attempt to escape my chest. I was not entirely certain why. She already hated me, how much worse could it possibly get?
