“She is my wife.”
The firmness in his tone cut cleanly through the room. He was not going to be the best husband, he would never deny that, butthat did not mean he would allow Margaret to be spoken down about.
Arabella’s expression hardened.
For a moment she looked younger than her years. Not calculating, simply wounded.
“I thought,” she said quietly, “that if I waited, you would decide.”
“I decided.”
“And you never considered me?”
He did not hesitate.
“No.”
The finality struck like a slap. She drew herself upright, pride returning in moments.
“Then I misjudged you,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And misjudged my place.”
“Yes. You did.”
Silence settled once more, colder now.
“You will find,” she said after a long pause, “that society does not forget so easily.”
“I am aware.”
“Nor do I.”
There it was, no longer hurt, but something sharper.
“You should leave,” he said calmly.
Her chin lifted.
“I intend to. I know when I am not wanted, in spite of what you might think.”
She moved toward the door, then paused.
“You may dismiss me,” she said without turning, “but do not expect me to surrender quietly.”
He did not respond. The door opened and closed behind her. Nathaniel remained where he stood for several seconds after her departure.
He had been firm, but it was necessary. Yet as he crossed back into the hall, he was aware of two things at once:
Arabella had left with pride wounded, not extinguished, and he had no doubt that Margaret would hear enough about it to begin forming her own conclusions.
The house felt less settled than it had that morning. A soft knock sounded at the open door.
He turned.
Margaret stood in the hall, one hand resting lightly against the frame. She had clearly not meant to interrupt, yet she had heard enough to know someone had just left.
