It was not forgiveness—not yet. The wound of his lost freedom still ached, but it was a beginning, a crack in the wall between them through which something else might grow. Not love, perhaps, but understanding. Maybe even, eventually, peace.
She looked at him with such hope that he had to glance away, unable to bear it. But he did not leave, did not retreat to his study. Instead, he gestured to the pianoforte.
“Would you play something else? Something lighter, perhaps?”
A tentative smile touched her lips—the first he had seen since their wedding. “I know a few country dances, if you would prefer?”
“That would be pleasant.”
As her fingers found the keys again, filling the room with a melody that spoke of village greens and simpler times, Rees felt something shift between them. The prison of their marriage remained, but perhaps it did not have to be solitary confinement. With time and patience, they might find a way to make it bearable.
It was, he thought as he watched her play, a beginning.
Chapter 8
The brandy at White’s tasted of smoke and aged oak, spreading warmth through Rees’s chest as Rafe recounted his latest misadventure involving a spooked horse and a flower cart in Hyde Park. Alistair laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink, and even Rees found himself grinning at his friend’s exaggerated reenactment of the vendor’s outraged Italian cursing. The comforting atmosphere of the club enveloped them with leather, wood polish, good tobacco, and the low hum of voices discussing everything from Parliament to polo.
“You seem better,” Alistair remarked, reclining in his chair with the contentment of a man who had laughed away his worries. “These past weeks. Less brooding into your brandy, at least.”
Rees considered deflecting, but these were his closest friends. “Things have improved somewhat. At home.”
Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“We are finding our way toward civility. Perhaps even understanding.” He swirled his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “She plays the pianoforte beautifully. I had not known that.”
“Small discoveries,” Alistair said wisely. “That is how marriages are built, is it not? One small discovery at a time.”
Before Rees could respond, a familiar voice cut through the atmosphere.
“Well, well. If it is not the happy bridegroom himself.”
Lord Sterling stood beside their table, impeccably dressed in evening wear that likely cost more than most men’s monthly earnings. His dark hair gleamed with pomade, and his smile was sharp. Everything about him radiated the confidence of a man who had never faced a consequence he could not buy or charm away.
The conversation around them stuttered and died. Every gentleman in the vicinity sensed the potential for drama—Sterling and Harcourt, the scandal, the forced marriage. Rees felt their attention press down on him.
“Sterling,” he acknowledged, his voice carefully neutral though his fingers tightened on his glass.
“I must offer my congratulations on your hasty marriage.” Damian’s smile widened, revealing too many teeth. “Taking my leftovers, are you? How magnanimous of you, Harcourt. Not every man would be so accommodating.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Several men shifted uneasily in their seats, but none looked away. This was the confrontation they had anticipated, the clash between the rake who had ruined a lady and the man forced to salvage her reputation.
Rees set down his glass and rose slowly, standing tall. He had two inches on Sterling, and he used them now, looking down at the man with a calm that hinted at violence.
“Careful, Sterling. That is my wife you are discussing.”
“Your wife?” Damian snickered, the sound ringing as false as fool’s gold. “Come now, Harcourt. We are all men of the world here. We both know what she is.” He glanced around, playing to their audience with the skill of a seasoned performer. “Did she tell you how she begged for my attention? How she practically threw herself at me in that garden?”
Something shifted in Rees’s chest—not the rage he expected but a cold clarity that slowed time. He studied Damian’s face, seeing past the handsome features to what lay beneath. The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, the malicious pleasure in his eyes, the casual cruelty with which he wielded Victoria’s pain.
This was what Victoria had faced in that garden—a predator in gentleman’s clothing, a man who destroyed innocence for sport. The lies flowed from Damian’s lips smooth as whiskey, practiced and polished. He had told this story so many times he probably half-believed it himself.
“She was desperate for it,” Damian continued, warming to his theme. “Tore her own dress for attention, then acted innocent when witnesses arrived. Quite the little actress, your wife. Though I suppose you have discovered that yourself by now—”
“You are lying.”
The words emerged with such certainty that Damian paused, his smirk faltering.
“I beg your pardon?”
