“Are you feeling well?” He set down his fork, abandoning the pretense of eating. “You have seemed distant lately.”
Her hand stilled on her utensil, knuckles whitening briefly before she resumed rearranging her food. “I am perfectly well. Simply tired. The season takes its toll.”
But the season had never exhausted her before. She had navigated multiple events in a single evening with grace and managed difficult social situations with a strength that left him in awe. This was not fatigue; this was retreat, a closing of doors he had thought permanently opened between them.
After dinner, he waited in his study with the investment papers they had been reviewing together, the Dutch shipping manifests she had been eager to analyze. The clock on the mantel marked each passing minute, counting out her absence. She had joined him every evening for weeks, curled in the chair beside his desk with her notes, debating strategies and possibilities until the fire burned low. Now his study felt cavernous without her presence, the papers meaningless symbols that held no interest without her insights.
When the clock struck ten, he abandoned hope and climbed the stairs to their bedchamber. She was already in bed, her dark hair spread across the pillow, her eyes closed, though he knew from her breathing she was not asleep. He changed in silence, dismissed his valet, and joined her beneath the covers.
When he reached for her gently, as had become their way, she did not refuse. But her body remained rigid beneath his touch, accepting rather than participating. It was worse than their wedding night, worse than those early weeks of duty, because now he knew what they were missing. This mechanical acceptance felt like loss made physical.
“Victoria,” he murmured against her shoulder, but she remained silent, still, a beautiful statue where his wife should be.
By the fifth day, he could not bear it any longer. He found her in the morning room, working at her embroidery with the same focused attention she had been giving to avoiding him. The winter light fell pale across her face, highlighting shadows beneath her eyes that suggested she had been sleeping as poorly as he had.
“Victoria, what is wrong?” The words emerged more forcefully than intended, driven by desperation. “Have I done something? Said something?”
She looked up then, and the pain in her eyes made his breath catch. But she shook her head slowly, setting aside her needlework. “No. You have done nothing wrong.”
“Then why—” He crossed to her, wanting to take her hands, but she folded them in her lap before he could reach them. “Why are you pulling away? I thought we were happy.”
“You have been wonderful, actually.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Kinder than I deserve.”
The statement made no sense, setting every protective instinct he possessed on edge. “What does that mean? Why would you not deserve kindness?”
Tears pooled in her eyes but did not fall, held back by sheer will. “Please, just give me time. I need to think.”
“Think about what?” But she was already rising, already moving toward the door with that careful grace that meant she was barely holding herself together.
“Please, Rees.” She paused at the threshold without turning back. “Just... time.”
She left him standing in the morning room, confusion and fear churning in his gut. That afternoon, he sought out Rafe at White’s, finding his friend in their usual corner, nursing a brandy and reading the financial papers.
“She is completely withdrawn,” Rees said without preamble, dropping into the opposite chair. “Like those first weeks, but worse because now I know what we are losing.”
Rafe set aside his paper, studying Rees with concern. “Have you considered she might be with child? Women often experience emotional upheaval in the early months.”
The thought had not occurred to him, but even as he considered it, it felt wrong. “No, it is not that. Something specific changed. Five days ago, she was herself—laughing, engaged, present. Then suddenly, nothing. She will not talk to me; she barely looks at me.”
“Perhaps someone said something that reminded her of the scandal?”
But when Rees questioned the staff, they reported nothing unusual. Mrs. Pembridge mentioned that Lady Victoria had seemed upset Tuesday afternoon but had dismissed her maid before anyone could inquire. His mother, when carefully questioned, knew nothing that might have caused distress. She had written Victoria a warm letter about Christmas plans, nothing more.
Victoria continued to manage the household with perfect efficiency, stood beside him at social events with gracious smiles, and performed every duty of a wife with mechanical precision. But the woman he had fallen in love with—the one who challenged his investment strategies, who played the pianoforte with passion, who laughed at his terrible jokes—had vanished behind a wall of politeness he could not breach.
That night, he lay awake staring at the canopy above their bed, Victoria rigid beside him, and tried to pinpoint what had gone wrong. He replayed every conversation, every interaction from the past week, searching for the moment when everything had shifted. They had been happy—genuinely happy. They had been building something real from the wreckage of their beginning, creating a marriage neither had expected but both had begun to treasure.
Now it was crumbling, and he had no idea why. The woman sleeping beside him felt like a stranger again, and the loss of what they had almost had hurt worse than never having it at all. He thought of her tears in the morning room, of her statement that he had been kinder than she deserved, and wondered what guilt was eating at her, what shame had resurfaced to poison their fragile happiness.
Whatever it was, she would not share it with him. And without understanding the wound, he had no idea how to heal it. All he could do was wait, hope, and watch the connection between them dissolve like sugar in rain.
Chapter 15
The veil clung to Victoria’s face, damp with the tears shed during the carriage ride to Whitehall. It concealed her identity from the curious eyes wondering why a respectable lady was entering the Lyon’s Den at three in the afternoon. Her fingers trembled against the brass door handle, not from fear of the establishment or its proprietress, but from the weight of knowledge that had tortured her for seven days. Each night, she had laid rigid beside Rees, feeling his confusion across the space between them, aware that she held the power to explain his pain and the burden of truth that might destroy what remained between them.
The doorman recognized her despite the veil; Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s people forgot nothing and led her through familiar corridors. The scent of expensive tobacco mixed with something darker, like overripe fruit on the edge of decay. The gaming rooms lay silent at this hour, their tables covered with dust cloths, waiting for night to resurrect them into dens of chance and ruin.
The blue-paneled sitting room remained unchanged, opulent yet sinister, with heavy drapes that swallowed light and mirrors reflecting only what their owner wished to reveal. Porcelain shepherdesses posed on the mantel with painted smiles that seemed to mock her distress, while the Turkish carpet beneath her feet displayed shifting patterns in the dim light, making her slightly dizzy if she stared too long.
