“You have done nothing wrong.” The same response she had given him three days ago, delivered with a finality that suggested the conversation was over before it began. She took a sip of wine, her hand steady, while his trembled with the effort of not reaching across the table to shake answers from her silence.
That night, sleep eluded him entirely. The candle on his bedside table burned through two replacements as he lay staring at the canopy, reviewing every interaction from the past week like a merchant auditing suspicious accounts. Victoria breathed evenly beside him, but he knew she was not sleeping either; her stillness was too perfect, too controlled. When truly asleep, she made small sounds, shifted occasionally, and sometimes reached for him unconsciously. This rigid impersonation of slumber was just another wall between them.
At three o’clock, he found himself in his study, a glass of brandy untouched at his elbow while he attacked correspondence that did not require attention until next week. The familiar scratch of pen on paper provided minimal distraction from the circling thoughts that threatened to drive him mad. What had changed? What moment had shifted her from the warm, engaging woman he had been falling in love with to this perfect automaton?
“Good God, you look terrible.”
Rees’s head snapped up to find Rafe in the doorway, having let himself in with the key Rees had given him years ago for emergencies. His friend’susual jovial expression had been replaced with genuine concern as he took in Rees’s appearance—shirt sleeves rolled up, cravat discarded, hair standing at angles from repeated hand-running.
“What time is it?” Rees asked, his voice rough from disuse.
“Nearly four in the afternoon. When did you last sleep? Or eat, for that matter?” Rafe moved into the room, settling into his usual chair with an ease that made Rees painfully aware of how Victoria no longer claimed her space beside his desk.“Mrs. Pembridge let me in. She seemed concerned, saying you have been in here since dawn.”
“I cannot.” Rees set down his pen, rubbing his eyes until stars burst behind his lids.“She will not talk to me, Rafe. A week ago we were happy—genuinely happy. Now she can barely stand to be in the same room.”
“Have you simply asked her what is troubling her?” Rafe suggested, pouring himself a drink from the decanter since Rees had abandoned his hosting duties along with everything else.
“Of course I have.” The words emerged sharper than intended, frustration bleeding through his exhaustion.“She just says she needs time. Time for what? Time to decide she has made a terrible mistake? Time to find a way to leave?”
“She cannot leave. The marriage is legal, consummated.”
“There are ways. Separation. She could return to her parents, claim illness.” Rees’s hand shook as he finally reached for his brandy, needing the burn to anchor him.“God, Rafe, what if she has realized she cannot bear being married to me? What if the pretense of happiness became too much?”
Rafe studied him with that penetrating gaze that had dissected many a problem at Oxford.“Think back. What happened exactly a week ago? You were happy; then suddenly she withdrew. There must have been a catalyst.”
Rees forced his exhausted mind to focus, reconstructing the timeline with the same methodical attention he applied to investments.“Monday we reviewed the shipping contracts together. She was brilliant, caught several issues I had missed. Tuesday morning we had breakfast, discussed her mother’sletter about Christmas plans. Tuesday afternoon…”
The memory crystallized with sudden clarity. Tuesday afternoon, Rafe had visited. They had been in this very study, the door ajar because the fire had been smoking. They had talked about… Christ. They had talked about the marriage, about being trapped, about how he had been too drunk to understand what he was agreeing to at the Lyon’sDen.
His stomach dropped as the implications crashed over him. The study door had been open. Victoria often passed through the hallway around that time, heading to the morning room for her correspondence. If she had heard…
“Oh God.” The glass slipped from his fingers, brandy spreading across the Persian rug in an amber stain.“She heard us. She heard me talking about being trapped into marriage.”
Rafe’sexpression shifted to understanding and sympathy.“Rees—”
“She heard me say I was drunk, that I did not understand the stakes.” Rees stood abruptly, swaying slightly as exhaustion and revelation combined to make the room spin.“She must think I do not want her. That everything between us has been out of obligation, not choice.”
The cruelty of the misunderstanding hit him hard. Victoria, already carrying guilt about the circumstances of their marriage, had heard just enough to confirm her worst fears while missing the crucial context—that he had said he was falling for her, that the marriage had become the best thing in his life.
“I need to speak with her.” Rees moved toward the door with sudden purpose, exhaustion forgotten in the urgency of setting things right.“Tonight. Now. No more waiting.”
“Rees, you might want to—” Rafe gestured at his disheveled state, but Rees was already gone, taking the stairs two at a time despite his unsteady gait.
He would find Victoria, explain everything, and make her understand that while their beginning had been forced, his feelings now were entirely his choice. No more silence, no more walls. Tonight, they would have truth between them, whatever the cost.
Chapter 16
The drawing room had witnessed their tentative reconciliation and growing affection, the careful construction of something beautiful from the wreckage of their beginning. Yet now, Victoria sat among its familiar furnishings like a condemned woman awaiting judgment, her fingers twisting the amber silk of her evening gown until the fabric threatened to tear. Each heartbeat hammered against her ribs with such force that she wondered if her bones might crack under the pressure, if guilt could manifest as physical damage to mark her crimes for all to see. She had chosen this room deliberately, neutral ground, neither his study with its masculine authority nor her morning room with its false suggestions of sanctuary. Here, where they had shared music and laughter in recent weeks, she would confess the full measure of her deception and watch whatever remained of his regard crumble.
The mantel clock marked each second with mechanical precision, its brass pendulum catching the dying light that slanted through tall windows. Shadows stretched across the Turkish carpet, transforming its cheerful pattern into something ominous. The air thickened with each breath, perfumed by the roses she had arranged just yesterday, when happiness still seemed possible, when she had been able to pretend that love built on lies might somehow endure. Now their sweetness felt heavy and false, like everything about the life she had constructed through manipulation.
The pianoforte stood silent in its corner, its polished surface reflecting her pale face back at her—a stranger’s face, drawn with exhaustion and self-loathing. How many evenings had she played for him there, accepting his praise for her music while knowing she did not deserve it? How many times had he stood behind her, his presence warm and solid, while she carried the weight of what she had stolen from him?
The door burst open with enough force to rattle the shepherdess figurines on their shelf. Rees stood in the doorway, shockingly disheveled, shirt untucked, cravat missing, hair standing at wild angles as if he had been running his hands through it. His eyes found her immediately, and the smile that had begun to form, warm and genuine, died as he took in her distress.
“Victoria? What is it?” He crossed the room in three strides, concern palpable as he reached for her hands before seeming to think better of it. “Please, whatever is wrong, tell me.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze, though it felt blinding—too bright, too pure for someone as stained as she had become. Her throat constricted around words she had rehearsed countless times since returning from the Lyon’s Den, each version inadequate to convey the depth of her transgression.
