Marrying Verity had been the practical decision, a necessary one, and at the time. But having been forced to endure her company day in and day out, found himself less certain of whether the sensible choice was the better one. .
He lowered his hand from his face at last, though the pressure behind his eyes remained, and allowed his gaze to settle upon her as she spoke, taking in the whole of her in a manner that was entirely devoid of feeling. The sharpness of her features, the keen, appraising look in her eyes, and the particular way in which her mouth seemed always poised on the edge of something unkind twisted what might have been passably pretty features into something else altogether. She was not without appeal, in a certain sense, but it was not the sort that invited ease or warmth, and he found himself, with increasing frequency, recalling the contrast she presented to someone else.
Caroline.
The name came unbidden, but once there, it did not readily depart. Caroline, who had never spoken merely to fill silence, who had possessed a quiet steadiness that he had once taken for granted and now found himself missing with an irritation he could not entirely explain. Caroline, who had been far more agreeable, far more accommodating, and, if he were inclined to honesty, far more pleasing to look upon than the woman who now sat before him detailing the virtues of satin over silk as though it were a matter of grave importance.
It was not that he had not intended to marry Caroline from the outset. In truth, he had. Her loveliness had been such that every man had wanted to win her during her first season. And he had done so much to the chagrin of his rivals. There had been, initially, a sense of pride in walking into events with heron his arm. After all, when one was in possession of a thing others coveted, it put him in a position of power, of prestige. But his grandfather had found her to be too common, the generations of her family not distantly enough removed from trade for his rarified sensibilities. But the idea of letting her go, of watching someone else swoop in and claim what was his—that had rankled. So he’d done precisely what she’d accused him of and kept her on a tether. But what else did one do with women? They were all tethered in some fashion. It was simply the way of the world. Despite all that, there had been times in their six-year courtship that had been pleasant.
The recollection was not accompanied by any great surge of regret, nor by any sudden awakening of feeling, but rather by a practical consideration that settled into place with unwelcome clarity. Had he done so—had he followed through on what had been expected of him for so long—he would now be spared this particular irritation, spared the endless monologue, spared the sense that he had exchanged one inconvenience for another without gaining anything of substance in return.
It was not that he loved her.
The notion was almost laughable. He had never loved Caroline. Oh, he was fond of her. And he’d uttered all the pretty words and phrases that were expected of a gentleman courting a young lady of quality for the purpose of marriage. And whatever his grandfather’s opinion, she had been eminently suitable. More than suitable. She had been pleasant, and predictable, and easily managed, and in retrospect, those qualities took on a significance he had not properly appreciated at the time.
Verity’s voice continued, uninterrupted, now turning from gowns to people—local families, their connections, their deficiencies—and he allowed it to pass over him without effort, his attention shifting inward as the practical implications ofhis situation began to arrange themselves into something more coherent.
He was married.
That much could not be altered, at least not without consequence. Divorce was neither simple nor desirable, and even if it were, it would introduce complications he had no interest in navigating. Society would not forgive it easily, and the inconvenience would far outweigh the benefit.
But marriage, he reflected, was not an absolute condition. There were always… alternatives.
The thought came gradually, not as a sudden inspiration but as a logical extension of his current dissatisfaction, and once it had taken shape, it proved difficult to dismiss. He shifted slightly in his chair, his attention sharpening despite himself as he considered it more fully, the irritation that had previously occupied him giving way to something more focused, more deliberate.
Widowers were not so bound by the rules of mourning in the same way as widows. Society allowed for a certain latitude, a flexibility that did not extend equally, and while a lady might be expected to observe a period of mourning with all the attendant restrictions, a gentleman was afforded rather more freedom. A few months, perhaps. A respectable interval. And then?—
He could pursue her again.
Caroline.
The notion settled into place with a quiet certainty that surprised even him, not because it stirred any great emotion, but because it made sense. Time would have softened whatever displeasure she had felt toward him, distance would have dulled her temper, and with his circumstances altered, his position secure, there would be nothing to prevent him from renewing his attentions in a manner that would be both acceptable andadvantageous. Provided, of course, that the obstacle presently seated across from him were removed.
Memory crept in, of their unfortunate run in the day prior. It had been a shock, no doubt, for Caroline to see him wed to another so soon. That, he reasoned, was why Julien Harcourt had steadied her. It was not a romantic inclination for him. To his knowledge, Julien Harcourt had no romantic inclinations. The man was a cold fish. Incapable of passion. Carolinewas far too tender of heart to be drawn to such an automaton. So he dismissed that as any true obstacle and turned his attention back once more to the true hurdle in his path.
He glanced at Verity then, not with any particular warmth, but with a new and more evaluative interest, as though seeing her not as a wife, but as a problem to be resolved. She had not yet paused in her speech, now recounting some trivial slight delivered by a neighbor with a degree of indignation that seemed wholly disproportionate to the offense, and he found himself wondering, not for the first time, how he had failed to anticipate just how thoroughly she would come to occupy his attention in the most unwelcome of ways.
Accidents happened, after all. And women, in their long skirts, were forever tripping and falling. If such a fall were to occur at the top of the stairs, it might well resolve the issue for him.
Such a thought ought to have scared him. To so deliberately plot the demise of another. But William had long ago come to accept the fact that he was quite different from others, unburdened by conscience as so many were. And such thoughts, if anything, settled his mind with a quiet, practical ease that suggested he had already accepted it, had already begun to consider the particulars of how such a thing might be accomplished without undue complication. It was not a matter of malice, not in any meaningful sense, but of convenience, ofnecessity, and he had never been inclined to deny himself what was necessary simply because it might be viewed unfavorably by others.
Across the room, Verity smiled.
It was not a pleasant expression. So unpleasant, in fact, that for a moment he wondered if perhaps he were not the only one hatching plots and schemes. Then he dismissed it just as quickly. What could she do, after all?
Verity continued speaking without pause,her voice carrying easily through the room as she recounted the minor absurdities of local society and the many refinements she intended to introduce upon her return to London, though the subject itself held little real interest for her beyond its utility. It served its purpose well enough, providing her with the opportunity to observe without inviting observation in return, and she made use of that advantage now, allowing her gaze to rest upon her husband with quiet deliberation even as she maintained the appearance of trivial engagement.
William had grown quieter, which in itself was unremarkable, but there was a difference in the quality of that silence that did not escape her notice, a particular stillness that suggested his thoughts had turned inward in a more purposeful way than usual, and she understood without difficulty that such moments rarely produced anything of value beyond his own self-interest, a tendency that neither surprised nor troubled her given how entirely consistent it had proven since their marriage. He had already fulfilled the purpose for which she had married him, and that purpose had never extended beyond the immediate advantages his name and position had affordedher, advantages that were now secured. His continued presence offered no further benefit that could not be more effectively managed in his absence. Indeed, the longer he remained, the more apparent it became that he represented not an asset, but a hindrance, a persistent inconvenience that demanded attention without offering any meaningful return upon the investment of it.
Her gaze lingered upon him for a moment longer, assessing without sentiment, and she found nothing in the observation to alter her conclusion. He was adequate when necessity required it and now that necessity had passed. A woman, once married, could never again be relegated to that strange purgatory that existed only for those on the cusp of womanhood--be alluring but not fast, be intelligent enough to hide the fact that you are, be seductive and yet innocent at once. Then, as her unmarried state had resembled purgatory in her mind, widowhood represented a kind of freedom she dreamed of.
There was no affection to complicate the matter, no attachment to soften it, and she had never been inclined to burden herself with either where they did not serve her interests, a clarity that rendered the path forward not only obvious, but entirely untroubling.
Marriage, as she had always understood it, was not an end, but a means, and now that the means had delivered its intended result, the question was not whether she would remain bound by it, but how best to alter her circumstances without compromising the advantages she had already secured. Widowhood presented itself as the most efficient solution, offering a degree of freedom that few other conditions could rival, and one that would place her beyond the immediate constraints imposed by a husband whose presence had ceased to be of value. William’s habits would facilitate the transition, for they were neither discreet nor easily concealed, and theworld had already taken sufficient notice of them that a gradual decline in his health would excite little curiosity, particularly if it unfolded in a manner consistent with excess rather than any singular event.
William drank as he always did. His lack of restraint was never in question, and that alone was to her advantage, for she had no need to persuade him, no need to encourage him to take another sip of the already altered spirit that was, minute by minute, bringing her closer to the quiet fruition of her plan. The method was subtle and necessarily slow, though not without early effect, for he already appeared somewhat pale, a detail remarked upon that very morning by one of their neighbors, and she had taken note of it with quiet satisfaction. The process would continue as it had begun, with small, consistent additions that required no variation—a drop here, another there, the faintest trace along the rim of his glass—each measure insignificant on its own, but collectively sufficient to produce the gradual decline she required. It was that consistency, rather than any dramatic gesture, that would ensure the desired result, and it would do so with very little risk to her, a fact she understood perfectly well given the particular advantages afforded to her position. A woman, after all, was easily dismissed, easily overlooked, and, more often than not, entirely underestimated, and she had long since learned how to make such assumptions serve her rather than hinder her.
Her attention shifted, almost imperceptibly, toward the sideboard where the decanter rested, though the movement was slight enough to pass without comment, her expression unchanged as she continued speaking. Then she turned back to him, her gaze dropping to the now empty cut crystal glass in his hand. “Oh, heavens! What a terrible wife I am to sit here prattling on while you are withering with thirst. Shall I get you another brandy, my dear husband?”
