Some other woman could give her husband his coveted heirs, because he clearly did not want her for his wife. Elizabeth lay listless in bed and wished herself dead.
Only that wasn’t true, damnation, because she didn’t want to die, she wanted her rotten husband back! She wanted the man she’d begun to uncover, whom she’d quietly, secretly hoped had grown fond of her too. There’d been signs he cared, enjoyed her company beyond mere enjoyment of her flesh. Before Finch, she’d held hope.
Now no hint of the man she thought she’d known remained.
The Baron still did not deign to speak to her. Not once had he visited her sickbed, even knowing she now carried his long-sought heir. Though one night she’d dreamt he stood over her, staring down with tears in his eyes. A dream.
His disregard, his treatment of her was inhumane.
She crawled out from under the bedclothes to fetch a sheaf of paper and a heavy book. She laid the blank pages atop the book’s hard cover, placed the inkwell within bedside reach, andbegan to write an entirely new story. The brooding baronwould not brood. Instead, he’d be hell bent on the heroine’s complete annihilation, though the lady would of course fight back.
In this story, Elizabeth would kill the antihero and resurrect him as an entirely new man. Failing that, she’d kill the heroine. Something, someone, had to die—or change.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
It was a relief Mrs. Harris no longer slept in Mr. Harris’s bed. She’d taken a room of her own, albeit not on the same floor with his working girls, and Harris once again kept her busy at his books. He, meanwhile, was doing his utmost to annul their blasted marriage, with progress slower than he wished due to one sticking point: his solicitor deemed the feat impossible.
Which is why Harris had spoken to Jasp, who’d sent him tohisman instead. Jasper’s solicitor thought there might be a way around matters, but he did not guarantee success, and Harris did not like the solution. Only it didn’t matter what he liked, he had to try for Annabelle’s sake. Thus, he had agreed to have the man draw up a damning document listing every rotten deed Harris had ever done, including quite a few he hadn’t.
It was finished just in time for his wife’s twenty-first birthday, though Harris gave it to her a day early.
“Arthur, what is this?”
“A gift.”
“How did you know tomorrow is my?—?”
“The girls all talk, Bella. Y’ think I don’t hear things?”
She blushed.
“I hope you’re pleased.”
She skimmed the contents, her face clouding over. “But Arthur, this is dreadful. It paints you in a terrible light. Why, to read it one would think you the most dishonorable, reprehensible rake in all of London!”
“Yup, added in the dastardly parts meself. Quite th’ story, eh?” He was pleased with his work.
“But why dosuch a thing?” Her lovely face crumpled. “Why would you knowingly perjure yourself in such awful, unflattering terms?”
“T’ make it legal.” He frowned back at her. “The solicitor says there must be blame—irrevocable proof—t’ achieve annulment. He insisted a doctor prove yer chastity too, but I paid the feller off so you needn’t submit t’ no exam.”
“You mean a doctor would have—?” Her face turned scarlet.
“Bella, don’t worry yer pretty head o’er aught what got written. Society deems me a lowlife as ’tis. Y’ need only sign t’morrow in the presence o’ me solicitor as witness, an’ the matter’ll be done.” He did not understand why her entire body seemed to radiate displeasure. “Why the long face? I thought it were the perfect gift.”
“Oh it is perfect, all right.” Her eyes began to fill. “It is perfectly splendid. I don’t mind in the least what you have allowed them to write about you, not in theleast!”
And out she ran, tears spilling from her eyes and the document discarded on his desk, making Harris wonder what the hell he’d done this time to rile her.
Come morning Arthur’s working ladies surprised Annabelle with a birthday tray, replete with chocolate and flowers.
She pulled the covers over her head and told them to go away.
Janie shooed the others out, threatening Annabelle, “Now that ain’t no way to treat folks, Mrs. Harris, an’ as I’m sure Arty’d like t’ congratulate you too, you’d best?—”
“He won’t.” Annabelle sniffed. “He doesn’t want me, Janie. Never has.”
Arthur’s house madam yanked on the bedclothes, exposing Annabelle to the brisk morning air. “What’s this now?”
