She clearly had no idea who the Duke of Lennox was to Baron of Milton.
Elizabeth rose. “Thank you for receiving me today, Lady Stanton, and for your attempt to cheer. I am afraid, however, that my husband is not accepting invitations at present, so please do not trouble yourself in this regard. I shall manage marriage one way or another, especially now that I?—”
But the blasted woman had already guessed. “Why, what wonderful news, my dear! And never you mind your mood. It comes and goes in your condition. It is quite normal to feel out of sorts when one finds oneself in such a blessed state. Oh, I am so very, very pleased!Aren’t we, sir?” She jiggled Sir Wigglebottom on her lap, planting a kiss to his wrinkled head.
Elizabeth began to creep toward the door. She did not feel blessed, she felt cursed.
Lady Stanton vigorously caressed her pug. “Do call again, Lizzie, or I shall call on you.We must check up on her, mustn’t we?” she crooned over her wriggling bundle.
Elizabeth even stopped byLeBrecht’son the pretext of shopping, though she was promptly whisked off not for a new fitting but another brutal stripping.
“What took yer so long?” chided Rose as Miss Li’s maids began to rid Elizabeth of all parts again grown hirsute.
“You’ve let yerself go,” tsked Mae. “I’m surprised Jasp didn’t send yer back sooner.”
“Grown sloppy in matrimony.” Evie tittered.
“Lord Milton has not been himself.” Elizabeth sobered their mirth. She longed to tell them everything, to spill every wretched feeling she’d buried deep. Instead, she swallowed the lump in her throat. She would not cry. She’d cried enough to form a lake.
“You two quarrelin’?” Rose broke the silence.
“Yes.” Elizabeth’s resolve weakened. “And I do not think our disagreement can be mended.” She yelped as Mae ripped off a patch and murmured, “Sorry, luv,” before moving on to the next bit.
Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears from more than mere discomfort.
“He’s not an easy man, is Jasper,” Rose remarked, “but he’s a good man, miss.” There was an edge to her voice. “I’d remind yer ladyship that what Finch did t’ Jasp ain’t a thing a body can forget.”
Elizabeth knew this, had known this for some time, but it did not change the fact her husband would not allow her to help ease the horrors he’d experienced.
“He is broken,” she muttered. “He is broken, and he can’t be fixed. He won’tletme fix him.” That idea only ever workedin fiction. No heroine in real life could ‘fix’ the hero. He must somehow fix himself.
“You love ’im though?” Evie asked her gently. “If y’ love ’im, y’ can’t stop tryin’, no matter how oft he spurns yer attempts. Y’ must try till he tells yer t’ stop.”
“I think he has, Evie.” Elizabeth was overcome by sudden grief. “He’s put up a wall I can neither scale nor crack.”
“Then more fool him,” Mae got out. “He’s an arse t’ let a lady like you go, ma’am.” Her eyes met Elizabeth’s. “Mayhap y’ ought to let ’im know it.”
Milton was miserable, but it was a misery he knew, familiar.
There was comfort in such misery, perverse though that may be. He surveyed his desk: The week’s papers were neatly stacked, his ledgers in a tidy state. A painting of Dover’s white cliffs hung opposite his view. He’d always wanted to visit and perhaps now he would. His affairs were in order, his body mostly healed, and his house ran efficiently despite his servants’ grumbling. He existed as before, only with a pregnant wife under his roof.
And Finch gone, for good.
Dover might help him put matters firmly behind him, do him good to breathe its fresh, salt air. Because the beast lived on in his head, in his dreams still. If he left, Elizabeth would be well cared for by a staff that doted on their mistress more than their master anyway. Nor would she lack for company; he knew she made visits about town without his permission because he had her tailed. Fortunately, reports confirmed she’d not gone to see Kilpert, though calling on Lady Stanton had raised a flag.
As for Arty, curse him, Milton’s best mate had made things worse the day he’d stopped by to share that Mrs. Harriswas, deed done, in truth made Arty’s wife. The pride in his friend’s voice, Arty’s veritable glow, had moved Milton to do the unthinkable: attempt apology with his own ‘trouble an’ strife.’ But of course it had gone terribly. He could no more repair his broken marriage than he could repair his broken sodding soul.
He recalled the pages he’d read littering Elizabeth’s desk when he’d not found her in her bedroom but instead found her writing laid out.
The lady was faint with hunger, but it was not food she craved. She hungered for knowledge, comprehension. She had succumbed to her base urges, to the mirroring call in her breast, yet though the beastly baron had seduced her, she’d forgiven the man his lust. She knew the fire of his loins, his rough, demonic touch. But she could not forgive how fast he’d cast her off once he’d learned she carried his child. Was he repulsed now by her person, or had he loathed her all along, duping her into submission while he’d toyed with her flesh?
His wife’s writing had smacked disturbingly ofhim, making Milton skim another page like some starved, greedy fool, only to discover the lady in Lizzie’s story falling in love with a lowly servant. Only which servant, damnation? Was Kilpert not his rival after all?
“What are you doing?”
Milton had startled so much he’d dropped the page he’d been reading.
“I think it best you leave my room before I throw this book at your head.” Elizabeth’s sudden appearance had thoroughly unnerved him.
