Milton sat a moment longer on the mat in Li’s tea room. Never had he wished to cause his wife such misery and pain. He’d spanked her before as a means of control—his own and hers. But this last punishment had felt different.He’dlost control, an unforgivable lapse. Elizabeth had brought out the very worst in him, and he hated her for it, though he hated himself even more. She’d goaded him into breaking his own blasted code of honor—and now he’d pay for marrying the wrong woman for the rest of his godforsaken life.
Yet he wanted her, his longing for Elizabeth most bizarre. He didn’t know why he wanted his wife’s affection when he knew such weakness was at worst a liability, at best a futile hope. His past would forever haunt and taunt him. And Elizabeth would now submit to him for fear alone.
Fuck!He did not wish to be cruel. He simply wished to bring his wife in line.
To hell with Li’s advice, Milton thought. He knew what he must do.
“They all know, don’t they?” Elizabeth asked Ginny as she soaked for the second time that day in a bath. Her bottom still ached, despite the arnica and witch hazel liniment her maid had liberally applied. The ruler had left raised welts; it would take time for her skin to heal.
“Well now…” Across the room Ginny fussed with Elizabeth’s dress.
Of course they all knew. The servants had been too kind: a posy at her bedside and chocolate for breakfast. A croissant with a yellow pansy tucked beside it on the plate. Gerald had even complimented her green frock. It was mortifying one’s household knew so much, humiliating to endure their pity.
“It doesn’t matter,” Elizabeth muttered to herself for the hundredth time that day. “It doesn’t matter what they think of me now.”
“Think o’ you, ma’am!” Ginny’s words exploded. “’Tis what they think o’him. In t’ doghouse, he is! Burnt toast fer breakfast an’ salt in ’is coffee. Jack even told ’im t’ saddle ’is own mount when he made off in a huff this morn. An’ deserves it, he do, every bit of our?—”
Elizabeth interrupted. “Where did the Baron go, Ginny, do you know? I should like to avoid him if I can.”
“Dunno, ma’am. A ride t’ burn things off, I s’pose. He does that when he gets in one of his moods. Or went t’ see Miss Li, mayhap. Depends right much on ’er counsel if y’ ask me.”
Miss Li, Elizabeth realized, had not replied to the letter she’d sent. Perhaps she should call on the lady herself, provided her beast of a husband would allow it. And her mother-in-law, Madam Audrey, had not replied either, hmm. No doubt Milton’sclosest confidantes wished nothing more to do with her now that she was his property.
Theywere not property. He respected their ability and intelligence, if not her own.
Elizabeth tamped down her infernal anger. She’d sworn off all emotion; she was turning over a new leaf in her marriage, one which focused inward, not outward or back. One which required as little contact with her bastard of a husband as possible.
That night, Milton slipped into his wife’s chamber to deliver her a bedside note, presuming she slept. Instead, he found her submerged in a bath, eyes closed, dark hair floating like the Lady of the Lake. Her nipples peeked above in rosy decadence, her legs bent at angles so that her knees poked out. He was stricken by her beauty, and by how wretched her beauty made him feel.
He crept back to his room before she could catch him spying, yet sleep refused to come. He tossed and turned, imagining a way to right this sinking ship and amend his rotten ways. He imagined becoming the man he wished to be, rather than the man he seemed destined to remain.
She could hardly remain angry at him forever, could she?
Yet a voice inside Milton whispered that his wife could, and would stay angry. Because a woman forged like Elizabeth—fierce and smart and proud—might hold a grudge for a very long time. Li had. Years ago, Li had been so furious at both himself and Wells it had taken no small degree of groveling on both their parts for her to come around.
Not even Mutton could ease Milton’s misery. The wolfhound slept at the foot of his master’s bed, in reproach of all Milton was—and would never become.
***
Elizabeth sank deeper into the deliciously hot water, submerging herself in silence. She knew she’d taxed staff with a third bath as well as by taking dinner in her room. She’d managed all day to avoid her miserable husband but was sure she’d be forced to do her duty by him again this night, slave to his conjugal rights.
How she hated Mother England, whose women had no rights!
She willed herself not to fear her husband’s touch, for she’d enjoyed their congress before. Only now she felt deceived—had allowed herself tobedeceived—by imagining emotion ever entered the Baron’s twisted mind. She’d confused bodily pleasure with sentiment, letting herself foolishly feel for the man when she was but a vessel for his offspring, nothing more.
Elizabeth broke the bath’s surface and stepped out to don her banyan, having long dismissed Ginny. She reached for the salve beside her bed and saw a note laid across its lid.
Elizabeth, I will not ask you to visit my chamber this night. You are hurting, and I am unable to speak, let alone write, words to relieve your pain. There are no words to undo what I have done. I can only beg your forgiveness. —Milton
Surprise, irritation, and a million other feelings flooded her mind. She stuffed his note into her drawer. He’d not said that he was sorry, he’d merely begged forherforgiveness. And why should she now shoulder his guilt? He was not, at heart, repentant. He was like a surly, sullen child. Perhaps staff had made him write it. Yes, Gerald had told him to apologize. Or Murdoch. Milton had acted sorry before and not meant it; let him lie in the bed he’d made and stew.
She applied more salve to her posterior, pulled on her night-rail, and laid herself upon her stomach, willing sleep to come.
When it did, her devil of a husband entered her dreams with singular insistence, until she awoke and poured her dreams onto pages lit by the faint light of dawn. Elizabeth covered one blank canvas after another in sprawling, curling script, her tale unfurling with fantastical reach into ever darker realms.
At times she did not recognize the words she wrote—as if they were not hers, but his.
CHAPTER TWENTY
