Annabelle blew out the remaining bedside candle while her body pulsed and hummed. A vision of Arthur Harris’s broad shoulders glistening with water in the glow of firelight came unbidden to mind, making her toss and turn and sigh.
“Woman, stop yer thrashing,” he grumped from the floor. “Fer such a fine-bred lady, you’re as dainty as a sow in labor, gnashin’ and grindin’ yer teeth.”
“I am not a sow in labor, swine,” she pushed back. “It isyourfault I cannot sleep, stuck in a carriage a night and a day and now locked in this room with you, forced to?—”
“Forced t’ what, princess? Sleep in a soft bed, after a hot meal an’ clean wash? Lord, that this should be so awful.” He snorted.
“Oh, go to hell, you cretin!” She flung herself to the other side of the bed, as far from him as she could possibly get.
It felt like forever before she slept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Milton had stopped byThe Leafto learn Harris was indeed en route to the border. He did not relish telling his wife this news.
In fact, he cursed his lot as he searched for Elizabeth first in the drawing room, and then the library. He swore altogether much these days, which was unbecoming of a baron, though lately he felt less the titled gentleman and more the lowly whoreson from the East End. It was Finch, worming his way back into Milton’s life again. For years he’d been focused on his devil of a sire instead of his childhood demon, but now the two merged into a single, solitary evil in his head.
He loathed that his wife’s sister was mixed up in all of this. It was the last thing he’d wanted, and it complicated his plans. What he wanted was to start a family of his own, to enjoy the wealth he’d amassed, and of course to make his father pay.
Hardly asking much, given the hand he’d been dealt.
He’d always desired more from life than he’d been given, and why shouldn’t his dreams be bold? Milton had a blood right to riches. His mum had regaled him with stories of life beneath his father’s roof, of the sumptuous meals and glittering rooms the man enjoyed. Horses, hounds, and hijinks of all sorts had beenmusic to Milton’s young ears—he didn’t blame her for indulging his childhood fantasies. Lord knew she’d needed fantasies, too, to keep herself from going mad.
Hunger was a funny thing though. It never left, even when one’s belly was full.
And hiswasfull. His house was more opulent than his father’s, his silly phaeton the most expensive for miles. Yet the more he gained, the less sure he felt, as if he lived some sodding parable of conceit in which the rest of the bloody world still didn’t see him for who he was: a man of worth.
“Lizzie.” He stopped in his tracks, frowning, for there she stood on a small step stool, painting bookshelves alongside staff.
His butler would get an earful.
She turned, brush in hand, a smudge of paint on her cheek. He shoved down a vision of his wife in that smock on her knees, pleasuring him.
“Why in God’s name are you … painting?”
“I wished to speed completion,” she answered, as if her statement were not utterly absurd.
He shook his head at her. “When you are done, I’d like a word.”
“Have you news?” She looked so eager, so filled with hope, he hated that he must disappoint her.
“Yes.”
“Then I shall come at once.”
***
Elizabeth put down her brush, wiped her hands on her smock, and followed her husband down the hall. Since meeting Hieronymus Finch this morning, she’d felt thoroughly unsettled,restless almost with worry. Painting shelves distracted only so much.
Clearly, Milton’s past with Finch fueled the awful man’s desire to snare Annabelle, meaning blame rested not just with Papa this time, but also with her husband. Whowasthe Baron, that he should be mixed up with such a scoundrel? Miss Li’s words repeated in her head:Milton is the man he is because of his past.And that past was key to understanding the present—key, she felt, to ensuring Annabelle’s future.
Elizabeth was determined to uncover her husband’s past if she had to wrest the answers from Finch himself.
“Drink?” Milton offered the moment they entered his office.
“No, thank you.” She took a seat before his desk, recalling what had transpired here once before. She shivered.
He brought bottle and glass from the sideboard to pour himself a brandy, and Elizabeth felt like she’d arrived for an interview, an awkward one at that. For to expose oneself so nakedly in body to another person, yet remain inwardly so guarded, hiding one’s thoughts and feelings even as one bared one’s flesh, continued to split her psyche in two.
