So Aideen fell silent.
She glared at the portrait of her scowling duke, the only likeness she was liable to view over breakfast as the real one hid behindThe Times.
After the carriage ride from Southwark yesterday, he’d escorted her into the house without once catching her eye and then gone out for the remainder of the day.
That was until a half before midnight.
Not feeling like reading, she had simply lain in the darkness, not regretting her actions, as ultimately she had saved her husband’s life, but saddened they couldn’t seem to find a middle ground, a…compromise.
Then the door had whispered open. A light tread. The covers had been drawn back. A cold body had joined her.
She’d opened her mouth to speak but words had been taken by a gentle kiss and he’d clasped her close, sighed and then slept, warm breath disturbing her hair. The whole night through she’d been lost to his tight embrace, holding her as if it was the last time he would ever do so.
But even though she’d awoken a mere smidgeon after dawn, the bed had been bereft of warmth. He’d left.
As a consequence, Aideen now felt befuddled, annoyed and generally quite out of sorts, as it seemed the duke of glowering rigidness had returned.
Maybe that tattoo stood for Dogmatic or Despotic or Downright pig-headed.
She’d dressed hideously early in order to catch her husband at breakfast, and even Rawlins had cracked a surprised expression, but the duke had merely greeted her courteously and then disappeared behind that dratted newspaper.
Indeed, the sole reason to suppose there was anyone there at all was the vanishing of two slices of toast, one sausage, three pieces of bacon and three cups of chocolate.
“I don’t suppose,” she tried, “that anyone fancies kippers this morning?”
A vague grunt came from behindThe Times, but it didn’t lower, and no stern glances edged over the top.
Tea, Cordelia had forever declared, was the cure for all woes, but Aideen craved something stronger – like Uncle Seamus’s home-distilled whisky. It didn’t cure woes, but you did forget about them for a week.
Aideen opened her mouth to tell Alex about it, but he must have heard her intake of breath as the newspaper shook and rose higher.
Instead of the usual fury churning within, however, weariness now pained her heart and utter exhaustion beset her limbs.
She closed her lips.
Another slice of toast disappeared behind a front page article about an escaped bear mauling the crowds at Winchester fair, and she nibbled her own breakfast. The chef now baked her favourite Waterford buns every morning and she bit into the soft white dough, relishing the taste of Ireland.
She missed home.
When she’d thought Alex felt something for her, living in this marble mausoleum had been worthwhile, and of course, she had made fine friends here – Meghan, Cordelia, the Beckfords, Jack and Lily.
But she missed the open green fields, and Uncle Seamus’s slathering hounds, booming laugh and enthusiastic hugs. Even her da’s sarcastic rebukes kept her on her toes. She missed the wild River Suir and the slate drizzle that dripped into your soul like love.
She considered staying with Meghan or the Beckfords for a while, who she knew would welcome her with open arms, but the duke would no doubt call and command her home.
A change of scenery was what she required. To breathe deeply without choking on grimy city fog. To regather her strength and thoughts. To feel the wet grass of Ireland beneath her feet and the blustery wind in her hair.
She would visit Waterford. Just for a short time.
“Alex, I think I may–”
“Not now.” The newspaper lowered and, after an unwarranted amount of folding, was placed carefully on the table. Then her husband stood. “I have an early meeting with Rainham. I apologise, but you understand?” he said, not appearing in the least apologetic.
And she did. She really did. Because all of a sudden, comprehension besieged her. Caressing his stern handsome face with her eyes, she finally understood.
Last night, Aideen had received another letter from Cordelia markedSomewhere in Nottingham. She’d written of Oakdean’s teasing nature and caring ways; she’d written of love and laughter and everything which Aideen’s marriage lacked. She’d signed off with:
Trust your heart,
