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"Has His Grace returned from his outing?" she asked, attempting to sound casual.

The servant bowed. "I shall inquire, Your Grace," he replied before departing through the door.

Olivia watched him go and sighed heavily. "Naturally," she muttered, picking up her glass but not drinking from it. "The man can terrify his wife half to death and then fail to appear for dinner. How wonderfully considerate."

A few moments later, the servant returned and bowed once more. "His Grace has not yet returned, Your Grace," he said respectfully. Olivia nodded, though disappointment and irritation battled inside her.

"Very well. Thank you," she replied, waving him away with a small movement of her hand.

Once she was alone again, she stared at the empty chair and gave a humorless laugh. "Fine," she told it. "I shall eat without you."

She called for the food to be served and forced herself to take several bites, though she could hardly taste the food. Every mouthful seemed to carry another question.

It would be much easier if I could simply decide that James is wicked and walk away. Unfortunately, my heart has already begun collecting evidence against that conclusion and attempting to make excuses for him.

By the time she retired to her bedchamber, Olivia had reached a decision.

If James intends to avoid the subject, I will simply have to make avoiding it impossible.

"Tomorrow evening is the Midton ball, and the entire house would be filled with guests, music, dancing, and enough society to prevent James from retreating into one of his brooding corners without being noticed."

She crossed to her wardrobe and began examining the gowns arranged inside, eventually pulling out a pale blue silk gown with delicate embroidery at the sleeves.

She held it against herself before the mirror and studied her reflection.

"Tomorrow," she told her reflection firmly, smoothing the fabric over her waist, "you are going to ask him." She raised one eyebrow. "And he is going to answer you."

Olivia placed the gown carefully over a chair and began pacing the room.

"He cannot ride away. He cannot suddenly decide he has estate business. He cannot stare at me with that dreadful expression and make me forget what I was saying."

She stopped, remembering precisely how easily those blue eyes could unsettle her, and pointed accusingly at her own reflection.

"And you, Olivia, will not be distracted by his face."

That was a particularly important instruction, because James had a very distracting face.

She groaned and covered her eyes. "Oh, this is hopeless."

Yet beneath the embarrassment was determination. She was his wife. Whatever secrets he carried, whatever had happened between him and his brother, she had a right to understand the danger into which she had placed herself.

Eventually Olivia climbed into bed, but sleep refused to come. She turned onto one side, then the other, pulling the covers higher before throwing them down again. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the waterfall, James standing before her, his expression unreadable as he said those terrible words. I killed my brother. She wondered whether he regretted it. Whether he was ashamed. Whether he was frightened that she would discover the truth.

Perhaps he had killed in self-defense. Perhaps it had been an accident. Perhaps there was something even worse.

Olivia opened her eyes and stared into the darkness. "Tomorrow," she whispered, gripping the edge of her pillow, "you are going to tell me everything, James."

She drew a slow breath and tried to settle herself. "Because I am your wife, and I refuse to be left wondering whether I married a murderer."

Yet even as she said it, another thought slipped quietly into her mind, one she did not want to examine too closely, whatever James had done, she desperately wanted to believe there was still goodness in him.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Olivia woke to a soft knock upon her bedchamber door, and for one foolish, hopeful instant she thought it might be James. She sat upright, pushing her dark hair from her face as her heart gave an unexpected little leap, only to scold herself immediately for it.

After everything that had happened, she ought to have been expecting an explanation rather than feeling pleased at the thought of seeing him. She slipped from the bed and crossed the carpeted room, tying the loose sash of her dressing gown around her waist before opening the door. Her disappointment was immediate when she found Hannah standing there with a silver tray balanced carefully in both hands instead of the tall, broad-shouldered man she had expected.

"Good morning, Your Grace," Hannah said with a small curtsy, carefully adjusting the tray as she stepped through the doorway.