Page 43

Was she uncomfortable with him standing in her room? That had to be it. She’d agreed to the annulment, after all. Her desire for their relationship to remain platonic was obvious. Charles, of course, was willing to oblige, despite his level of attraction to her. He’d meant what he’d said before. He wouldn’t do anything to injure her.

A fleeting thought flickered through his mind. If he followed through with the annulment, would he be back in the running for losing the bet? Or was his marriage, short as it was, enough to secure a win? He was fine either way, but he knew alerting his friends of any marriage would put them into a frenzy.

Perhaps Charles would pull a page out of Mother’s book and do a little matchmaking himself, then. Thomas and Andrew might already be married, and Rowan was promised to another. But Ambrose Hartley—good, ole, overplanning Rosie—might find Marie humorous. Perhaps even sullen Leonard would enjoy her company.

And yet, the mere thought of Marie being wrapped in the arms of any of his school friends, sharing her kisses with them and bestowing warm smiles upon them, filled his stomach with that same jealous frustration that had encompassed him at the ball.

“I ought to be out of here soon enough,” he reassured her—and himself—as he moved to stand beside his trunk.

She made no response, her petite figure remaining resolutely in the doorframe. Her form and posture were always flawless, but in her dark blue traveling clothes, she was regality itself. A few dark curls had come loose during their carriage ride and now trailed down one of her shoulders. He fought the urge to close the distance between them to see if the strands were as smooth as they appeared.

An awkward silence filled the space between them, and the absence of any servant’s footsteps became more and more obvious.

“Does the bell not work?” she asked, motioning to the strip of fabric draped near the wall.

He tried again, but after no response, he sighed. Marie obviously wished for him to leave the intimacy of her room and would not relax until he did so. But who knew how long they’d be waiting?

“I’ll just take care of it myself,” he muttered, moving to the trunks again as he removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

Finally, he hoisted his trunk onto his shoulder, then made to leave the room, but Marie was still standing in the doorway, her eyes on his forearms.

For the first time since he’d met her, he could read her expression. Clear as the skies that morning, approval and admiration shone in her eyes as she watched him handle the trunk.

His chest opened, and his shoulders straightened of their own accord. That same feeling that stirred within him during their kiss returned, and suddenly, the weight of the trunk was insignificant.

These sorts of feelings were not entirely unexpected—after all, he’d already admitted to finding Marie attractive. But if they were to seek an annulment, if he was truly wishing to end their union, he certainly shouldn’t be dwelling on them...or wishing for more.

“Pardon,” he said, motioning to the door.

She blinked once, then stepped aside with reddened cheeks.

All Charles could do was hide his smile as he left the room.

Marie, once again, did not sleep well that night, or the night after that. This was, in part, due to the flimsy nature of her bed, as she feared one sudden roll might render her flat on the floor.

What made matters worse, however, were the veritably paper-thin walls within the cottage.

Charles had found the room next to Marie’s prepared, so he’d settled there, but with every movement he made, she could hear his footsteps, the whining of the chair near his desk, and the creaking of his bed. She never heard voices, however, only his movements, but it made matters very difficult to not imagine him pacing about his room, dressing for bed, and climbing beneath his covers.

Their first full day at Woewood, she only left her room to join him for church. The two of them slipped in at the back, then left before a word could be spoken to either of them. When they returned, Marie retreated directly to her room, and there she remained for the entirety of the day, not having the energy or desire to deal with her husband—or the constant reminder of how attracted to him she was.

After sunrise on the second day, she heard him roll out of his bed and watched him leave the cottage on what she could only assume was a morning walk. Hoping to eat without him and anxious for a view beyond her four walls, she dressed and slipped from her room to take her breakfast downstairs at a leisurely pace.

She didn’t need to rush. Charles would remain out of doors for as long as possible, no doubt attempting to rid himself of his seemingly endless energy by bounding across fields like a young buck or scaling trees like a feral tomcat.

However, as she scooped a generous helping of apricot preserve onto her piece of toast and brought it to her mouth, Charles walked into the kitchen.

With the toast just before her lips and her mouth hanging open, she froze. She had never seen a person less prepared for breakfast than Charles as he entered the dining area. Father had always dressed appropriately, fully clothed and ready to eat. But not Charles. He wore no cravat nor jacket, and his waistcoat was fully unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal his flowing, white shirt that hung open at the top.

Truthfully, she should have expected nothing less than complete indecorum from the man.

Anyway, what was he doing home so early? She would have thought he’d have taken a much longer walk.

“Morning,” he said casually, pulling out a seat across from her and helping himself to his own toast and poached egg.

Marie still stared. The ridges in his forearm shifted as he reached for the preserves she’d just used but had yet to enjoy. He took a bite, chewed it heartily, then swallowed. She stared at his throat bobbing up and down, then her eyes trailed down to the curves of his chest.

Charles remained entirely unaware of her stares until he reached for his teacup and paused. He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. “Something the matter?”