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She played another few notes. “You won’t even be able to recognize the tune.”

“Then it shall be a game.”

She sighed. “Very well.”

She wiggled her fingers, then dove into the song, wincing at each terribly untuned note. At first, she cringed, then the humor of the sound rushed over her, and she laughed.

“This is terrible!” she said.

“I disagree. I’ve never heard the song before, but it sounds wonderful.”

She laughed again. “It is ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ Charles. That goes to show how terrible it is if you can’t even recognize it.”

He chuckled, too, and her giggling picked up, though she continued playing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like this. She felt light, whole, even healed.

To have Charles’s laughter mingled with her own made her feel even better.

Charles knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it. Marie was glowing. He’d never seen her laugh, let alone so heartily. Her smile was luminous, her whole persona so desirable, that the joy overcoming him made him feel...whole.

“I promise I can play better than this,” she said through mirthful tears, shaking her head.

Charles believed her. If she could make this pianoforte sound remotely fine, he could hardly wait to see what she could do with a real instrument back at Grendale Manor.

The image of Marie in his home, playing his family’s pianoforte, produced a warmth that blossomed in his chest and spread throughout his person.

He had assumed over the last few days that Mr. Page would provide a way for Charles and Marie to end their marriage swiftly. He’d pictured their bridal tour ending prematurely with Marie returning to Westburn and her parents while Charles returned to Grendale.

With Mr. Page’s continued silence, that was looking less and less likely—a thought that filled Charles with relief.

But that relief startled him from his thoughts. He wanted her to return home with him?

Marie finished the song with another laugh. “Well, there you have it. I told you it would be terrible.”

Charles blinked, stretching a smile across his lips. “No, it was wonderful.”

She eyed him, having heard the tension in his tone. “Are you all right?”

He nodded, though his movements were too frantic. He was spiraling. He’d been still for too long, and that had allowed his mind to wander and confuse itself.

He wanted to choose his future still. He wanted the annulment still. Marie wanted the annulment still. He just needed to remind himself.

“It appears the rain has settled somewhat,” he said, though drops still pelted the warped glass. “I think I’ll head to the village to see if Mr. Page has written.”

Marie’s smile faded, but he told himself that could only be a good thing. They both needed the reminder.

Still, he did not wish to lose all the progress they had made toward civility. “I would invite you to join me, but I know you only walk in pleasant weather.”

She nodded, standing from the instrument and returning to her book. “Yes, that is correct. At any rate, I’d like to continue reading for a time.”

Excellent. So they were both content. He lingered a moment longer, her eyes fixed on the pages of her novel before he finally left the room.

He should have felt instant relief, but all he could think of was how the devil he was going to manage the delicate balance between being there for his wife and not falling for his wife.

Please let there be a letter from Mr. Page.

No letter from Mr. Page came that rainy day. Nor the day after that, nor the day after that. On Saturday, a little over a week since arriving at Woewood, Marie sat in the sitting room again on her own, as had become her custom.

Charles walked in—just as he always did—with his hat and gloves in his hands and an easy smile on his lips.