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The instant lowering of Charles’s shoulders and softening of his brow told Marie everything she needed to know.

She’d made the right decision this time, and she would not regret it.

Chapter Seventeen

After his defense of Marie, Charles felt a palpable shift in their friendship. Where first, he’d been with her out of duty, now he began to look forward to their time together.

Part of this was due to the fact that he was more intentional with his time—refusing to dwell any longer on Mr. Oakley’s insolence or fretting about missing the hunting trip with Tristan.

Instead, each morning Charles awakened early, walked for an hour before Marie rose, then returned to Woewood to share breakfast with her—breakfast for which he was always dressed.

From morning on, they spent the rest of each day together, speaking of their families, friends, memories, and interests.

When the weather was poorly, they would remain indoors while Marie read aloud or played the untuned pianoforte for him again, which always proved to send them both into fits of laughter.

Charles had always grown unbearably restless when he was seated indoors all day, but Marie’s engaging conversation and enjoyable company caused the hours to fly by unnoticed.

On days when the sun shone, he would request her presence during his walk to the village. Each time, she would readily agree. He assumed her eagerness was due to her desire to find a letter from Mr. Page waiting for them—evidence that she still wished to pursue the termination of their vows. And yet, each time a letter did not arrive, Marie hardly reacted beyond a simple nod, leaving Charles with the impossible task of deciphering if she was upset or pleased.

He knew he ought to ask her again how she felt. But he was too frightened to do so—just as he was too frightened to untangle his own web of befuddled feelings on the subject.

With Mr. Page’s continued silence, Charles’s sense of urgency and desperation for the annulment had lessened to a degree, replaced with a grating discomfort at both the thought of staying within the marriage and ending it.

Charles loved his old life. Spending time with his friends had been his greatest joy for many years. And yet, deep down, he’d always known something was amiss.

He’d first perceived this void within him when he’d spent time with Andrew and his new bride—and with Thomas and his wife. They seemed so happy, so content. Charles had never experienced any such feelings, always having to chase one experience after another to distract himself from his empty boredom—and his empty life.

So now, to be perfectly content merely sitting with Marie, to revel in the rewarding sound of her lilting laughter and witnessing her smiles, looks, and goodness firsthand...he had to question what exactly he was feeling. Belonging? Satisfaction? Wholeness?

He still longed for freedom and for a happy future with a wife of his choosing, but he could not deny how greatly he enjoyed Marie’s bright company. The thought of no longer having her in his life lowered his spirits to an almost crushing level.

He prevented himself from dwelling too long on these perplexing and often shifting emotions, but each night after he and Marie finally parted well after ten in the evening, his thoughts always centered on her.

Even that night, five days later, he thought of her as he lay in bed half-dressed, staring up at the shadows the fire cast upon his ceiling. With his feet crossed at the ankles, he shifted his legs back and forth, waiting impatiently for what was to come.

Finally, eleven o’clock appeared on his pocket watch, and Charles heard the first, soft sounds of Marie’s gentle singing from her bedchamber, just as it had each night since their conversation at the church.

He eyed the old, wooden wall separating them, imagining her lips as she sang the lyrics to whatever song she chose that evening. From what he could tell, she stood near her window as she sang, peering through the glass while brushing out her long, black locks.

Of course, this was all conjecture, for Charles had never seen her do such a thing. But oh, how he could imagine it.

He closed his eyes as her soft tone continued, her smooth, unassuming voice encompassing him. The muted brushing continued, and he could almost see her silken tresses draping like a dark waterfall over the shoulder of her dressing gown. How long did her hair flow? Past her waist? Did it feel as smooth as it always appeared?

Thinking of a woman in this manner was hardly gentlemanly, and yet, did not a husband have permission to think of his wife in such a way?

Perhaps if she was to remain his wife...

He frowned. The thought had come in tandem with listening to Marie singing each night. It was moments like these, in the late hour where his will weakened and his mind wavered enough for him to dare to think the impossible—that living with Marie as his wife might not be as terrible as he’d first thought.

He attempted to push the notion aside, but her voice continued to wrap around his heart. How he longed to actually see her singing.

“Father said I am far more accomplished in playing pianoforte,” she’d said to him after Charles requested her to sing along as she played.

His heart ached at the thought of Mr. Oakley not approving of her. She deserved a father’s approval. Just as she deserved a husband’s approval.

Just as she deserved to fall in love. Dare Charles think she could ever fall in love with him?

He opened his eyes, staring at the dark ceiling as the intrusive thoughts continued, for he was no longer able to ward them off.