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Odd, fugitive, undeserved. She had done nothing to deserve his love, and she rather thought he hadn’t given it. Sometimes she thought, recently, that she saw something tender in his eyes, almost longing, but…
But somehow she had poured out her love when they first married, and there was no taking it back, no matter how she tried.
And no matter how he rebuffed her.
Perhaps…perhaps she was making a mountain from a mouse. Elijah worked too hard. He always worked too hard; that was why he had fainted in the House of Lords last year. Overwork and lack of sleep.
Perhaps he needed to be reminded that life was not work. She could…
But the idea of going to his chambers in the Inns of Court made her physically ill. She could remember what his mistress’s hair looked like, flowing over the edge of his desk. Surely he still had that desk. It was a large solid oak one, good for the weight of a sturdy woman.
It hadn’t been making a creaking sound as she entered, though he was surely thrusting with some strength…
It was all so far in the past, and yet close enough to touch.
She couldn’t go to his chambers. What if she did and there was some evidence of his current mistress, if he had one?
Or had he told her that he had no mistress these days?
She couldn’t even remember: such a crucial detail and it was gone.
Jemma rose to her feet; her letters fell to the carpet. She was not a woman, she told herself, to sit around bleating and wringing her hands. She was a person who—
Who went and got a man if she wished.
She wasn’t a mere lass anymore. If she wanted to see her husband, she would do so. And of course she would have his clerks properly announce her, so that in the remote chance he was entertaining a woman, he could bundle her out the back door.
She needed an excuse for paying a visit. In vain she tried to think of something important. Why would she stop by his office? Why would any wife? Only to announce an immediate change of plans. If one, for instance, had suddenly decided to leave London for a few days, and go to the country. She could go to their country house and check on the renovation of the North Wing.
Suddenly a letter on the floor caught her eye, and it came to her: she knew where she was going. Her sister-in-law, darling Roberta, had written her a letter full of laughing, rueful details about Roberta’s father, who was marrying a woman he met at Bartholomew Fair. That might be bad enough, but the woman apparently earned her money by donning a fish tail and speaking in verse—and Roberta’s father was a marquess.
Naturally she had to stop by Elijah’s chambers and tell him that the Marquess of Wharton and Malmesbury had lost his heart to a mermaid, and that she meant to pay Roberta a visit and see the mermaid in person. Perhaps she would force Elijah to take her to luncheon, or a ride in the park. She glanced out the window and saw it was drizzling.
A ride in the rain.
She, Jemma, was not leaving London without another kiss.
Sad, but true.
Her husband had kissed her twice in the last nine years, both recently. And she had kissed him once. Stupid beggar of a woman that she was, she treasured those kisses.
There. It was settled. She would instruct Brigitte to pack for a short journey, and meanwhile she would go to Elijah’s chambers. If he wasn’t there, she would wait. And when he finally arrived, she would kiss him goodbye.
The smile on her lips had a spice of joy about it that made her nervous, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
When had all this happened?
When did…
She turned away. There was no accounting for the human heart, or so her mama had always said.
Chapter Twenty-five
The Dower House
March 3, 1784
It was still raining. Isidore sat at her window, watching rain slide off the thorns of the rose briar circling her window. She could live without being a duchess. It would prickle, if she were honest. True, she had thought of herself as a duchess for years, whether she called herself Lady Del’Fino or no.
