Page 19 of Miss Barton's Mysterious Husband
“Yes, you did.”
“I’ve told you I love you.”
“Yes.” A single word, but it didn’t sound quite so uncompromising.
“You say you still love me.”
“You don’t seem sure.”
She wasn’t. Not to the depths of her soul. “It’s been a long time, Roland.”
“It has.”
She sat up and put her feet on the floor, wishing she hadn’t extinguished the lamp. If he wanted her to strip her soul bare, it would be easier if she could gauge his expression.
Ever since she’d left him, she’d tormented herself. A vivid imagination could be a curse. She curled her fingers into the mattress underneath her and steeled herself to ask a question that she wasn’t sure she had the right to pose.
Her voice shook with nerves. “Were there…were there a lot?”
Although she couldn’t see his face, she knew his brows drew together in a frown. “A lot of what?”
Roland, don’t lie to me. Not now. Not when it’s so important. If we can’t start out with honesty, what use is this new beginning?
“A lot of women.”
“Charmian…”
One unsteady hand made a sweeping gesture. “You don’t have to tell me about them. But it’s driven me nearly mad, thinking of you with other lovers. I need to know.”
“You’re my wife.”
She made a contemptuous sound. “Yes, I am, and you already know you’re the only man who’s shared my bed. I realize that it’s different for men.”
“Why is it different for men?”
The edge in his voice made her flinch. “Well, different for you. I’ve been stuck in the backwaters of Yorkshire. You’ve been out in the wider world. You can’t tell me you had no chance to bed other women. For pity’s sake, you traveled around Europe’s pleasure spots. Anyway, I know you, Roland. I know how…insatiable you are. Celibacy would drive you out of your mind.”
“So you’ve tortured yourself this whole time.”
She’d gone past the point where she had any hope of preserving her pride. “Of course I have.”
“I didn’t think you’d care.”
“Because I didn’t answer your letters.”
“Or come back to me.”
“You were wrong.”
“Yes, I was wrong. But I only discovered that tonight.”
She raised her chin and told herself that she could endure this. If she’d lived through his absence, she could live through learning that he’d been unfaithful. “The uncertainty is the worst. Tell me. I’ll forgive you, then we can move on.”
“So what would be acceptable when it comes to adultery? One lover? Three? Twenty? A hundred?” His question held a sardonic tone that she didn’t understand. Shouldn’t he be grateful? Hadn’t she said that she’d overlook his sins? And she’d almost meant it, by God.
“I wouldn’t like it if it was one.” Because that indicated a stronger connection than the urge to relieve a physical itch. No, she wouldn’t like that at all.
“It wasn’t one.”
