Page 95 of Lord Garson's Bride
“I didn’t accept this then. What the devil makes you think I’ll accept it now?”
“Because it’s the only offer I’m making,” she said flatly, desperately wishing this was over.
His lips curled in an unamused smile that made her shudder. “You’ve been busy working everything out. I’m impressed.”
She flinched under his biting tone. “I believe it’s for the best.”
“That’s apparent.” Although it was still morning, he strode to the sideboard and poured a large brandy. Only the faint clink of the decanter on the glass hinted that his hands trembled.
“I hope one day you’ll understand,” she said weakly.
His glare conveyed the contempt that sniveling remark deserved. He raised his glass in her direction. “To you, my dear wife, and to future understanding.”
Tears ranged so close to the surface that her eyes burned, although she saw far too clearly how profoundly she’d wounded him. She’d never imagined he cared this much.
Oh, Jane guessed that his pride would smart when she left him. But something about his desolation as he swallowed the brandy in one gulp and slammed the glass down on the mahogany hinted that his pain stabbed deeper than masculine ego. She ventured toward him, although what comfort could she offer, other than giving up her plan to escape this impossible situation?
With a bow cold enough to make her shiver, he retreated out of reach. “I wish you a safe journey to Hampshire, madam, and I’ll hold myself at your disposal for when you require my services.”
She’d never thought kind, generous Hugh Rutherford could sound like that, as though he intended every word to pierce her skin. She swallowed an agonized whimper and backed toward the door.
It was time to go. She’d already done more than enough damage. For the first time, she let the aching depth of her love fill her voice. “Goodbye, Hugh. May heaven keep you.”
Jane didn’t wait for his reply. She couldn’t bear to witness his suffering. Nor could she any longer maintain her pretense of strength.
Blindly she turned and on trembling legs, stumbled from the library.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Garson rode up to the pretty Queen Anne dower house on the Townsends’ country estate outside Winchester. Around him, spring flourished. Tender green covered the trees. Birds sang their hearts out. A gentle breeze whispered promises of summer to come.
Unfortunately he was in no mood to hear. For him, life was all freezing winter.
A sour brew of self-hatred, trepidation, and, much as he resented it, uncontrollable longing stewed in his belly as he dismounted from Lysander’s back onto the gravel drive. No groom emerged to take his horse, but the door at the top of the short flight of limestone steps opened to reveal his wife.
His heart crashed against his ribs, winding him. Every other turbulent emotion died away to nothing, as overpowering sorrow closed his throat. He hadn’t seen Jane in a month, not since the day she’d told him she loved him, then packed her bags and left. He’d missed her like the very devil.
So many times, he’d nearly broken the rules she’d set and pursued her. Then he recalled her stark expression as she’d claimed she could only hope to find happiness away from him, and he’d resisted the impulse. He’d done her more than enough damage—and she didn’t deserve any of it.
What sin had she committed? She’d fallen in love. He better than anyone knew that love made its own rules.
As she came down the steps toward him, his pulse broke into a headlong gallop. He hadn’t expected her to seem like a stranger, but she did. A lovely, distant stranger in a pretty yellow dress he hadn’t seen before. A red-headed woman with a composed air that caught him off balance. He’d wondered—hoped—that their separation weighed as heavily on her as it did on him.
Not very worthy, perhaps, to want his wife to suffer. But he’d endured a hell of guilt and rage and remorse since she’d gone. Not to mention a gnawing sexual frustration that threatened to make him claw at the wallpaper.
If she was happy, then it was more than likely she’d never come back to him. He couldn’t face that possibility.
“Good afternoon, Hugh.”
Her serenity grated on nerves already stretched to breaking. It just felt so wrong that they should come together in these circumstances. The raging storm of loneliness and hurt inside him felt ready to explode like lit gunpowder, while she sounded the way she had when they were nothing more to each other than childhood friends.
“Don’t you have any bloody servants?” He’d arrived, determined to uphold his good intentions. Those good intentions outlasted that cool greeting by precisely five seconds. “It’s damn shabby of Fen and Anthony to leave you to fend for yourself.”
In fact, everything about the Townsends’ interference was damned shabby. What right did they have to meddle in a man’s private business? He had a nasty suspicion that Fenella had fostered Jane’s plans to leave him.
Much too soon after Jane’s departure, before any scar tissue had grown over his wounds, he’d fronted the Townsends and accused them of butting in. Harsh words had been exchanged,and as a result, a coldness had arisen between him and people he’d always considered good friends.
Not that he cared much. Compared to the loss of Jane, what did his quarrel with Anthony and Fenella matter?
