Page 96 of Lord Garson's Bride
Now he noted that his surliness didn’t rattle this woman who was much closer to prim Jane Norris than that passionate creature, Jane Rutherford. “I sent them away. I thought you’d prefer privacy for your visit.”
Admitting she was right didn’t improve his humor. “My summons, you mean,” he snarled.
Because he wasn’t angry about the absence of servants. Or about her measured reaction to his arrival. He wasn’t even angry because he had to ride all this way to bed his wife. Once. Then ride home again, even more frustrated—if that was possible. In any right universe, Jane would sleep beside him every night, and he’d exercise his husbandly privileges whenever the impulse took him.
He was angry because she’d gone away, and he had a horrid feeling that she was never going to come back.
His hand crept up to cover the inside pocket where he’d shoved the letter she’d sent to invite him here. When he’d first read it, he’d wanted to burn it. But somehow it had ended up nestled next to his heart instead. Damn it, he didn’t know why he even kept it. It was no billet-doux.
My Lord…
She didn’t even address him as Hugh, curse her.
As I have no happy news of a forthcoming event to share, I will expect you this week. Perhaps Tuesday afternoon? If this arrangement meets with your approval, I willawait you then. If not, I am at your disposal any other day you wish to nominate.
Yours respectfully
Jane.
No expression of affection. Not even an inquiry after his bloody health. He’d received more effusive letters from his tailor.
He’d wondered if letting his wife spend these weeks away from him might convince her that she was better off returning to him. But so far, the yawning chasm between them seemed even wider than it had in London. She’d drawn herself up behind walls that he couldn’t assail, and that fact made him want to roar his fury and despair to the skies.
“Hugh, you seem out of sorts.” Jane’s regard was impressively steady. “Would you prefer to postpone our meeting?”
“I’ve been traveling for three days,” he retorted. “No, I don’t want to postpone our meeting.”
“So long? When I came down, I managed the trip in a day.”
“I stayed overnight in Winchester,” he said coldly, even as a humiliating schoolboy flush heated his cheeks.
That chilly little note had been his first contact from his wife since her departure. He’d been so desperate to see her, he’d set out far too early on Sunday, then remembered she’d said Tuesday. If he turned up on Monday, he risked alienating her altogether. He’d stopped at a flea-bitten inn about thirty miles from London, then last night, he’d had to cool his heels in Winchester until it was time to leave for his appointment.
“Oh,” she said, clearly puzzled.
“I didn’t want to arrive too exhausted to perform,” he responded nastily.
Part of him stood back, appalled at his churlish manners. He’d always been lauded as the perfect gentleman. Even when Morwenna left him, he’d behaved well. Right now, not even his best friend would accuse him of behaving well.
Hell, given how Silas had sided with the Townsends over this farrago, his best friend would call him an unmitigated boor. Jane had always had this ability to pierce through his civilized shell to the primitive man beneath.
“I see,” she said, blushing, too. “I’ll take you to the stables, and you can look after your horse.”
The poignant reminder of her sweet innocence as his bride only made him feel worse. He struggled against his urge to seize her up in his arms and kiss her until she admitted that she’d been wrong to leave him.
“Thank you.”
She cast him an uncertain glance, as if she didn’t trust his courtesy. Who could blame her? He noticed, too, how she kept her distance, as they went around the back of the house to the stable yard. She’d studiously avoided all physical contact when she greeted him. No handshake. Definitely no kiss.
The memory of kissing that lush, pink mouth slammed through him like a cannonball. Even straight and stern as they were now, those lips were as alluring as ever. He stumbled on the cobblestones, dragging on the reins and making Lysander toss his head in protest.
“Are you all right, Hugh?”
In silent apology, he patted Lysander’s glossy ebony flank. “I just missed a step, that’s all.”
They entered the stables. A pretty chestnut mare poked her head over a stall gate and whickered a welcome.
“Nice horse,” he said to break the oppressive silence.
