Page 39 of Buon Natale, My Wicked Rogue
“No, Angela. By that time, I was wholly besotted with you. I had no intention other than to protect you. I was prepared to lie for you. I was prepared to die for you. I thought our best chance might be to run away to America. But you know, they stopped Lowell in Nova Scotia.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. What should she do? They were married.
Married.
And she loved him.
She jerked her head up to face him again. “I need some time and space to think about all of this.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll go to my townhouse in Mayfair, and you can stay here with Lady Wyndam.” She nodded.
“While I am there, I will, as I have intended to for some time now, open an expense account for you.” He turned to pick up his coat and withdrew his wallet from the breast pocket. Then he walked to the table beside their bed and laid a stack of bills on it. “This should cover your expenses in the meantime.”
“Evan, I don’t need your money. I have funds for myself. I can pay my way, as I have done since my father-in-law died.” And if things did not turn out between them, she could buy her own estate and live here in England.
“No matter what happens, you will be my wife until I die. I will provide it for you. You can save your money for a time when I am not there for you.”
He left unspoken that if they had no male children to carry the title, she would be on her own, subject to the whims of whoever inherited his father’s title—some cousin who was currently serving in the navy, from what he’d said.
But the talk of his death put a lump in her throat. She suspected that they would go on and that there just might be a male issue from their union. Oh, should she forgive him?
No, she couldn’t just yet.
Her heart felt so twisted in knots that she could barely breathe. And she wondered how long that organ would bear the bruising of this day.
He had pulled his valise out and was packing his things. Thank goodness he was the one leaving; he could pack simply. She had four trunks, the most luggage she’d ever traveled with. But he had told her a countess couldn’t get by with less.
Soon, he was ready to go, and the lump in her throat grew to gargantuan proportions. Yet, she needed this time apart. And then, he must realize the cost of disrespecting her. The gravity of this situation called for a separation, if only to establish the proper respect between them.
Oh, her head was spinning with all of this.
Perhaps she would get drunk on wine this evening and sleep into the day tomorrow. Was that what ladies did in secret when their true love disappointed them? Well, it seemed like a plan.
He called for the carriage, and then they sat down and shared a last drink. He had brandy, and she had wine. After some time, he glanced at his watch. “I wonder what is taking them so long?”
“Maybe they are still feeling the effects of yesterday's celebration.”
He glanced at her with exaggerated wide eyes. “I certainly hope the driver is clearheaded.” He donned his waistcoat and coat, sat in the wing chair, and pulled on his boots. Then he stood and turned back to her.
“Walk me to the carriage,” he said. “So that I know we are still friends, at least?” He offered her a smile, but his eyes were serious.
She tried to return his smile; however, her mouth wouldn’t conform to her wishes. So, she simply nodded and accepted his offered arm.
As a nobleman, he likely wouldn’t want the servants to be privy to their intimate battles. However, everyone would know something was amiss when the bridegroom left the bride, yes?
They would be friends, no matter what happened, so she allowed him to lead her down the staircase and to the door and outside to the waiting carriage.
Only the carriage wasn’t there. And the servants were nowhere to be seen either.
He turned to her, his dark brows drawn together. Damn, did he have to be so handsome? Did his eyes have to be so clear green? She drank in his image with an eerie sense of committing his features to memory.
How morbid.
“It is odd, is it not?” he said, his scowl deepening as he glanced about.
A rustling in the bushes made him turn. She followed his attention. There it was.
A shadowy form in the bushes. Her heart leaped into her throat, and she placed her hand on her collarbone. Darts of fear surged through her body to her fingers and toes, and even herlips felt tingly and numb. Gooseflesh crept icily up her neck and over her scalp, and she turned to run back to the entrance to the house.
“Angela!” Evan shouted even as she perceived him lunging towards her and flinging himself between her and the shadowy lurker in the bushes. She tripped on a stone, and intense dizziness prevented her from gaining her bearings. She fell and hit her head.
