Marquesses at the Masquerade(80)

He brushed Annalise’s creamy shoulder with his lips, taking in her sweet, earthy scent—the flower and the soil. She smiled in her light sleep. He studied her a moment more, marveling at the serenity that enveloped her, and then rose and donned his robe, which had draped the vanity chair. He glanced about his wife’s chamber, taking in the objects and things that were hers—the Indian shawl he gave her, her perfume bottle, the simple ruby necklace that had been her mother’s. He had kissed her neck as he had unclasped it when they returned from the theater the previous evening, and then he had slowly proceeded to remove the remainder of her clothes. He smiled at the remembrance of their lovemaking.

He walked quietly by the walls, studying her father’s images hanging there. He would never tell her that he thought she possessed far more talent, both artistically and scientifically, than her father. He stopped at her writing desk where the leather portfolios of her work rested. He opened the top one, so he could view her drawings and descriptions. He enjoyed studying them alone when he could slowly take in all the different elements she labored over. Otherwise, she would anxiously flit about him, finding fault in her stunning work.

He realized he had the wrong portfolio when he drew out a correspondence. He was carefully putting it back when the name Patrick leaped off the page. He hesitated and glanced at the bed. His wife made a soft humming sound as she shifted in her sleep.

No, he shouldn’t read her correspondence. He started to replace the page, but then yanked it out again.



Dear Patrick, I’ve made a horrible mistake. What have I done? What have I done? It was supposed to be you. I was supposed to marry you…



What?

He reread and reread the words, as if the more he read them, he could, somehow, make them unreal. His heart raced as he pulled out more and more letters. He couldn’t stop himself. Dear Patrick… Dear Patrick… There must have been thousands of letters. A sickening sensation knotted in his gut.

“Dearest,” she murmured from her bed. She patted about, looking for him, and then rose up, rubbing her eyes. She was naked, her breasts exposed. “There you are,” she said and smiled. “Come back to bed.”

He gripped the pages, black rage consuming him. “What is this?”

Her lips parted as she took in the letters in his hand. “Oh no,” she whispered. “It’s—it’s not what it seems.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Sarcasm permeated his voice. “Because on the day of our marriage, you wrote that you were supposed to marry Patrick.” He swallowed, his throat contracting in pain. “How could… how could you do this when—when you knew…”

“I didn’t mean… I didn’t… I…” She glanced down, her shoulders dropping, resigned. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so very sorry.”

Her apology hardly satisfied him. More and more anger poured into him, as if it gushed from some hidden reserve inside him. “You wrote all these letters to Patrick. The man who thanked me for disentangling him from ‘an ambitious, witless, unmanageable piece of fluff.’”

Her head jerked up. Her eyes were wet. “He—he said that?” Her voice cracked.

He approached her, the letters still gripped in his hand. “He doesn’t love you, Annalise. Don’t you understand?” He repeated his words again, pronouncing each syllable as if he could hammer them into her mind. “He doesn’t love you!” He shook his head in disbelief. “How many letters are here? How many did you write him?” He flung the pages he held at the bed. They scattered on the sheets where they had made love only hours before. “Did he ever send you one letter? Just one?”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “No,” she choked.

He paced, running his hands down his face. The past seemed to have crashed into the present. Everything was coming back again, recombining into new, grotesque forms.

She pulled up the covers, hiding her body as if ashamed.

“What… what is wrong with you?” he whispered.

“I was lonely. I… couldn’t talk to—to anyone.”

He knew this to be true when she was alone in the country with her parents, but it didn’t mitigate his anger. She had written to Patrick on their wedding day! “Well, you’re in luck, my dearest,” he spat. “You can give him all these letters when he arrives in London. You can tell him how you were supposed to marry him and not me.”

“He’s coming to London?”

The hope in her voice broke him. His ire transmuted to something icy, black, and deep.

“Yes, he should arrive any day.”

“H-how long have you known this?”

“Since I saw you at the print shop.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The look on her face—the love was still there—felt like a hard punch to his gut.

“Why?” he demanded. “What difference would it make? Would you not have married me?”

She drew in, lowering her head.

“Do you still love him, Annalise?”

She bit the edge of her lip. Tears dripped off her chin onto her chest.

“Do you? We’re also supposed to be honest with each other. Do you love him?”

“I—I suppose. I—”