Miss Winthorpe's Elopement (Belston & Friends #1)(67)

To this, Jem said nothing, merely fixed her with a long, hard look and stood, blocking the door.

‘You refuse to pack the books? So be it. I’d probably have a hard time sorting them from the ones that were already here. It is amazing how quickly one’s things can get tangled with another’s… But never mind that. Go to my room. I will send the maid for my dresses. They are unquestionably mine. Although I never wanted the cursed things in the first place.’

Jem showed no sign of obeying this order, either.

‘What are you waiting for? Go!’ She sounded shrill, even to her own ears.

Jem folded his arms.

‘Look at me.’ She pointed down at her clothes. ‘How long has it been since I met him? A scant two months. And I no longer know myself. I dress differently. I act differently. I do not even live in the same city. I was totally content to spend days by myself. And now, if he leaves me for more than an hour or two, I miss him.

‘Little by little, he has made me into exactly the thing that he wants, and now he is bored with me.’

‘And for this reason, I must pack your things and carry them to you-do-not-know-where.’ He remained unmoved.

‘He does not love me.’

‘I did not think you wished him to. When you dragged me to Scotland—’

‘I was wrong.’

‘And so you wish to compound the first bad decision by making another.’ Jem shook his head in pity. ‘I will admit, I had my doubts about the man at first. But given time, he will love you beyond reason, if he is does not already. It is hardly worth the strain on my back to bring your things down from your room, only to carry them back up again. If you insist on going, you may carry your own damn bags. Your Grace.’ He added her title as an after thought and left the room.





Chapter Twenty-Two




Penny glanced around the room, painfully aware of the silence. When had it become such a burden to be alone? It was what she had always thought she wanted.

She had been in the library for almost a week, leaving only when she was sure that the corridor was empty, to creep to her room to wash or to sleep.

But it had become harder and harder to avoid the inevitable confrontation. Most times, she could hear her husband prowling outside the library door like some kind of wild beast. On the first day, he had pounded on the oak panels, demanding that she open for him, and hear what he had to say. She feared he would shake the thing off its hinges with the force of the blows, but had put her fists to her ears, and shut her lips tight to avoid the temptation of answering him. For she knew if she saw him again, she would forget everything that had happened, and remember only how it felt to be in his arms. She would believe anything he told her, and trust any promise, no matter how false, if only he would lie with her again.

But after a day of thundering, his temper had passed like a summer storm, and the knocking had become quieter, more civilised. His shouts had turned to normal requests, ‘Penny, open this door. We must speak. We cannot go on like this.’

And at last, it had come to her as a whisper. ‘Penny, please…’

And now, for several days, there had been no sound at all. Just the ceaseless rustling of his footsteps on the carpet outside.

It was all foolishness. If he wanted to enter, there was nothing to stop him. He must have the key, for this was his house, not hers. If it was not in his possession, he had but to ask the servants, and they would open for him in an instant. He was the duke. He had proved often enough that he could do as he pleased.

But he did not. He respected their bargain. She had wanted privacy. And he had given this space to her. He would not cross the threshold without her permission. It was maddening. She had gotten exactly what she wanted: a library full of books and all the time in the world to enjoy them.

And yet she could not stop crying. The sight of her own books was torture, for she could not seem to concentrate long enough to read more than a few words. And those she managed all seemed to remind her of her own fate: unfaithful Odysseus and his myriad of excuses, weak will and false guilt. And Penelope, waiting for him, perpetually alone.

Why did it have to bother her so, that her husband had visited his lover? Nowhere in their original agreement, or in any of the bargaining that had occurred since, had there been any mention of his fidelity. She had not asked it of him, nor had he promised. She had held her own against the woman, for a time. But she had always known that the moment would come when she would lose. And she felt dead inside, knowing that when the mood had struck him, he would leave her to her books, as though she meant nothing to him.

And now, he thought that he could wait outside her door until her mood softened, and worm his way back into her good graces. He wanted the best of both worlds: a co-operative wife when it suited him, and his freedom all the rest of the time.

Out of the coldness in her heart rose an ember of burning rage. He had been the first to break the agreement. If he had but let her alone, she could have stayed in her study, and never have known or cared. If he had not insisted on coming to her bed, she would not be feeling jealousy over a thing that she had never wanted. If he had remained indifferent, or neglectful or at least absent, she would have viewed this liaison as just another example of his uninterest in her.

But he had treated her with kindness and respect, almost from the first. He had guarded her from ridicule and shepherded her through the maze of society, then he had touched her, and brought her more pleasure than she could have imagined possible.