“You could say that.”
The grandfather clock in the corner read well past midnight. Harry had tarried in town longer than usual, finishing his business early and then lingering at White’s, where he had indulged in a few glasses of sherry before aimlessly wandering around Mayfair until he eventually returned to his carriage.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Baxter said, drawing him from his thoughts. “There is a matter that must be discussed.”
“Must it be now?” Harry asked, exasperation evident in his voice.
Mr. Baxter wet his lips, then shook his head. “I suppose it can wait until morning. It concerns Her Grace.”
“Arabella? Is she unwell?” Harry’s worry for his wife’s well-being swelled instantly. Was she in bed without her candle on because she was unwell?
“No, nothing of the sort, Your Grace, but… it can wait until morning,” Mr. Baxter said, taking Harry’s top hat, coat, and cane.
“Very well then. I’ll be in the library for a while.” Harry turned toward the stairs, then paused on the steps. “Extinguish the fire and candles in my study and the drawing room—I shan’t need them tonight.”
Mr. Baxter nodded.
Harry made his way to the library. The warmth of the room greeted him, bringing a faint smile to his lips as he surveyed the familiar surroundings. But then he noticed something that made him stop. Peeking over the top of an armchair was a mass of hair.
“Arabella?” he said, approaching cautiously.
He walked around the chair and saw her seated there in her nightgown, her chestnut-brown hair piled atop her head, held in place with a simple band. Her face, free of the usual pearl powder, looked younger than he remembered. Her skin still held the shimmer of youth, though her cheeks were slightly rounded, and he noticed dark circles beneath her eyes.
“Why are you not abed?” he asked.
“I was waiting for you,” she replied. “I must have nodded off. I didn’t hear your carriage arrive.” She gestured toward the open window.
Mr. Baxter’s words echoed in his mind, and Harry wondered if perhaps the matter the butler had wished to discuss was more serious than he had realized. Otherwise, why would Arabella still be awake?
“What is it?” he asked, his voice gentler now.
“The trouble,” Arabella sighed, rising from the chair and pulling her blanket tighter around herself. “The trouble is that I am weary, Harry. Weary of feeling like a ghost in my own home, acknowledged only by the servants.”
He let out a deep breath. He had known this moment would come sooner or later.
“Arabella, I am a very busy man. I’ve not had the time to entertain you as I ought to.”
“It isn’t about entertainment,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I am beginning to think you do not care for me at all. It feels as though you despise my very presence—as if you cannot bear to look at me.”
“That is not true,” he affirmed.
Harry had wanted to maintain a distance between them, but he hadn’t intended for her to feel uncomfortable. That was why he had told her she could host balls here and bring her sisters to the estate as often as she wished.
“That is how I feel,” she insisted. “You are never here. You disappear into town with poor excuses, and I know it cannot be all business. I grew up in a household steeped in deceit, Harry. I can recognize a lie when I see one.”
“I do not mean to deceive you,” he said, though he knew full well he was doing just that. “But the truth is, there are matters I cannot share with you.”
“Like the truth about your mistress and your illegitimate child?” she spat.
Her words struck him like a physical blow, and Harry took a step back.
“What?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.
“The woman you see in town. It’s clear you have a paramour. And I have seen the drawing—the one you made of them.”
She moved to the table by the window, on which a drawing lay—something he hadn’t noticed moments ago. She snatched it up and held it before her like a shield, and his heart sank when he recognized it.
“Where did you get this? Did you go into my study?”
