“Because he’s a bloody jealous blackguard, and he overreacted!”
“Language, Ashford!” she’d admonished him, using his title rather than his given name, which she always did when she was annoyed with him.
He’d sighed and closed his other eye, leaning his aching head back against the squabs of the carriage seat.
“And what, pray tell, was heoverreactingto?” she’d asked sweetly.
“That Sarah gave me a hug,” he’d said sullenly.
“Sarah! On mighty intimate terms with the new duchess, are you not?”
“Caro, you know damned well you have been on first name terms with Robert for years. It was made clear we were to address her as Sarah.”
“And why was the duchess compelled to hug you?”
“I was upset.”
She sniffed. “What could you possibly have to be upset about?”
His self-control snapped at that point, and he’d leaned forward. “Because I found your blasted lover’s letter!”
She’d blanched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” But then she’d flushed guiltily, as red as she had been pale moments before.
He’d watched this display of disingenuity with a sick feeling. “How long have you had that letter, and why the bloody hell did you feel compelled to bring it with you on this trip?”
She’d opened and then closed her mouth, her hands wringing in her lap. He didn’t miss the tears starting to her eyes, and his heart turned over.
“It’s from Greathouse isn’t it? I recognized his writing.”
She’d swallowed visibly and nodded.
His hand had clenched on his knee. “The prick! He has the gall to pretend to be my friend, and all the while he is sending my wife love letters!”
“Heisyour friend!” she’d protested. “He feels most uncomfortable about it, really!”
“Really?” His sarcastic tone could have cut glass.
“He didn’t say anything for a very long time. I had no idea he felt—” She’d stopped then, swallowing and searching in her reticule for a handkerchief, wiping her eyes.
“You should have shown me that damned letter the moment you received it!” he’d said, trying to ignore the effect her tears were having on him. He never could abide it when she cried.
“I know!” she’d said, sobbing freely by then. “You’re right. I should have. I’m sorry, Emrys.”
“Caro!” He rose and moved to the seat beside her, putting an arm round her and drawing her against his chest. “Don’t cry, love. If it’s just a letter, I can overlook it. When did he send it?”
“S-six months ago!” she’d said haltingly. A cold feeling settled into the pit of his stomach.
“And you’re still carrying it around with you? Why?” He had drawn back.
She covered her face with her hand, sobbing hard. “I’m sorry Emrys! I t-tried! I r-really did! I t-tried to resist... but I love him... I’m so sorry...” she whispered at the last.
He’d closed his eyes as her words hit him like hail, stinging pings against his skin. Unreal and shocking. A numbness spread through his chest where his heart should be. He felt ill.
He had moved back to the other side of the carriage and stared blindly out the window. They said not one word further to each other beyond the necessary and the mundane for the rest of that interminable journey back to London.
Three days later she had moved out of their home in Cavendish Square and three weeks after that she was dead,the result of a carriage accident in France, whence the lovers had fled. Caroline had been thrown clear of the carriage. She’d hit her head on a stone and never regained consciousness. Greathouse had been uninjured beyond a broken wrist. But now he had to live with her death for the rest of his life.
Emrys shook his head to clear it of its melancholy thoughts and drew out the book he had been reading and opened to the page he was up to.
