Was she making the right decision?
Was there any other decision to be made?
If she wanted to be welcomed into an institution that had already closed its doors to her.
If she wanted to fulfill her dream of becoming a doctor. Mayhap not in name (that was a door even the future Earlof Lancaster could not open), but in education. In practice. In experience.
If she wanted to live a life larger than the one her gender had borne her into... and then commit herself to the very role her mother had raised her to rebel against.
“Lord Sandwich.” She blew a stray wisp of hair out of her eyes and then lifted her chin when he opened the door, his own eyes—copper burning bright against a backdrop of freshly fallen snow—widening at the sight of her. “I am ready to be your wife.”
*
“You know,” Stephenbegan, glancing sideways at Abigail where she sat beside him in their moving carriage, her slightly dazed expression reminiscent of the one she’d worn after their kiss the day before, “now that we’re married, I believe you can call me by my given name. Or at least my correct title.”
She nodded, but he wasn’t convinced she’d heard him. Reaching across her lap, he gently pried her clenched hands apart and laced his fingers through hers.
“Stephen,” he said, squeezing.
“Stephen,” she said softly, almost shyly, and his heart stuttered as it hadn’t done since he was a young man staring at the magnificent bosom of Addy Tate, the gardener’s daughter and his very first love. Or at least his very first experience with lust, which, when you were a randy young lad of sixteen, seemed like the same thing.
Except this time, he wasn’t looking at a beautiful pair of breasts.
This time, he was gazing at his wife.
Hiswife.
The woman he was now pledged to protect, honor, and love until death did they part. The woman he already felt a fiercesense of protectiveness over. The woman he would leave in two days when his ship departed for England and she remained behind in America for seven years.
Sevenyears.
A pittance of time yesterday, and a looming stretch of three-quarters of a decade today. What the hell had he been thinking, to agree to such a term? A wife belonged with her husband. Except Abigail wasn’t justanywife. She was driven, determined, and wondrously intelligent. Smarter than him by a bloody mile, not that he’d ever admit it aloud. She had plans, goals, ambitions... and he had Summerwind House. Brick, slate, timber. A manor as important to him as Abigail’s medical education was to her. There was also steel. The sharp glint of it carved into the triangular shape of a guillotine hanging over his neck should he not return promptly to London with positive news of his nuptials.
If he weren’t back on British soil by the time the daffodils began to shove their cheerful little heads out of the dirt, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that his father would personally oversee the burning of Summerwind House. And the only thing that made him feel better, that gave him a smidge of consolation at leaving his brand-new bride, was imagining the expression of absolute fury on his father’s face when he slapped proof of his marriage onto the old goat’s desk, effectively saving Summerwind House and denying his father the grand spectacle of a wedding all in the same breath.
It was going to be glorious.
But was it worth seven years away from the woman that he...
Notloved, Stephen thought silently, his mind automatically shying from the word as a feral horse did from the halter.
He loved Summerwind House. He loved a perfectly aged brandy. He loved a good night out at his favorite gambling hell.
Did helovehis wife?
Almost absently, he ran his thumb across her knuckles as he mused over the question before deciding that if he didn’t love her, he did like her a great deal. Dare he say, more than he’d ever liked any other woman. And no, he did not want to be separated for the better part of a decade. What an utterly absurd way to begin a marriage. Except that was what he had agreed to. What he’d thought, as he had sat across from Abigail in the coffeehouse recovering from choking, would be in both of their best interests. But now, sitting beside her in a carriage with the subtle scent of lavender teasing his nostrils as the soft weight of her thigh pressed against his, he wasn’t so certain.
“Come with me,” he said abruptly, his hand tightening possessively around hers. “Come with me back to England. Surely there are institutions there you can learn from. Physicians you can study under. Far superior ones, if the tea here is any indication.”
“I prefer coffee.” Frowning, she tried to tug her hand away, but he held fast. “I will be attending Columbia College in the spring. That is what you promised me. Those were the terms of our agreement. Then, in seven years’ time—”
“Four.”
“Seven.”
“Five,” he said, a touch desperately.
“Insevenyears’ time, I will book myself passage to London.” When she attempted to extricate her fingers from his grip again, he didn’t stop her. He had asked, as best as he was able, and she had said no. He wouldn’t resort to begging. No matter how much he was tempted to. Because damn it all, she was right. Thosewerethe terms of their agreement. And while he may not have been a perfect man, or even a very good one, he was a man of his word.
