Page 58 of The Work of Art

“Since I came upon you in the stables this afternoon, we’ve talked of my horse and your dogs, but you have yet to say a single word about how you yourself are feeling…after last night.”

She willed herself not to blush again. For all the good it did her. If the blazing heat in her cheeks was any indication, she must already be as red as a ripe tomato. “I’m perfectly well.”

“Are you? I don’t see how you possibly can be. You can hardly bear to look at me.”

Is that what he thought? That she couldn’t bear the sight of him? Foolish man. She turned to face him. His expression was no less grave than his voice. “You’re speaking of what happened between us after your nightmare, I suppose, and not of what came before.”

Along the edges of Arthur’s elegantly tied cravat, his neck turned a dull shade of red.

“I only ask because…well, it seems to me that you may have forgotten that part of our night together.”

“Forgotten it?” he repeated. “I’ll remember it for as long as I live.”

Her pulse skipped. “Will you really?”

“Never doubt it.” He searched her face. “And you…I hope that you, as well…?”

“Yes. Though I must confess—”

“What is it?” he asked at once.

“Only that…” Philly smoothed the skirts of her gown quite unnecessarily. “If I’m having difficulty looking at you, it’s only because I’m feeling so unaccountably shy about the whole thing. I expect it’s a normal reaction for a newly married lady, but I must say I’m beginning to find it trying. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day, and now—”

“Have you?”

“Of course.” She abandoned her preoccupation with her gown. “You sound rather surprised.”

“After how our night together ended, I didn’t think you’d have any interest in seeing me again.”

“Why not? I hope you don’t imagine I blame you for what happened.”

“Who else should you blame?”

“Not you, or anyone. It was an unfortunate accident. As you can see, I’m no worse for it.”

Arthur was incredulous. “An accident.”

“Yes, I call it an accident. It wasn’t done purposefully.”

“Purposefully or no, it was unforgivable. What manner of person would treat you thus? Not a man with honor. Not a gentleman. It was the action of an animal. A damnable brute.”

“No,” she objected softly. “It was the action of someone having a terrible dream. Nothing more.”

Arthur stilled at her words. Very briefly, a spasm of the deepest anguish crossed his handsome face. It was gone as soon as it came. “It doesn’t matter why it happened. There’s no excuse for it. It was a reprehensible act. And it shall never happen again. Of that I promise you.”

“Did you think it might have?”

His anger and frustration were palpable. “Yes. I know now that it would. If we ever shared a bed together again.”

“If we ever…?” Philly was stunned. “Is this what you had in mind when you said you were going to protect me from yourself? That we should live separately?”

“However we live, we can’t ever be as we were last night. These dreams—these nightmares—they come too frequently. I should have realized… But I didn’t think about the consequences when I proposed marriage to you. I was blinded by my own selfishness.”

She frowned. “I don’t remember your proposal that way at all.”

“Of course not. I convinced you I was being noble, that I was rescuing you, but in truth I was thinking only of myself. I was no better than Moreland.”

At this dire pronouncement, Philly fell silent. She turned away from him, staring out across the surface of the pond.