Page 67 of The Marriage Method

“No,” Nell said. “But it’s within mine.”

She may not be deputy headmistress any longer, but she flattered herself that she still held some influence at the Academy. Surely, Miss Corvus would respect the bargain Nell was making.

She pressed Lady Belwood’s arm. “See that my husband and I are invited, and you may consider your debt repaid.”

Lady Belwood held Nell’s gaze. After a pointed moment, she nodded. “I shall send Lord Amstead a note.” She turned in a swish of silk to go to the gilded writing desk in the corner. The action stirred up a cloud of her ladyship’s perfume—a singularly unique blend of jasmine, tuberose, and honey.

Nell remained frozen where she stood as Lady Belwood walked away from her. She had the sensation that time had stopped. No, not stopped. Rather, it was running in reverse. Taking her away from London, all the way back to that little house in the country with the two aged servants. The house where the perfumed lady had visited her one final time eighteen years ago.

It was the last occasion Nell had smelled that fragrance.

Until today.

17

By the time Miles returned home, night had fallen and St. James’s Square was sunk into darkness. It stretched between the inadequate glow of the scattered streetlamps, an oppressive, heavy gloom made worse by the unrelenting fog, smoke, and grit of the city to which not even fashionable Mayfair stood immune.

His driver set him down in front of the silent town house. The carriage pulled away immediately after, the clatter of wheels and the ring of steel-shod hooves fading as the coachman headed for the mews.

Miles hadn’t intended to work so late, but despite what Griffiths would have Nell believe—that Miles’s position as editor in chief was one of more general than specific responsibility—he still had a paper to get out.

There had been important articles to review, advertising revenue to discuss, and several meetings to attend with his subordinate editors. Add to that, poring over old issues of the Courant and reading all of Cowgill’s previous columns published in the month of March, and Miles’s day had been long indeed. He’d been obliged to stay until the very end.

It had nothing to do with any reluctance he might feel about returning home to his new wife. On the contrary, there had been several moments during his workday when he’d found himself foolishly anticipating sharing something with Nell. And yet…

He’d stayed away until he was almost certain she had retired.

It wasn’t because he didn’t want to see her. No. It was because he was beginning to want her too much.

A troubling state of affairs, finding himself physically attracted to the woman who had married him under duress. The same woman who had never left the confines of Miss Corvus’s Academy until two days ago. Who had only yesterday admitted to him tearfully that she’d lost everything.

Miles would be the worst sort of conscienceless brute to take advantage of her in her time of vulnerability. And, after the kiss they’d shared last evening…

He didn’t entirely trust himself not to.

Recognizing the impulse was the first step to overcoming it—or so he told himself. It helped that Nell had preferred to be out of his company today. Perhaps she would choose to do the same tomorrow and the next day, too. Given enough time apart, Miles may yet conquer this.

He used his latchkey to let himself in. The gasolier had been left on for him. It was turned down low, giving only enough light for him to see through the hall. He was mounting the stairs, a bundle of various documents he’d taken from the office tucked under his arm, when he noticed a strip of light flickering under the wood-paneled doors to his library. He stopped on the bottom step, his chest heavy with indecision.

After a long moment, he descended back to the hall. Setting his shoulders, he entered the library. It was a masculine space—the walls lined with dark mahogany bookcases, the furnishings oversized and heavy, and the years-old residue of pipe smoke lingering in the air.

Nell was seated in one of the large oxblood leather chairs in front of the fireplace. Her head was bent over a scrap of embroidery, her fingers moving steadily as she deftly plied her needle. She hadn’t changed for bed yet. She was still in the same blue silk dress she’d worn to his office this morning. Two of his cats, Absalom and Virgil, were stretched out on the hearth rug in front of her, dozing in the warmth of the crackling flames.

“You’re still awake,” Miles said.

Nell glanced up. Shadows danced over her face, lending a brittle cast to her countenance. It was surely a trick of the firelight, but…she appeared unusually fragile. As though she were crafted of too-fine porcelain that might crack at any moment. “I am.”

Miles went to her, the heaviness in his chest transformed by swift concern. He retrieved the tinderbox from the mantel and lit the branch of candles that stood beside it. “You’ll ruin your eyes sewing in this dim light.”

“I can see well enough,” she said.

He doubted the truth of her statement. She was doing detailed work. Another sampler, it seemed, this one characterized by a border of tiny blue flowers. Equally tiny butterflies flitted among the blooms. There was a small raven, too, with a stitch of white on its wing, just as Miles had observed in the sampler she’d been working on at the Courant.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“I dined with Mr. and Mrs. Royce,” she said. “And you?”

“I had something at my office.”