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Philip listened to the clack of the carriage wheels hitting against the roadway. The trip to London seemed interminable, and he had far too much time alone with his thoughts. He thought of Annabel’s assertions of love. It was deuced uncomfortable. He was uncertain how to proceed. Love was not a good idea, if it, in fact, existed. Once upon a time, he had believed himself in love with Jane. It felt like a lifetime ago, but it had not taken long to realize that his feelings for his first wife had been infatuation. They had never shared a genuine connection. How could love exist in the absence of communication and trust? The two of them had been strangers in every way that mattered, and this new information from Annabel only reinforced that fact.

Now Annabel believed she was in love with him, but that, too, was infatuation. They had shared blissful weeks together, so it was natural that a young woman would fancy herself in love. But love, did love truly exist? Only for a privileged few, such as his parents, who had shared deep bonds of friendship and admiration. Besides his parents, had he ever seen a true love match? A true partnership of minds, synchronous hearts and souls with a deep passion for each other? Nay, Annabel was misguided about their amicable companionship. They were just friends … who happened to enjoy time alone together.

He had the utmost regard for his gorgeous wife, but he would need to create some distance between them so that she could realize on her own that her feelings of love were just inflated by their companionship. Perhaps he would reduce the time he spent with her. They could spend the day apart as they had done in the afternoons. He would still spend the evenings with her because he … because he … because he had a responsibility to sire an heir.

Philip felt much better once he had determined that their nights of marital relations could continue—he was just taking care of his familial obligations. During the day … during the day, he would keep his distance so she could work out her feelings in a manner which would let her down easily about forming deep emotional attachments. He would spare her the pain of rejection or embarrassment while maintaining their companionship. She was a smart girl, and she would figure it out.

His mind settled, Philip relaxed back into the gray squabs. Everything would work out well … without the muddle of emotions.

Chapter Nineteen

“I was cursed by some devil, and carried about with me my eternal hell.”

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein

* * *

Night was falling when the carriage reached Mayfair. Street lamps cast a glow onto the steps of Richard’s townhouse as Philip ran up to pound on the door. When no one responded, he pounded again. Eventually, a young footman in full livery, flushed from running, opened the carved door to greet him.

“I am looking for Saunton,” Philip demanded.

The footman’s eyes widened in surprise. “His lordship is in Saunton. We are not expecting him for at least two weeks.”

Philip scowled and cursed, causing the young man to wince ever so slightly while he fought to maintain his aplomb. Philip did not care if the footman reacted to his outburst as he bounded back down the stone steps to settle back into his waiting carriage.

“White’s!” he bellowed at the coachman as he closed the door behind him. Richard had not come to his home, so he must be living at one of his clubs, carousing the evenings away. Philip would walk into every club in London to find him if needed. This matter must be settled straightaway.

An hour later, Philip strode down the steps away from the bow window of White’s. Traffic on the roads had held them up far longer than his patience could handle, and when he searched through the club, no one there had seen Richard in at least a month. The earl had to be hiding out from his usual cronies.

Philip stood by his carriage under the street lamp, thinking. Where should he try next?

“Alfred Club,” he commanded before pushing his way back into the dark interior of his carriage. Alfred Club was dry for Richard’s tastes, but he liked to go there to debate with men of letters. One had to debate without the aid of liquor, but it made for an evening of creative thinking.

As the carriage turned off Piccadilly onto Albemarle Street, Philip looked out the window and noted they were driving past the publishing offices of John Murray. It brought to mind Annabel’s love of Pride and Prejudice, and he pondered the possibility of locating a first edition for his wife as the carriage drew up outside Alfred Club. He had missed Annabel over the past few days of hard travel, and he wanted to return to her as soon as possible. A gift would not be amiss, considering he needed to ease her feelings of infatuation and … and he enjoyed her happiness.

Alfred Club turned out to be uneventful. The club had been full to the rafters with members, but no one had seen Richard in some time. An author of several popular books had scratched his head and offered—of no help whatsoever—“I thought Lord Saunton was getting married. Is he not in the country with his bride?”

Philip had turned and left in disgust. Where was his rascal of a cousin? This search had taken up days.

As he stepped back into the night, he was thankful for the nighttime entertainments of London, which allowed him to keep searching unhampered. The last thing he needed was to head to his own townhouse in a futile attempt to sleep. Annabel was waiting for him at home in Avonmead, and he was afraid he had terribly botched that last conversation they had had several nights ago. He did not need a restless night turning the details over in his mind.

As he approached his carriage once more, he racked his brain for another location to look for Richard. He could not recall whether Richard kept a membership at Arthur’s Club. He should have planned out a route to the clubs systematically instead of bouncing around London in this haphazard manner.

Oh well, too late to be concerned with that. “Arthur’s Club on St. James’s Street,” he called up to the coachman, who gave a brisk nod in response.

The carriage continued down Albemarle Street and traversed around the block before reentering, facing the opposite direction. Soon Albemarle turned into St. James’s Street as the carriage drove slowly through the evening traffic of carriages and horses of gentlemen visiting their clubs, and they drew to a stop in front of Arthur’s Club.

Sometime later, Philip was standing back in the street. Arthur’s Club was as lavish as he recalled from his last visit, predating his first marriage, and he had encountered many old acquaintances who wanted to talk to him, causing his search to drag out endlessly until he had escaped after determining that Richard “was in the country getting married, don’t you know, old chap?” As a matter of fact, he did not know.

A thought occurred to him while he stood out on the lamplit street. Did Richard not have many genuine friends? Was the earl like him, surrounded by hordes of people but always alone? Philip reflected on the years since their separation. He had to admit that losing his friendship with Saunton had left a hole in his life, Richard being one of the few genuine friendships he maintained. It had not helped him cope with the loss of his wife when he had thrown out his friend right when he needed him most. If only he had not so quickly jumped to conclusions.

On the other hand, if events had not unfolded in that precise manner, he would not now have his delightful Annabel waiting for him at Avonmead. She would be married to Richard now, not him. The past had already taken place. What remained was to mend this misunderstanding with Richard before taking full advantage of his new life with Annabel, because … because … because they had a future generation of Markhams to produce, he told himself.

* * *

The library was in shadows as heavy rain drummed outside the wall of windows. Annabel looked around her at the piles of amassed books, not quite interested but nevertheless determined to keep herself busy because she missed Philip and their shared routines. It had been six days since she had last spoken to him. She was back in action, taking walks and forcing herself to eat full meals. And she had read her new Debrett’s volumes cover to cover, taking copious notes. The effort might be wasted if Philip planned to keep his distance and not take her to London with him, but she did not have much to do while she awaited the duke’s return.

She had intended to visit the nursery to make plans, but she felt uncertain about her future. Her husband loved Avonmead, but it seemed certain that he did not return her love. How angry was he at her error in judgment? He had already concluded in the few minutes they had argued that Annabel had known about Richard Marley for a while, having flung that question about her clumsy interrogation regarding the Marley family.