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“We have never had love between us, have we, my lord? This has always been a business arrangement. You g-gave my Irish blood legitimacy and I saved your estate. At the beginning, I thought…” The fingers on her left hand balled into a fist and she gave a small sigh before she went on. “You made yourself clear when you ignored my correspondence.”

That was the second time she had mentioned letters or correspondence to him, but all he could recall receiving from her were updates about the estate or questions of when he might be travelling. What could she possibly mean by that?

“I have parliamentary duties to attend to in London, that is what I do in London,” he said, internally wincing at how childish the words sounded once he had said them out loud.

From Mariah’s unimpressed expression, he doubted this return to Bailey Hall would be met with the lovemaking his visits often entailed.

“Well, then, you must return to those duties quickly, my l-lord,” she said sweetly but without sincerity as she rose, moving the stack of paper under her arm. When she reached the doorway, she turned back to look him square in the face. “And do not contact your brother until you no longer refer to his losing his eye to Russian gunfire as flitting about the continent.”

“I-I didn’t. I don’t.” Now he was the one stuttering. Without a backward glance, she closed the ancient oaken door behind her, unwilling or unable to hear his paltry defense. He stared back at the painting of his family. Of his younger self and the dreams he’d had. James found his vision anchored upon Harrison, still young and whole, without the disfigurement James had only glimpsed once, when his brother was at a convalescent home after he had been shipped home from Scutari. Perhaps he had once held dreams like James.

His gaze darted back to the door. Perhaps Mariah had as well.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, his thoughts returned to his wife. He had been so distracted by her unexpectedly disheveled appearance, and—he bit the inside of his cheek—her passionate anger, that he had forgotten the purpose of his visit. He would have to redouble his efforts the next time he saw her.

At any cost, he repeated to himself as he sat down to drink the extra cup of tea before it grew cold.

He wasn’t a monster.

Not completely.

As Mariah sat to break her fast the next morning, she contemplated the man who now occupied the baron’s chamber.

Adjacent to her own.

Thankfully, he had not attempted to cross the threshold between their chambers the previous evening.

Would she have allowed him into her bed?

Grateful she did not have to make such a choice, Mariah took too large a bite of toast, grateful that no one was around to see. While she could have taken breakfast in her chambers, as was her right as a married woman, she liked to get up and seize the day. Unlike her aristocratic spouse, who followed ton hours.

“Mariah?”

Mariah glanced up from her plate, and with difficulty, swallowed the bite of toast whole. She took the time to blink, not quite believing her eyes that her husband was dressed and awake before noon.

Why did he have to be so handsome? She chided the small voice inside, the one who fawned over the man before her when they first met. Even in a state of disarray, he wore a careless aristocratic elegance she doubted she would never achieve in her lifetime. While his blond hair was worn long, together with his beard, he still appeared as handsome as the day she married him. Back when she still had hopes and dreams of love in her marriage. She couldn’t believe her luck, that the stuttering daughter of an Irish linen maker could marry the handsome Lord St. George.

But now she knew better. As he slid into a seat across from her with a charming smile, Mariah reminded herself not to be taken in by such things of stuff and nonsense. There was more of gravy than of grave about him. She chuckled internally at the odd line that popped into her head. Too bad Charles Dickens wrote that almost twenty years ago, you cannot claim that for an original. Though perhaps she ought to reread the text as the holiday would be upon them soon.

“What is so funny, my lady?”

Even after six years of marriage, there was still something strange about being addressed as “my lady.” Mariah cleared her throat.

“Nothing, m-my lord. Merely recalling something Mr. Dickens wrote.”

“Oh?” He rose and strode to the sideboard at the far end of the breakfast room, where a rasher of bacon sat before him. Mariah bit the inside of her cheek, praying he did not load his plate, as he often did on his rare visits to Bailey Hall. She had ordered so much prepared because she planned to bring the remains to the workers spilling over from Lancashire later that day. The ones her papa could not afford to hire without cutting wages, for the linen mills were already at capacity.

Wholly oblivious to the direction of her thoughts, her husband began to pile rashers onto his plate at the sideboard as Mariah bit deeper into her cheek. “I am quite fond of Dickens, you will have to tell me to which you were referring,” he said over his shoulder.

That gave her pause as she buttered her toast. “You are f-fond of Dickens?”

Sliding back down across from her with a plate quite full of rashers, her husband offered her an expression of feigned hurt. “I can read, you know. I am not so idle as that.” After a moment he glanced at her plate, then added. “I thought you preferred apricot jam on your toast.

Mariah exhaled through her nose. “Apricots are a luxury and they are out of season. I d-did not doubt that you were literate, my lord. I was m-merely surprised at your choice of reading. M-Mr. Dickens writes of England, with few exceptions, perhaps France. When we met, you told me of all the books you read about f-foreign lands. I thought…”

While she tried so hard not to be ashamed of her stutter, it often prevented her from speaking to others for long, as it likely marked her as a simpleton to them. Her husband, while charming, had already proven he did not hold her in great esteem, from his long absences to his lack of response to her letters. Usually she tried to converse with him as little as possible. But on the topic of literature, she found she could not hold her tongue.

Keeping his focus on her, St. George slowly lifted a piece of bacon to his mouth, then began to chew thoughtfully. Swallowing, he finally responded, “I did read many books of foreign lands. I’m surprised you recall that given our rushed courtship and nuptials.”