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Danielle undressed her in tugs and touches punctuated by smothered yawns. She was too tired to chatter tonight, thank God, as Alex couldn't think well enough to reply to even the most inane conversation, and she certainly wanted nothing to do with pointed questions. When she felt the strong bands of the corset loose their hold, she pulled in a great rush of air and let it out with a shudder. The new ease in her chest seemed to free up a pain deep inside her.
"I'll sleep late tomorrow, Danielle. No need to rise until I call you."
Once alone, she found that the ancient latch slipped easily into place, locked for the first time in God-knew-how-long. Not for the last time though, not if she stayed in his home.
She did not cry as she slipped into bed. She did not cry one tear for him.
Chapter 20
A bright, cheerful sound floated to her ears, scraping her sleep away before she was ready. Again—a musical pinging, steady as a tolling bell. Horseshoes . . . Adam was forging shoes again. Clang, clang, clang. Those shutters kept nothing out.
Alex opened her eyes to the knowledge that her heart was broken. Sleep had dulled neither the pain nor the memory of its cause. Indeed, it had brought a new facet to its brilliant hurt. St. Claire's letter.
She no longer felt guilty at keeping it secret. Indeed, it had been a wiser deception than she could have guessed. Tales of your talented lips. She'd only thought of kissing and the dozen or so men she'd pressed her lips to.
Yes, she'd kissed Damien and even his best friend a time or two, and had thought herself well and truly scandalous. And how naughty she'd been to let Damien touch her in private places and how wicked to touch him as well, to let him press himself into her open hand, to enjoy the little whips of pleasure that touched her at her daring.
Three times she'd snuck off to let Damien teach her what it meant to touch and be touched. Three times she'd let him pull her into a secluded room and push up her skirts, let him spend himself into her hand.
She had thought these things too forbidden to reveal to her jealous husband, and so she hadn't told him. But, oh, she'd had no idea the scenarios he would weave if left to his own devices. That he would think her capable of debasing herself to such lengths. She hadn't understood, but St. Claire had. Sad to think a murderer knew her husband so well. Perhaps they were all the same. All of them.
Alex pushed her aching body from bed and padded to the window to push aside the drapes and throw back the shutters.
The world moved on below her, people rushing to and fro. Horses ran in the paddock, heads thrown back to savor the bright cold of the day. A fine winter morning and no one the worse for her pain.
These people, these diligent, dedicated people . . . None of them needed her and half didn't even want her here. She had done something wrong or lacked something they expected from her. Just respect, perhaps, just the respect of their lord and leader. And the house servants followed the lead of Rebecca.
These people had jobs and families and why should they make room for a woman who could not even engender the respect of her husband?
She wanted to go home. To her home. She didn't belong here and she never would. She didn't even belong in her husband's bed.
"Bastard," she whispered. "Bastard." The fist that clenched her heart released, and the fingers that spread open inside her were tipped by claws. "You bastard." Her words were lost on a sob, a cry that had waited to escape all night.
Pain wracked her body, grief rode her soul. Her legs tried to curl up, tried to force her to the floor, but she fought it—fought it like she wanted to fight Collin. And she won. She suppressed the instinct to collapse. She forced her shoulders up and stalked to the door to throw it open and glare down the hallway to the swaying back of a girl with a broom.
"Send my maid," she bit out. "Now." Oh, the servants would be whispering today, enjoying the novelty of outrage at her high-handed behavior. It was her parting gift to them, the joy of justifying their dislike.
Alex turned the glare back to her room. Was there even one thing here that she needed? Warm clothes. Coins for food and shelter. What else? Nothing.
"Madame," Danielle panted from behind her. "What is wrong?"
Alex spun, reaching past her maid's shoulder to slam the door. Danielle gasped, alarmed by the noise and no doubt by her mistress's face. Oh, she'd caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—sunken, wild eyes and pale lips framed by tangled curls.
"My lady, what is it!"
"I am leaving, but I need you to stay, Danielle. Can you do that for me?"
"Stay? What do you mean?"
"My husband . . . My husband has accused me of being a whore for the last time, do you understand?"
"Oui." She paled, stepped away. "Oui, of course, Mademoiselle . . . Madame."
"I am leaving. This morning. What time is it?"
"Nine."
"Nine, yes." Good. Dinner in three hours and he wouldn't come home for that, despite that he was only yards away. No, he wouldn't return till dark and she'd be miles gone even if he did notice her absence.
