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But he could think of her as often as he liked. No one could keep him from that.
Hard pellets of snow tinked against the windows as Kate drew swirls and circles on a torn piece of paper, idly considering when to kill her husband. The planning felt cruel, despite that Mr. Hamilton had never existed. As for David . . . he’d been dead nearly nine months now. It could not matter to him.
She’d wanted to wait a year after arriving in England before declaring herself widowed, but things felt so different now. And her business was doing tolerably well. She’d chosen the location so carefully. A town small enough to have escaped the notice of another dedicated coffee merchant, but prosperous enough that certain households would demand the finest roasts and blends. Four local estates had already paid her a generous amount to secure their own private roast, available to no one else. It was exactly what she’d hoped for.
But now she was beginning to tire of the masquerade of marriage. She could put out word any time that her husband had died of a sudden fever. Everyone in England seemed to think the Orient was rife with deadly dangers, after all. No one would doubt that a man might fall over twitching and gasping with no warning at all.
So she could get rid of Mr. Hamilton, but there was the larger problem to be faced. What about Gerard Gallow? She didn’t think she’d hurt him badly that night. She hoped that the sickening crack she’d heard had been only the bottle and not his skull. But he’d fallen so hard to the floor. Still, despite the blood that had trickled from his head, his eyes had fluttered when she’d nudged him.
So she’d run. She’d run for her freedom and her life and her sanity. She hadn’t dared search out news from Ceylon once she’d reached India. If she looked toward Ceylon, she’d reasoned, it might look toward her.
But now she wished she’d paused for just a moment. If she’d stopped to look back, she would at least know if Gerard was all right. She hadn’t meant to hit him so hard. And even if he were fine, had he tried to convince the world that she had killed David? She hadn’t hurt her husband, but who would believe her over Gerard?
It was time to find out the truth. She could not bear the uncertainty anymore. It had seemed a small sacrifice a few weeks ago—living alone, needing no one. But now she faced a new possibility. Maybe she could need more than that. Maybe she could still be a whole woman with wants and dreams and desires.
She’d kissed Aidan York, after all.
My God, she’d kissed him. Opened her mouth to him. Rubbed her tongue against his as if she’d never spent a day apart from his body. She was supposed to be a married woman, yet she’d licked at his mouth as if she were starving for it.
What must he think of her today? What did she think of herself?
With a great sigh, Kate rubbed her hands roughly over her face, wondering how she would look at him again. Would it be worse if he came today or if he didn’t? She felt stupid now. Stupid that she’d got caught up in the intimacy of the moment. My God, there was a time when she’d convinced herself that he’d never even loved her, thanks to her father’s cruel words. And now she found herself wondering if he might love her still. It was absurd. And exciting.
Kate picked up her grandfather’s watch and rubbed her thumb over the cool metal. As soon as she’d touched the watch, she’d remembered giving it to Aidan and all that had come before that.
The secret, stolen moments that had eventually led to that day. The frightening excitement of hurrying along the river bank, toward the old boathouse. They hadn’t planned to let things go so far, but the kissing had led to touching and it had been so good. And Aidan’s hands had been gentle and sweet. Just as his mouth had been. Just as it still was.
He hadn’t hurt her at all that day in the boathouse, though he’d asked over and over again to be sure. If there’d been any pain, it had been swallowed up by her trembling excitement.
Curling her fingers over the watch, Kate squeezed her eyes shut and felt warmth seep out of her body and into the metal. This was ridiculous. This was not why she’d returned to England. Not by far.
She pushed aside her lethargy and retrieved paper and pen from under the counter. She wrote a simple, short letter for Lucy’s father. As she sealed the letter, anxiety plucked at her nerves. It hurt every fiber of her being to ask about Ceylon, but after all, it had already asked about her. That Mr. Dalworth would arrive soon. Today or tomorrow, if he kept to his word. And any good coffee merchant would want news from Ceylon. Certainly it damaged her masquerade not at all to inquire after old newspapers from the East.
The alley door opened with a bang, and her heart jumped to her throat. She rushed to the back, thinking it must be Aidan, but instead she found Fost’s white-haired driver.
“Oh, thank heavens!”
The man tipped his hat. “Good morning, Mrs. Hamilton. ’Tis nice to be so warmly welcomed.”
“Hush, you. It’s the coffee I’m thrilled to see. Please tell me you’ve brought the Sumatran?”
He chuckled throatily. “I asked specifically this time. Told Mr. Fost I wouldn’t dare cross your threshold without it.” He reached down and hauled up the crate that lay at his feet. “Where would you like it?”
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“In the front room, please. I’ll need to put it out immediately. Oh, this is wonderful.” At his nod, she hurried back into the shop with a relieved sigh. She wasn’t confident with her supplier. He always came through with the deliveries, but often at the last possible moment. The Sumatran was supposed to have arrived on Friday, and here it was on Monday.
Still, she’d struck a profitable bargain with him and hated to start from scratch with someone else.
The driver came in with one last crate, and Kate sighed. “I apologize if I’ve been prickly. And I thank you for being so kind.”
“It’s no bother, ma’am.”
“How is your brother?”
“Well, I think. He don’t write often and I don’t read often, so news is far between. And your husband, ma’am?”
“Very well, thank you.”
