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Loretta curtseyed neatly and tucked the letter away inside her skirts, and then slipped from the room. As soon as she did, Marion wished she could call her back, rip the letter up and pretend as if nothing had happened. But she couldn’t and she didn’t.
Instead, she swept up the two missives from her father and put them safely away in her secret place. She looked at herself in the mirror, preparing herself for supper with her husband. She checked her face for signs of strain, her chest for sign of a flush of distress, but in her heart she knew that Simon would sense, the way lovers could, that something wasn’t quite right.
He had been so tender the night before, reassuring her that he was there if she needed him, so she knew that he had an inkling that something was on her mind. She could bear that. She could bear the agony of not sharing her body with him for a few nights until the whole matter was resolved. What she could not bear, what she would not endure, was any threat to Simon’s life. She wrung her hands together, whispering soft words of endearment to the spirit of her mother, who she believed was never too far away.
“OhMaman,please help me be strong. Help me protect my husband.” Tears fell down her cheeks as she felt a sense of overwhelming fear and terror, as the real meaning of her feelings landed with her for the very first time. “Please,Maman,protect my husband,” she whispered, “for I think I am falling in love with him.”
Chapter Seventeen
“I’m going out, Hughes,” Simon said, taking his hat and cane from his butler’s hand as he walked to the door of the house.
“Very good, My Lord,” Hughes said, watching as Simon pulled on his gloves. “Shall you ride or take the barouche?”
“Where is the carriage?” Simon asked, frowning. He had anticipated taking the Reading carriage into Town that day to visit Nathan at his London town house.
“The Countess took the carriage out this morning, My Lord.”
“She did?”Simon frowned. He had not seen his wife since the night before, when she had disappeared into her bedroom with the same speed and shyness that she had for the previous two nights.
Simon didn’t know what else he could possibly do to try and coax Marion back to him, to regain the shining eyes and slippery form of the woman who had made love to him in their bathtub. It had started that day, the slow withdrawal when she came back from Nathan and Eleanor’s house. They had made love that evening, but had not done so since. When Simon had tried to touch her, to kiss her or hold her, he could feel something inside her pulling away, as if she was keeping part of herself back from him in a way she hadn’t been before.
Now, it had got so bad that she wasn’t even breakfasting with him, wasn’t even letting him know her plans for the day. They spoke less now than they had when they were first married—at least then he had always known where she was, what she would be getting up to during the day. Now it was as if they were becoming the kind of married couple that never spoke and simply moved past each other through grand houses. Simon hadn’t thought that it was what Marion had wanted for her life. It certainly wasn’t what he wanted for his.
“Yes, My Lord,” Hughes said, acting as if nothing at all was wrong in the mistress of the house not informing the master of what she was doing in her daily life. He was a professional in every sense of the word and would never make Simon feel awkward about his marriage. “I believe the Countess was going shopping in Covent Garden.”
“For what cause?”
“She did not specify,” Hughes said. “I think for pleasure?”
Simon nodded. It was an unlikely errand for Marion, or at least the Marion he felt like he had known so far. She was not the type of woman to simply go shopping to spend money, she was not the type of wife to simply charge on credit and leave her husband with the bill at the end of the month. But he supposed even a woman like Marion might have feminine needs. Perhaps she desired a new hat or a new stole. Simon shrugged, and tried not to feel unsettled by it.
“I am away to the Earl of Brixton’s,” Simon said, stepping out into the cold air of the morning.
“Very good, My Lord. When should we expect you back, ?” Hughes asked neutrally.
“By dinner, I am sure,” Simon said, trotting down the stairs towards the stables. “Hopefully I shall return before the Countess.”
Soon, Simon was ensconced in the barouche and on his way to London. He tapped his foot impatiently, thinking about his wife. She was the reason for his visit to Nathan. He had thought over the last few days, over and over, and the only moment he could pinpoint for Marion’s sudden change in character was Marion’s meeting with Eleanor. He hoped that Nathan might be able to provide some insight, hoping that perhaps Eleanor had mentioned to him that something had gone wrong between her and Marion.
Even though he knew Marion and Eleanor had an incredibly close relationship, he couldn’t help but hope that they had fallen out in some way. At least then there would be an explanation for Marion’s sudden, inexplicable change in mood. At least then, he would know that she wasn’t pulling away from him, but was, in fact, just distracted. At least then he could stop feeling like he was losing her.
He missed her touch, the soft, floral scent of her hair and the way it flowed all the way down her back in a rippling tangle of darkness. He missed the soft, feminine curves of her body and the way they fit against his, deep in the night, when she was naked and warm and sleeping softly against him. Since Stella had died, he had only thought with longing about having someone else to share his bed with, but now that he had the reality of Marion, cuddling close to him and allowing him to press soft kisses against her neck, he felt as if he was a tinderbox set alight.
He still missed his dead wife—he missed the woman who he had one time thought would be the mother of his children—but right now, his body ached for Marion. So much so, that he leaned forward to his driver and tapped him on the shoulder, calling over the noise of a passing sheep driver that had blocked their path.
“Can you take me to Covent Garden?” he asked once he had the man’s attention. “I’ll walk from there.”
The driver nodded and urged the horses forward, negotiating around the final few sheep in the herd before pushing on towards the city centre. Simon sat back, feeling slightly mollified. Perhaps what he really needed to do was see Marion, to spend some time with her in a public space that was a little less pressurized than the intimacy of their bedroom.
Perhaps that was what would make him feel whole again. As they turned into the city, Simon had to sit back in the barouche, hidden from the passing world by the hood that covered half of the box and protected him from the heavy pollution and smells of the city. It was then, as the driver passed along Charing Cross Road that Simon saw a beautiful woman walking back away from Covent Garden.
She wore an emerald green dress and pelisse, with a small, jaunty hat clipped into a mountain of dark hair. She carried a small green carousel to protect herself from pollution and the sun. Even from a distance, her dark eyes blazed with intensity. It was Marion.
“Stop! Stop!” Simon cried, grabbing his driver’s jacket, jerking him instinctively. The driver pulled the horses to a stop with a neigh and pawing of hooves. The carriage drivers behind them swerved, shouting expletives at them, but Simon didn’t care. He launched himself forward and out of the barouche, into the road.
“Master! My Lord!” the driver called, standing up in his seat. “My Lord!”
“Go to the Brixton townhouse!” Simon called over his shoulder, dodging horse dung in the street. “I shall meet you there later!”
