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Chapter 3
Blake lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. This wasn’t exactly the reunion he had hoped for. He had dreamed of this moment for fourteen long months, of finally seeing her again, of being close to her again. He’d imagined holding her in his arms a million times. It was the only thing that had kept him sane, kept him alive.
During those dark months, he had always imagined that the moment he stepped into the house, she would fall into his arms, profess her love, and they would live in wedded bliss for the rest of their lives. In his dreams, time stood still as they kissed for hours, and nothing mattered to them anymore.
He hadn’t counted on her still being angry with him for the past. The past didn’t exist in his dreams, only the future.
He hadn’t counted on his own jealousy. Or his temper.
In his dreams, he’d never once thought that she could have moved on, given up on him and their marriage. The notion brought a sharp pain to his temples.
Of course, she’d moved on. It’d been fourteen bloody months. If they all thought him dead, she was considered a respectable widow now. And as a respectable widow, she was free to take lovers to her bed. And the way things had stood between them when he disappeared, she didn’t owe him her fidelity. Especially not if she believed him dead.
Suddenly, Blake felt nauseous. How had he not thought of that even once while he was gone? He was insane to think she’d be alone, grieving for him all this time. She was too beautiful to be ignored by society’s beaux, too naïve to not be easily seduced. He knew that firsthand, didn’t he?
And, of course, she was free to remarry. This thought hadn’t entered his mind before, either. Why would she want to remarry? She was young and enchanted by the idea of love when they had met. Perhaps since then, her views on marriage had changed. Perhaps she saw it as a practical arrangement, seeing how he hadn’t left her much when he’d disappeared. Or perhaps she had lied, and she had fallen in love with her long-time friend, the Duke of Kensington. The dark, enigmatic man who had swooped in and promised to make all her problems disappear.
His stomach churned, and he almost doubled over. He rubbed his temples and looked around the room. He turned his head and saw a couple of toasted pieces of bread on the bedside table. His stomach growled at the sight.
When was the last time I ate?
He took a bite of the cold toast and settled back against his pillows. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. As long as Annalise was by his side, they could fix everything. Hewouldfix everything, and they would be as happy as they’d been at the beginning of their relationship. He had managed to woo her once. He would be certain to do it again.
The cold toast made its way down his stomach, and he washed it down with a sip of water. He wanted more than water and toast. Annalise probably worried his stomach couldn’t handle much after he’d collapsed in the ballroom, but it must have been fatigue and an excess of excitement. Now sitting on the bed and chewing the stiff piece of bread, he felt energy surge back into his veins.
Perhaps he could order the staff to make him a sandwich. Or there must be leftover food from the ball. He wasn’t picky. Not after the months of famine he had endured.
He jumped out of bed in one swift motion. The sudden movement caused vertigo, and he had to clasp at the bedpost so he wouldn’t fall into the bed in an undignified heap. He definitely had to eat something more than a bite of toast. And he needed a bath. What he needed, he thought darkly, was his wife. But she had gone through enough for one night, so he didn’t have the heart to bother her.
Blake ambled to the servants’ bell. He ordered sandwiches prepared and loaded into the carriage. Next, he dressed with the help of his valet and looked down at himself. His breeches hung at his waist, although they were too tight at his thighs. The shirt was disproportionately snug, too. The waistcoat restricted his movements. He needed to get a new wardrobe. He needed to do a lot of things. First thing in the morning, he would start by figuring out the details of his estate with Townsend. Surely, he’d help him get reacquainted with his business affairs. Then he’d get new clothes.
But one more pressing matter burned at the back of his mind. Something he couldn’t delay. So he threw a coat over his shoulders and ambled away from his room.
* * *
The moment Annalise left Blake and closed the door to her room, a wave of doubts assailed her. Should she have left Blake alone? He seemed troubled, weary, anxious. Perhaps she should have stayed by his side, held his hand…
Annalise wiped at her face, only to realize tears were streaming down her face. She couldn’t reconcile her emotions. When she’d stepped into the room and saw him lying there, her emotional turmoil had almost driven her to her knees.
She had watched the even rise and fall of his chest, studying his features. He had changed, yes. But he still seemed dear to her. Her heart had leaped from the fact that he was near. His scent had filled the room, and his presence had changed the energy around her.
She had wiped at his forehead with a wet cloth and couldn’t help but caress his hair. So long now, so dark. She had touched the hard planes of his face. His cheeks were hollow, his skin dark; only his lips seemed unchanged.
Her breath had caught in her throat. His lips were soft and enticing. She’d wanted to kiss those lips and feel his hands on her again.
And then he had awakened. And reality had invaded her girlish dreams.
Where had he been all this time? And why wouldn’t he tell her?
Fourteen months ago, she had been packing her suitcases to voluntarily leave him. But when he’d disappeared, she’d almost drowned in her anguish and despair. Seeing him again was like a balm to her broken soul. At the same time, it brought back all those horrid memories.
He had always been secretive, and he had always kept his affairs to himself. It was one of the reasons their marriage—the one that started with a whirlwind courtship—had failed so miserably, so quickly.
Had he run off with his mistress to the islands, faked his demise, and when he got bored, returned home?
That had been one of the most ridiculous thoughts that had ever entered her mind. Well, that wasn’t true. She had wondered that for months after his disappearance. Now, however, it did seem ridiculous. Blake didn’t seem rested at all. In fact, he looked weary, troubled, on edge. He looked as though he’d performed physical labor for months. And his gaze was wild…
She wished she didn’t have to guess. She wished he could have just told her everything, shared his burden, and acted, for once, as though she were truly his wife.
