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Chapter Twenty-One
She’d forgotten about the Scottish marriage laws.
All these weeks, Ainsley had thought she and Tira were finally safe from discovery, from scandal, and, most importantly, from Cringlewood. She’d convinced herself they’d pulled it off, and that she and Royal would finally have the chance to create the life they both longed for.
How naïve she’d been.
Clutching her candle, Ainsley snuck down the quiet hallway toward Royal’s bedroom. She’d heard him pass by her door five minutes ago, recognizing the quiet but unmistakable hitch in his tread. He’d hesitated outside her door for several long seconds, while she’d waited with bated breath, half wishing he’d barge in and demand an explanation for her odd behavior this afternoon. But he didn’t, of course. Royal never demanded or pushed, though sometimes she thought it might be better if he did. If he forced her to tell him the truth, she imagined that somehow she’d be absolved of the consequences of her own stupid behavior.
“Almost like going to confession,” she muttered. “And I’m not even a Catholic.”
But no one could absolve her of her sins or fix the mess she’d created. She needed to think, and then she needed to act. And she had to do it in a way that didn’t make her husband even more suspicious than he already was.
Sinking into one of the chairs in the corridor, Ainsley put her candle down on the small table next to it. She covered her face and sucked in slow, steady breaths, trying to quell the panic that had threatened to overcome her after reading her mother’s letter.
Royal had known something was wrong, and she’d had to exert every ounce of willpower against the urge to run into his arms and tell him everything. But if he ever found out how foolish she’d been, both with her own safety and with Tira’s, he’d never forgive her. In fact, he just might decide to make use of those liberal Scottish marriage laws to be rid of an exceedingly troublesome wife. So far, she’d brought nothing but trouble to the Kendrick family, and she might bring down a great deal more if she didn’t find a way to protectallof them, especially Tira, from the potential mayhem thundering their way.
Ainsley knew what she had to do, even though the idea made her cringe with guilt. As far as she could tell, it was the only thing that could potentially protect her from Cringlewood’s threats. Divorce was all but impossible in England, but not in Scotland, as her mother had triumphantly pointed out in her letter.
The fact that Cringlewood still wished to marry her was something Ainsley had never thought remotely possible. Her former fiancé was a proud, arrogant man, and should have been mortally offended to be thrown over in favor of an untitled and relatively impecunious Scotsman. Once she married Royal, it should have been inconceivable for the marquess to want anything to do with her again.
Yet according to her mother, he did. If anything, Leonard was more terrifyingly obsessed than ever, although Ainsley wasn’t sure if he had the leverage needed to fully bend her to his will. Mamma, unfortunately, had been frustratingly vague about what she’d actually told Leonard about Ainsley’s circumstances, and what he intended to do about it.
“My lady, are ye all right?”
She jerked upright, almost knocking over her candle. William stood a few feet away, gazing at her with consternation.
“Do ye wish me to fetch Mr. Royal?” he asked when she gaped at him like a booby.
She mustered a bracing smile. “Indeed no. I’m perfectly fine.”
William looked even more concerned. “Or I can fetch yer maid if ye’d like, my lady.”
Sighing, Ainsley picked up the candle and rose. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
The footman flicked a gaze over her figure, his eyes widening with alarm. Even in the dim light of the hallway, she could see the poor fellow blush, no doubt unused to a lady wandering around the hall in a frilly wrapper and nightcap. Ainsley had always thought of herself as a rather dignified person, but her recent behavior would suggest otherwise.
“Are you on your way to Mr. Royal’s room to help him get ready for bed?” she asked, trying to regain control of the situation.
William’s cheeks blazed an even deeper red. “Aye, ma’am. I usually pulls his boots off for him at the end of the night.”
“I’ll help Mr. Royal tonight, William. You may retire.”
He seemed flummoxed. Like all the servants in the household, he was aware that she and Royal did not share a bed.
“Um, but Mr. Royal—”
She shooed him. “Good night, William.”
“Yes, my lady. Good night, my lady.”
The footman scurried off, likely to share a juicy bit of gossip about Mr. Royal’s wife preparing to storm her husband’s bedroom to pull off his boots. It all felt suddenly rather ridiculous.
But it’s what you want, isn’t it?
She did want it, desperately. But not like this. Not when it felt like a lie.
But a necessary lie. You’re protecting him, and Tira, too.
