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Chapter 3: The Jilting
It stopped her in hertracks. Diane dared raise an eye to his jawline, almost as good as eye contact.
“I have made commitments to that man,” she said slowly. That man who Liam had been raised alongside, like brothers. What on earth could shake the loyalty of such a close bond?
Liam took in a steadying breath, elaborating in a low voice, “It can never be a true marriage. He does not regard you as a wife.”
His words hurt for Diane to hear. Her eyes stung, feeling the prick of hot tears. She supposed it meant Martin had already deemed her not enough to satisfy him.
Just another way that they were well matched.
“Then he is not alone in that,” she confessed, the hurt welling up and breaking through her chest. Her heart seemed to realize then, that she had been expecting to exist in her marriage alone. Whatever security marrying Martin would provide, she knew she would always be supporting her heart alone.
So deep in her own misery, almost unthinking, she said, “I have long known I would be forced to find that passion outside of him.”
She dared a look at Mr. Graves, meeting his eyes, those stolen glances that felt illicit.
Genuine surprise had crossed his face. He went still, stiller than he normally was, which was impressive.
“I.... I have... my illustrations, I mean. They would better fulfill the role of a husband than Martin would,” she admitted, something she had never told another soul. She closed her eyes, as if that could keep this secret of hers unknown still.
There was no answer from Mr. Graves. Hesitantly, she dared a look at him.
He had stepped away, looking towards the door. He must have been too shocked, perhaps even revolted by her confession to such an errant behavior.
Diane opened her mouth to apologize, to take back her words, to do something to amend what that outburst of emotion had prompted her to say, when she saw how hard he was trying hard not to smile.
Then a laugh escaped him. It was loud and hearty from that barrel chest of his. He put a hand over his mouth to contain it, but the laughter rolled from him.
Her cheeks flared.
The audacity of this man!
“Shush! Shhhh!” she admonished him as quietly as she could. She smacked her fan against his arm. How dare he treat her as if she were ridiculous!
But she was ridiculous.
She was a fainting bride with a fainting goat, a few illustrations of passionate scenes she could only wish for, and a soon to be loveless marriage.
Diane swallowed her feelings down. That was it, then. She did not know what she did want, or if whatever she settled on wanting would be allowed to her, but she knew this— she did not want to be ridiculous.
She gathered up her cloak, and her little reticule, and forced her way past Mr. Graves. She did not care if it was rude, or bother to linger over how it felt to press briefly bodily against him, she was already out the vestibule door, then the church door.
The first thing she saw outside was the little fainting goat, tied up at the steps. It blinked at her with its weird little sideways pupils, then bleated.
Not a cute little noise one would expect from a baby animal, but more like a wail, or a garbled little scream.
Diane grumbled and untied the leash from the door handle, dropping it to the ground. The goat could have a running start from Martin too.
