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“I believe so. I have never seen the ones beneath her clothes.”
“She is the only woman I know whose collars reach up to her ears. Which I find somewhat refreshing.”
“Says the man who has cuckolded more than a dozen nobles in Mayfair.”
“Varietyisthe spice of life.” Mark straightened and opened the door, then paused. “Be gentle with her.”
Matthew nodded and Mark left, closing the door quietly. Matthew opened and closed his fists several times, then went in through the dressing room and knocked on the far door. From the other side a soft voice called, “Enter.”
The room had been his mother’s bedchamber while his father still lived, and it had changed little. The plush carpet was a dark blue background with light blue swirling accents that matched the lighter blue drape around the bed. Blue silk wallpaper tied the other elements in the room together, include a white porcelain pitcher and basin on the washstand, which were edged in blue flowers. A chest of drawers stood near the washstand, topped by a blue and white embroidered run. Near the edge, half on and half off the runner, set a half full glass of a dark amber liquid.
Three lamps lit the room with a low, flickering glow. Sarah stood between the washstand and the chest of drawers, her thick auburn locks cascading down around her shoulders. She looked ethereal, her light blue cotton night rail seemed to brush and flow over every curve. Her hair concealed the scars on her face and neck, and for the first time, Matthew saw the woman she was before the burns. He knew to his bones she had done this on purpose, to show him what she had been before.
And he did not like the illusion. This was the Sarah who had been, a naïve girl who had entered a violent marriage unprepared. The woman he had married today had a sense of the world and herself. She had walked through hell and emerged with a strength and knowledge he almost envied. Whose scars were war wounds proving she had survived to face the world again. He had watched her set aside a veil and hold her head high.
That was the Sarah he wanted.His Sarah.Those two words settled in his mind in a way that buoyed his soul. He crossed to her, watched her head slowly tilt upward as she focused on his face. When he stood in front of her Matthew reached out and tucked her hair behind her right ear.
“I do not like it when you hide.”
Her chin lifted a bit more. “No veil, no hair, no high collars.”
“You are magnificent. You should never hide.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Do you take the minority opinion in Parliament as well?”
Matthew laughed, feeling some of his tension ease. “I do, truth be told. Much to the chagrin of my peers.”
“I would wager you were as big a surprise to them as you were to me.”
“And I would never bet against a skillful gambler.” He reached out again, curling his fingers into the long strands of hair. “Especially one so lovely.” He kissed her temple, reveling in the softness of her hair and the subtle floral fragrance of her skin.
Yet another aroma reached him, one more pungent and smoky. He glanced at the glass on the chest of drawers. “Whisky?” He peered at her. “Why are you drinking whisky?”
Sarah hesitated, then squeezed her eyes shut a moment. “Honesty,” she whispered, as if to herself. “Honesty.” She straightened and opened her eyes. “Yes. It helps me brace against the pain.”
Confusion clouded Matthew’s thoughts. “You said the scars did not hurt.”
She shook her head. “Not the scars. The... other.”
“What... other?”
She glanced at the bed.
He followed her gaze. The covers on the bed had been turned back, the pillows plumped and piled high. It looked delightfully comfortable, ready for them. He looked back to Sarah. “Sarah?”
Her cheeks pinked. She glanced at the bed again, her voice husky. “That pain. When a man and a woman... it is always painful for the woman. We try to pretend it is not, but it is just the way it is. The whisky helps.”
A slow realization eased through Matthew, bringing with it a bitter rage. He forced his voice calm. “Were you ever with any man except Crewood?”
Her eyes shot wide. “Of course not!”
The growing fury tensed his muscles. He pivoted away from her and stalked to the fireplace, gripping the mantle so hard his joints ached. His teeth ground as he contained each word that fought to get out, every shout.
“Matthew?”
She had come to his side, his name on her lips low and weak with puzzlement.
Gradually, the anger lifted, replaced by small increments of calm, but he dared not look at her. Instead he spoke to the fire. “If that man were not dead, I would kill him. As it is, I will piss on his bones.”
