She knew the answer. To lie in the arms of Marcus Worthorne. Because in those brief moments she felt freedom—more freedom than she’d known since she was a child.
But that was impossible. And it was no use thinking and wishing for things that could never happen. She had chosen her life—or it had chosen her and she had made her decision to accept—and there could be no turning around now. The assignations with Marcus would remain with her, delicious memories, but any liaison between them was over. She could not risk it again.
Then why did she feel this sense of loss? Of grief? Or longing for something she could never have?
Why was it that she had to please everyone but herself?
“I did try!” Lara cried, wringing her hands.
Arnold remained unimpressed. “It wasn’t much to ask,” he said, petulant. “I don’t ask much of you, Lara, and when I do ask something, you do not even try.”
“She refused,” Lara insisted, her voice rising. “If you must blame someone, then blame her.”
Arnold said nothing.
Lara hated his silence more than his hurtful words. She could never bear it. She loved him, didn’t he know that? She would do anything for him.
As usual, it didn’t take her long to cave in. “Please, forgive me,” she said breathlessly.
“Forgive you?”
“Arnold, please, what do you want?”
“I want you to show me you care, Lara. Is that too much to ask?”
“I do care!”
“Then you should prove it, shouldn’t you?”
Lara’s lips trembled but she didn’t cry. Arnold hated it when she cried. He said it made her ugly.
“Tell me what to do,” she begged, “and I will do it.”
Arnold gave her his beatific smile. “I may have something for you to do, Lara. I have a plan, and I will need your help with it.”
“Anything, my love,” she said feverishly. She touched his cheek and felt him freeze. He didn’t like to be touched, not even by his wife. Arnold, beautiful as he was, was a cold man. Lara told herself such things were unimportant if one loved, but some nights she lay awake and wished he were a little more interested in the physical side of marriage. Even a kiss and a cuddle would be enough, he did not have to do more.
But she would never ask him. Not after that one time when he had flown into a rage, accusing her of being as base as the women who plied their wares in Covent Garden after dark.
Their love had to be a spiritual union. A meeting of the minds.
“Is Portia attending the soiree?” Arnold asked, breaking into her thoughts.
“Yes. In black.”
He smiled. “Very good, Lara. I am pleased with you. Everyone will be there to see her. It will be a hit. The angelic widow, so untouchable, so pure. Or is she?”
“What do you mean, Arnold?”
“There is something very erotic about Portia. Her untouchableness, the very thought that she is so unattainable, makes her desirable.”
“But Arnold, you—”
“Not to me, you ninny,” he said impatiently. He shook his head. “Never mind. Go to bed, Lara. You have much to do for Thursday’s soiree. Good night, my dear.”
He leaned down and kissed her temple, before he turned away toward the library. Alone, Lara floated up the stairs to bed, tears of joy in her eyes.
Chapter 8