Lord Garson’s Bride (Dashing Widows 7)

Hugh gave a noncommittal grunt and stared moodily into the fire. He’d muddle through, all right. But the devil knew where he and his beautiful wife would be once he did.

*

Chapter Thirty-One

*

Jane watched Hugh and Silas return to the ballroom. Her husband always danced the second waltz with her, and whenever he did, it only sharpened her heartbreak. Every time he touched her, she thought she must crack with the force of the titanic feelings she struggled to contain.

She’d spent her life longing for a London season. Now here she was, popular beyond her wildest dreams, and she hated every moment of it.

Because the man she loved didn’t love her.

She suspected Hugh was as unhappy as she was. The stiff set to his broad shoulders hinted that his casual manner was as artificial as her endless sparkle. She supposed she could ask him, but these days they only spoke about trivial matters. That was her fault, she admitted. She couldn’t risk a deeper discussion, for fear that she might reveal too much.

But the strain of keeping up a constant façade was telling on her. The pretense—to Hugh and to the world—that she was blissfully happy was draining every ounce of vitality. She felt like she was nothing but a dried-out husk. How much longer could she continue? Pride was all that sustained her, and it grew more tattered by the day.

Hugh bowed to her. “My dance, I believe.”

“I wondered if you remembered.” She took his arm and let him lead her onto the crowded floor. “I looked for you and couldn’t find you.”

They turned to face one another. He looked exceedingly handsome in his evening clothes, the crisp black and white setting off his chiseled features. Somehow that just made Jane feel worse. He was so fine inside and out, and having to live without his love was a constant torment.

“I’ll always remember you,” he said. The gentle words only increased the weight of misery pressing down on her heart. He cared about her, she knew he did. But it wasn’t enough. “I was talking to Silas in the library.”

She sniffed and tried to sound teasing. “And drinking Anthony’s brandy.”

He smiled, but compared to the smiles he’d once given her, this was a mechanical effort. “It’s too good to pass up.”

The violins took up a lilting melody. Hugh’s arm curled around her waist, and his gloved hand caught hers. She set her other hand on his shoulder and started to move in time with him.

Once, his touch had been paradise. No more. It only reminded Jane of what she couldn’t have. Oh, how she hated her stupid heart for wanting more than he could give her. She wished she could rip it out and go on without it.

Still, she must endure. They were in public, and she owed Hugh an appearance of amity. She lifted her head and fixed a smile to her lips. Most nights by the time she went home, her jaw ached with smiling, when all she wanted to do was crawl away into the dark and cry.

Jane tried to lose herself in the swirling movement, to recapture some of their earlier ease with one another, but it was impossible. She was too aware of his hands on her and how he cursed the fate that placed his wife in his arms and not Morwenna.

“You’re very quiet,” he said, after a while.

Her feet naturally followed his, without her having to think about it. After all, he’d been her first dance partner. Warily she glanced up at him. “I’m a little weary.”

A little weary? The effort of hiding her feelings, not to mention all the late nights, and the endless tossing and turning when she finally got to bed, left her feeling like a wrung-out rag.

“Jane,” he said, and the edge in his voice alerted her that for once, this wouldn’t be some polite banality, “would you like to go up to Derbyshire? There’s nothing to keep us in London. Not really. You haven’t seen the house in years, and it’s beautiful there with spring coming on.” He paused, then went on with an urgent sincerity, that made her heart cramp. “We could spend some time alone together, away from all this flummery.”

Oh, God, give her strength. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with Hugh. But on the other hand, she was reaching her limits as the queen of society.

She swallowed to moisten a dry mouth and said in a low tone, “Let me think about it.”

“Please do.” His grip on her waist tightened. “I want to have you to myself again. I want what we found in Salisbury.”

“We’ve still got that,” she said, knowing it was a lie. “You share my bed every night.”

And she could hardly bear it. Because the desire between them, however powerful, was a mere counterfeit of what she really wanted.

She could never have what she really wanted.

He frowned, and regret sliced her heart when she saw his disappointment. “Yes,” he said, not sounding convinced. “Think about Derbyshire. A few weeks in the country would do you good.”