He tightened the belt of his dressing gown, then sat and poured himself a cup of strong coffee to clear a thick head. Although last night when he got home, he hadn’t done much beyond go to sleep. If Jane had shown the slightest interest in bed sport, he’d have responded with alacrity. But he was sick to the stomach of making all the running.
“Good morning, Hugh,” she said without smiling.
She wore a pretty light blue gown, and behind her, the window was open on a lovely day. Spring had arrived since they’d come to London. Unfortunately the bright sunlight revealed Jane looking tired and drawn. His spirits fell as swiftly as they’d risen. This wasn’t a woman anticipating a rural idyll.
Although he supposed in its way, her subdued manner was an improvement. Lately she’d been as glittering at home as she was in society. It wore him out. He couldn’t imagine that maintaining the relentless cheerfulness was any easier on her. Especially as he knew damn well that it was all an act.
He hated to see her looking as downcast as she did this morning, though. As he’d grudgingly admitted to Silas at Anthony and Fenella’s ball, he was conscious that so far, he made an utter hash of his marriage.
“Have you had breakfast?” he asked, seeing the crumbled roll on her plate. Lately, she didn’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive. It hadn’t missed his notice that the blue dress hung more loosely than it had last time he’d seen her wear it.
“Yes, thank you.” Her perfect politeness reminded him of the large-eyed little girl she’d been, getting under his feet and suffering a bad case of hero worship. Devil take it, these days he’d give his right arm to be her hero again. He had a disagreeable suspicion that he’d proven a vast disappointment as a husband.
“I wondered if you could spare me a few minutes this morning,” Jane said, as though she addressed a stranger. “There’s something I’d like to talk about.”
He scowled at her. “You’re my bloody wife, Jane. You don’t need to make an appointment to see me like a tenant in arrears with the rent.”
Garson regretted his outburst the moment he made it. He regretted it even more when she flinched as though he’d hit her. “I’m sorry, Hugh. We’ve both been out and about so much, I thought I should check if you’ll be here.”
“Out and about” really meant staying out of one another’s way. How in hell had all the passion and laughter they’d shared led to this point? “No, I’m sorry. Would you like to talk now?”
Jane began to pleat her napkin. When she fiddled with the table linen, it was always a sign that she was troubled. “No, I’ll see you in the library, once you’re dressed and ready for the day.”
“This sounds serious,” he said, trying to make her smile.
The gray eyes she raised to his were as dull as a cloudy sky. “Yes, I rather think it is.”
Shaken, he watched as she stood and left the room without another word.
He stared after her in consternation. What in Hades was going on? Was she about to confess some wrongdoing? Silas had mentioned Harslett pursuing her. Was that by way of a warning?
Surely not. Jane wanted him. He’d lay his whole fortune that she did.
But did that mean she couldn’t want another man as well?
The thought of his wife in someone else’s arms made his empty stomach churn. He’d feared this, almost expected it. But not this soon. They’d only been married two months. She couldn’t have tired of him already.
Couldn’t she? Something was wrong. Had been wrong for weeks. Like a blockhead, he’d hoped the trouble would blow over. Now he couldn’t mistake the ax poised over his head, ready to fall.
His hand slammed down on the table, setting the china rattling and a knife bouncing to the floor. Be damned if he’d give up without a fight.
*
Within half an hour, Garson was downstairs. Only to find his wife already waiting in the library.
His gut knotting with inchoate dread, he paused in the doorway to study her. As she sat on the couch and stared into the fire, her expression was desolate. This wasn’t the glamorous beauty who set society in a spin. She looked, in fact, like a better dressed version of the wan creature he’d called on in Dorset. His gut gave up twisting. Instead, it constricted with creeping, freezing fear.
He’d promised to make Jane happy. Given what he saw now when she believed herself unobserved, he’d abjectly failed. Guilt rose until it tasted like bile on his tongue, and he shifted on his feet.
The movement alerted her to his presence, and she looked up. “Hugh, you’re early.”
“So are you,” he said, grimly noting that she didn’t even try to smile. He checked her hands, but they weren’t doing their nervous dance. Jane was still and composed—and that suddenly seemed the most worrying aspect of all. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He was so on edge that the click of the latch rang like a death knell in his ears.
He moved to sit beside her, but she stopped him with a curiously truncated gesture. “No. Please. Sit…sit over there.”
With bad grace, he shifted to where she indicated. The chair was a few feet away, yet he felt like she exiled him to Siberia in the depths of winter. Only when he sat did he realize that the stark light streaming through the window lit him like he was on a stage and left Jane in the shadows.
“What the devil is going on, Jane?” His roiling panic flared into annoyance. He folded his arms and scowled at her. “You look like you’re about to make a dreadful confession.”