He’d done it for her own good.
An hour later, Gyles rubbed his hands over his face, then stared at the three hefty volumes open on the desk before him, their pages lit by the desk lamp. On the blotter sat the drafts of three bills he and a number of like-minded lords had been discussing for some time. Given he’d decided to miss the autumn session, he’d volunteered to research the key points in their deliberations.
He’d done little to further their goals tonight.
Every time he started reading, the expression in Francesca’s eyes, the sudden blanking of happiness from her face, rose to haunt him.
Lips compressing, he tugged one tome so the light fell better on the page. He’d done the honorable thing. He was not prepared to love her, not as she wished to be loved-it was better to make that plain now and not encourage her to extrapolate-to invent, to imagine-to dream any further.
Focusing on the tiny print, he forced himself to read.
The door opened. Gyles raised his head. Wallace materialized from the gloom.
“Excuse me, my lord, do you wish for anything further? Her ladyship’s retired-she mentioned a slight headache. Do you wish tea to be brought to you here?”
A moment passed before Gyles replied, “No. Nothing further.” He looked away as Wallace bowed.
“Very good, my lord. Good night.”
Gyles stared unseeing across the darkened room. He heard the door shut; still he sat and stared. Then he pushed back his chair, rose, and walked to the long windows. The curtains were open; the west lawn was awash with moonlight, the orchard a sea of shifting shadows beyond.
He stood and stared; inside, a battle raged.
He didn’t want to hurt her yet he had. She was his wife-his. His most deeply entrenched instinct was to protect her, yet how could he protect her from himself? From the fact he had an eminently sound reason for refusing to admit love into his life. That his decision was absolute, that he would not be swayed. That he’d long ago made up his mind never to take that risk again.
The consequences were too dire, the misery too great.
There seemed no other choice. Hurt her, or accept the risk of being destroyed himself.
He stood before the windows as the moon traversed the sky. When he finally turned inside, lowered the lamp wick and blew out the flame, then crossed the dark room to the do
or, one question-only one-echoed in his mind.
How much of a coward was he?
Four days later, Francesca cracked open the second door to the library and peeked in. The second door lay down a side corridor, out of sight of the main door and the footmen in the front hall. If they saw her approaching any door, they would instantly fling it wide-in this instance, the opposite of what she wished.
Gyles was not at his desk. It stood directly across the room. The chair behind it was empty, but books lay open, scattered across the desktop.
Francesca eased the door farther open and scanned the room. No tall figure stood by the long windows, nor yet by the shelves.
Swiftly, she entered and quietly shut the door. Moving to the nearest corner, she started along the bookshelves, scanning the titles.
Her caution had nothing to do with her search-she wasn’t engaged in any reprehensible act. But she wanted to avoid any unnecessary encounter with Gyles. If he didn’t want her in his life, so be it-she was too proud to beg. Since the evening he’d elected to spend his after-dinner hours separate from her, she’d ensured she made no demands on his time beyond the absolutely necessary.
He still came to her bed and her arms every night, but that was different. Neither she nor he would allow what occurred between them outside her bedchamber to interfere with what lay between them inside it.
On that, at least, they were as one.
She hadn’t been back to the Dower House. While she would have liked to indulge in the comfort and support of her mother-in-law and aunt-in-law, the first question they would ask was how she was getting on, meaning getting on with her husband.
She didn’t know how to answer, couldn’t conceive how to explain or make sense of it. His rejection-how else was she to interpret it?-had been a blow, yet, stubbornly, she refused to give up hope. Not while he continued to come to her every night-not while, during the day, she would catch him watching her, a frown, not one of displeasure but of uncertainty, in his grey eyes.
No-she hadn’t lost hope, but she’d learned not to prod. Henni had definitely been right about that. He was a latent tyrant; tyrants did not appreciate being dictated to. She had to let him find his own road, and pray it was one that led to her desired destination.
Such patience did not come easily. She had to distract herself. Remembering her intention to find the old Bible and copy the family tree therein, she’d asked Irving about the book; he believed the Bible, a huge old tome, was in the library. Somewhere amid the thousands of other old tomes. All Irving could recall was that it was covered in red leather with a spine nearly six inches wide.
Minutes ticked by. Half an hour elapsed as she circled the huge room. It would have taken longer, but there were few books that large on the shelves. Indeed, there was no book that large on the main shelves. Which left the shelves in the gallery.