instincts he had not known himself capable of.
At least, he thought, it was all over now. Both this house and Grenfell Park were large enough that they could avoid each other for most of their days. And after a year had passed he could make sure that she was always in a house where he was not. And if he should ever feel the need for an heir of his own body—well, he would think of that when the time came. He was only twenty-eight years old.
She had bled a great deal more than he would have expected a virgin to bleed, he thought, looking at the distinctly pink hue of the water. And he felt shame for his roughness, and hatred against her for having provoked it.
He could scarcely wait for the following night, he thought, closing his eyes and reaching for his nightshirt. Tomorrow night and the comfortable sanity of Alice’s bed and body.
4
S HE WOKE UP FEELING THE STRANGENESS OF HER surroundings—the large square, high-ceilinged room, the bed, wider and softer than her own, its elaborate hangings green instead of rose pink. She realized what had woken her when she spotted a maid, on her knees, quietly building up the fire. Someone else was in her dressing room. There was a clinking of china. It was probably a pitcher of hot water being set down.
And then came the feeling of surprise that she had slept at all. She had not expected to. And yet she could remember standing in her dressing room, washing herself off with hands that shook from fear and shock. She remembered leaning on her forearms on the washstand and closing her eyes and contemplating the full horror of what had just happened—of what he had done to her and of the way she had reacted. She had done what she always did when she was afraid or angry or both. She had given as good as she had got. She had fought her fear—literally fought. She had never been so terrified as she had been when her husband came to her. She had never fought such a desperate fight.
And yet she could remember yawning despite everything. Yawning and yawning and wondering how she was to get herself back from the dressing room to the bed. She had had three almost sleepless nights and she had lived through an hour of terror and an hour of frightening abandon, at some time during which she lost herself completely, so that she had somehow woken as if from sleep to find herself pinned beneath his full weight. She could not now remember returning to her bed from the dressing room. But she must have done so because that was where she was now lying. And she was wearing her nightgown, she noticed, feeling it with one hand. She could not remember pulling it back on.
One of the hardest things she had done in her life, she found half an hour later, was dismissing her maid and leaving her dressing room to descend to the breakfast room. She dreaded seeing him again—the stiff and contemptuous stranger who had so hurt and degraded her the night before. Her husband. She drew back her shoulders and raised her head high.
But the breakfast room was empty except for the butler and a footman and rows of silver-covered warming dishes on a sideboard.
“Good morning, m’lady,” the butler said, bowing deeply and drawing back a chair for her.
And that was what she was, she thought with some incredulity. She was my lady, a countess. The Countess of Falloden. The thought made her heart sink lower than it already was.
“Good morning, Mr. Starret,” she said, smiling at him as she always smiled at her father’s servants. “Good morning.” She looked at the footman. “I do not know your name.”
“Peter, my lady,” he said, seeming startled and jumping to attention. “Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning, Peter,” she said.
The butler had a message for her. His lordship would be ready to escort her to her father’s house as soon as she had breakfasted. The words brought on a wave of nausea and she asked only for a slice of toast. He was going to come with her, then, as he had told Papa the
At least, he thought, it was all over now. Both this house and Grenfell Park were large enough that they could avoid each other for most of their days. And after a year had passed he could make sure that she was always in a house where he was not. And if he should ever feel the need for an heir of his own body—well, he would think of that when the time came. He was only twenty-eight years old.
She had bled a great deal more than he would have expected a virgin to bleed, he thought, looking at the distinctly pink hue of the water. And he felt shame for his roughness, and hatred against her for having provoked it.
He could scarcely wait for the following night, he thought, closing his eyes and reaching for his nightshirt. Tomorrow night and the comfortable sanity of Alice’s bed and body.
4
S HE WOKE UP FEELING THE STRANGENESS OF HER surroundings—the large square, high-ceilinged room, the bed, wider and softer than her own, its elaborate hangings green instead of rose pink. She realized what had woken her when she spotted a maid, on her knees, quietly building up the fire. Someone else was in her dressing room. There was a clinking of china. It was probably a pitcher of hot water being set down.
And then came the feeling of surprise that she had slept at all. She had not expected to. And yet she could remember standing in her dressing room, washing herself off with hands that shook from fear and shock. She remembered leaning on her forearms on the washstand and closing her eyes and contemplating the full horror of what had just happened—of what he had done to her and of the way she had reacted. She had done what she always did when she was afraid or angry or both. She had given as good as she had got. She had fought her fear—literally fought. She had never been so terrified as she had been when her husband came to her. She had never fought such a desperate fight.
And yet she could remember yawning despite everything. Yawning and yawning and wondering how she was to get herself back from the dressing room to the bed. She had had three almost sleepless nights and she had lived through an hour of terror and an hour of frightening abandon, at some time during which she lost herself completely, so that she had somehow woken as if from sleep to find herself pinned beneath his full weight. She could not now remember returning to her bed from the dressing room. But she must have done so because that was where she was now lying. And she was wearing her nightgown, she noticed, feeling it with one hand. She could not remember pulling it back on.
One of the hardest things she had done in her life, she found half an hour later, was dismissing her maid and leaving her dressing room to descend to the breakfast room. She dreaded seeing him again—the stiff and contemptuous stranger who had so hurt and degraded her the night before. Her husband. She drew back her shoulders and raised her head high.
But the breakfast room was empty except for the butler and a footman and rows of silver-covered warming dishes on a sideboard.
“Good morning, m’lady,” the butler said, bowing deeply and drawing back a chair for her.
And that was what she was, she thought with some incredulity. She was my lady, a countess. The Countess of Falloden. The thought made her heart sink lower than it already was.
“Good morning, Mr. Starret,” she said, smiling at him as she always smiled at her father’s servants. “Good morning.” She looked at the footman. “I do not know your name.”
“Peter, my lady,” he said, seeming startled and jumping to attention. “Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning, Peter,” she said.
The butler had a message for her. His lordship would be ready to escort her to her father’s house as soon as she had breakfasted. The words brought on a wave of nausea and she asked only for a slice of toast. He was going to come with her, then, as he had told Papa the
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