Autumn Rain by Anita Mills

not sleep, thinking of the old man beside her, wondering if one night he would die in her bed. The only thing worse, she knew, would be if he should live until she were no longer young. And as they had so often done in the two months past, her thoughts turned once again to the notorious Earl of Longford—remembering the strength of his arms, the passion of his kiss, she wondered how on earth his wife could have preferred another man. Scoundrel, rake, or whatever, he would have been infinitely preferable to Arthur Kingsley. But she supposed Longford's wife to be quite beautiful, and no doubt she'd had scores of young bucks at her feet. She, on the other hand, had only Arthur.

CHAPTER 4
    She was one of the loveliest women he'd ever seen, he admitted that. She was also the biggest mistake of his life, and he was ready to put her behind him. He leaned back in his chair, facing her across the length of the bishop's meeting table, and took stock of the woman who had been his wife for two years.
    She was in her best looks, her pale, wheat-blond hair curling delicately beneath the wide brim of a blue velvet bonnet, her porcelain skin infused with the barest tint of rose, her wide blue eyes reflecting an innocence totally at variance with the woman within. Even the prim, braid-edged blue velvet pelisse, unbuttoned to show a demure, lace-trimmed blue muslin gown, had been worn to elicit sympathy from the clergy present, he decided cynically. Blue was her color, and she knew it. It was also a color that was cool, delicate, and devoid of passion, the sort of thing one ought to wear to church.
    "Harumph!" The bishop, Lord Quentin Harwell, cleared his throat, shuffled through an untidy stack of papers, and looked to Lucien. "You are unrepresented, my lord?"
    "Yes."
    He turned to Diana. "Are you, my lady?"
    "I have brought my parents, Lord and Lady Fenton, and my solicitor, Mr. Tate," she answered softly.
    "Is Lord Townsend present?" he inquired of one of the priests beside him.
    "No, he is not. But as you know, he has changed his mind and decided to admit to the charges."
    "A pity, for he must surely provide enlightenment."
    "You have his deposition," Lucien reminded him curtly. "And I'd get on with this—with your permission, of course."
    Harwell flashed him a look of disapproval. "Yes— well—" He cleared his throat again. "Highly irregular, I admit it, but I thought perhaps we could attempt a reconciliation."
    "No." Lucien appeared absorbed in a nub of lint on the sleeve of his blue superfine coat for a moment, then he shook his head. "No, I don't think so."
    Mr. Tate rose. "My lord bishop, Lady Longford does not desire a separation from her husband."
    "What Lady Longford desires is immaterial at this point, Lucien declared coldly. "I intend to press for the divorce." He indicated the stack of papers. "You have more than enough evidence before you to support the charge I have brought against her."
    "My lord bishop, if I may speak—" Lord Fenton rose to stand behind his daughter. "There has never been the slightest taint of scandal in this family, and naturally we should not wish to embroil ourselves in a public airing of grievances. Surely Longford himself is not blameless in the matter." He looked down, and resting his hand on Diana's shoulder, he went on, "There is the unfortunate circumstance of a number of"—he covered his mouth and coughed discreetly—"Forgive me for having to say this before the ladies, but it's well known that Longford has engaged in a number of alliances with other females."
    "Inadmissable," Lucien retorted.
    "Unfortunately, adultery, reprehensible though it is, is not a crime for a male," Bishop Harwell reminded Diana's father.
    "But it was nonetheless devastating to a young wife eager to please her husband," Fenton argued. "Can she be blamed for falling prey to the attentions of an acknowledged rake like Bellamy Townsend when she has been all but deserted by Longford?"
    "She does not deny the charge?"