Season for Scandal by Theresa Romain Page B

someone to teach her to ride a horse. But she wanted him to realize it on his own.
    He had kept all the promises she’d tugged from him in the forgotten little side parlor at Lord Sheringbrook’s house. Jane realized now: Kirkpatrick would give her everything she asked for, and the best of it. But he would give her not an iota more.
    When he’d made his proposal, she had not asked for time with him. She had not insisted that love be a condition of their marriage. And so these intangibles never came to pass. He had promised to try to make her happy—but what, after all, was trying? He hadn’t promised to succeed. And she hadn’t asked him to.
    Perhaps she was not as ingenious as she had once thought.
    After breakfast each day, Kirkpatrick disappeared into his study, a small room she had never yet entered. He had not said she couldn’t, but she didn’t try to cross the threshold. It would be too humiliating to be booted back.
    So Jane spent the first days of her marriage without her husband. Instead of learning the corners of his heart or creating pet names for him, she acquainted herself with every corner of the house and every servant’s name. She created menus for course after course.
    No one had much appetite. But the food looked impressive.
    Day by day, she felt Lady Kirkpatrick enclosing her, molding her into something quieter and sleeker than she’d ever imagined being. It was not unwelcome; it was simply unfamiliar. As little like her unmarried self as lilac was like hay. This was part of the bargain she had struck with her husband, and if he fulfilled his end so punctiliously, she could do no less.
    So passed her days.
    But when the sun slid beneath the horizon, the silence of the house softened. Not a brittle thing, but peaceful and gauzy. The servants vanished into their rooms, and the careful mask of propriety could vanish for a time, too, if Kirkpatrick would allow it.
    Every night, a tap came at the door between their bedchambers, and he entered the room. There was never much talking. Clothes were shed, skin was stroked.
    Each time, Jane tried to undo the harm she’d caused on their wedding day. She wanted to be rough and bawdy, to prove that she didn’t mind that he couldn’t love her back, that this clashing of bodies was enough for her. She wanted to press him to the bed and use him hard, until blessed oblivion could claim them both.
    But Kirkpatrick didn’t allow it. Night after night, he treated her with a politeness so complete that it became impersonal.
    “Allow me,” he said, pressing her hands aside with gentle force. Not allowing her to grab at him, pull him close. It was like a script: first he brought her to orgasm with his hands. Then he held himself high above her body as he stroked in and out. When he shuddered his completion, he pulled away at once.
    The sensations were delicious, yet Jane felt soiled afterward. As though she’d breached their marriage contract when she’d admitted her love for him, and now he could hardly bear to do business with someone so untrustworthy.
    She almost wished she had never agreed to marry him; that she had never gambled and lost her independence at Lord Sheringbrook’s house.
    Almost. For how could she lose an independence she’d never had, except as a dream? And how else was she to have Kirkpatrick—the deepest and sweetest and most painful of every dream she’d had?
    Fool that she was, she still wanted him on any terms. Even these, which left her alone every night and every endless day.
    Even these.
     
     
    When the date of the ball arrived, Jane entered Alleyneham House on her husband’s arm. As they queued in the receiving line, she watched the women before her and did as they did. Resting her fingertips on Kirkpatrick’s sleeve with the correct featherlight pressure. Maintaining the perfect, proper distance between them so their expensive clothing would not be rumpled.
    When it came their turn to greet their dithering hostess and