She found herself watching his movements more closely, trying to imagine him in that temple doing scandalous things to ladies. Punishing them because they wanted it. She stared at his hands as they rested on his wineglass or slid along the table, and thought of all the perverse things he might do with them. He’d touched her with those hands, touched her very intimately.
And she’d been swept away by his touch, transported to earth-shaking ecstasies. She remembered that, even if she couldn’t admit it out loud.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, as the servants removed the main courses. “What troubles you, Lady Wescott?”
She let out a breath. “I wonder if our walk exhausted me. Perhaps I should retire.”
“You shall not retire, not until you’ve tried some of the cook’s berry trifle.”
A bowing footman offered a choice of blackberry or elderberry, the shiny fruit covered with toasted biscuit crumbles and cream. She selected the blackberry and stared at it. It was better than staring at his hands.
“Go on then,” he said. “Take a bite, for God’s sake. You’ll enjoy it. This moping and withering of yours has got to stop.”
“Moping and withering? My lord, I’m tired.”
“You’re not tired. You merely wish to discourage me from seeking your bed, as you do every night. Eat that blasted dessert before I feed it to you myself.”
She stiffened her spine and tried a bite, and found she enjoyed it in spite of herself. The berries were the sweetest and juiciest she’d had in a while, not that she would tell him that.
“It’s quite good,” she said in a dull tone, hiding her delight. She knew she sounded shrewish. He would grow to hate her past the point of bearing, and then he’d leave her. Perhaps that was what she wanted.
No, she didn’t want it.
She didn’t know what she wanted anymore, or how to fix things when they’d gone so very wrong. The next bite stuck in her throat, as her eyes filled with tears. Crying over blackberries? She tried to will the tears away, but it was useless. She swallowed the berries and looked away from him. She’d been trying so hard to resist her roiling emotions that they exploded in a rather dramatic way, her tears soaking her cheeks.
When she looked for a napkin, he reached within his coat and produced a handkerchief instead. She took it and pressed it to her eyes, and realized that it smelled like him, like his earthy, spicy cologne. She knew his smell and his voice, and was coming to know his expressions. Why, she knew everything about him. Mostly, she knew how disappointed he was in their marriage.
“I wish I could go home.” That was what she said aloud, but inside her mind the words tumbled, I’m afraid, I’m afraid, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of you touching me. I’m afraid of you hating me. I’m afraid to be your wife.
“You can’t go home, Ophelia. Your home is here now.” He took her plate away as she stabbed blindly at blackberries. “Come, leave that. I’ve something to show you.”
He led her from the dining room into the hallway, then turned her toward the other side of the house. They passed the formal parlors and receiving rooms, him drawing her along so quickly that she didn’t think to resist. She swabbed at her tears as he opened a door to a salon at the end of the hallway. A pair of footmen materialized with lamps to light the darkened room.
She looked about as the lamps illuminated luxuriously papered walls. They were in a gallery filled with dozens of grand family portraits, some with a single subject and others with a posed arrangement of parents, children, and pets. The sumptuous paintings drew the viewer back through time, the subjects’ clothing and hairstyles recalling earlier eras. On the oldest, faded paintings, the eyes seemed to move as the lamplight guttered and rose.
“This is why you can’t go home,” he said. “These are generations of my family, dukes and marquesses, earls and knights and barons who’ve lived upon the land and the land around it.” He watched her as she stood immobile, wringing her hands. “You’ve doubtless got family portraits as well, and a proud Halsey history. Now our families have joined together, through us.”
“I know.” She turned about, feeling judged by every face, every smile and staunch expression. Then she noticed a portrait of his parents, both of them smiling in marital bliss, and thought of the temple out in the garden. “I know that. I know I’ve not been a proper wife.” She turned back to him. “I did not imagine my life going this way. I wanted to sing for a bit longer.”
“You wanted to sing? You won’t even sing for me.”
“I wanted to do more than marry,” she said in a burst of bravado. “I wanted to go beyond Vienna and music lessons. My mother promised I could see Italy and Spain, perhaps even Greece.” Her voice trailed off. She wished she hadn’t mentioned Greece, the place that had inspired the folly in the garden.