She blinked and tried to listen more attentively.
Two days after their return to London, Camden had left to visit his grandfather in Bavaria. But the damage was done. He'd been gone more than a month now, and not one of the nearly eight hundred hours had gone by without her revisiting their last night together and catching her breath anew at his intrepid offer. Everything reminded her of him. The details of her own town house, which she'd barely noticed anymore, had suddenly become a narrative of all her once-fervid hopes: the piano, the paintings, the Cyclades marble she'd selected for the floor of the vestibule because it matched the color of his eyes exactly.
Had she made the right choice?
She knew what it was like to have made an unethical choice. She knew the fear and the corrosive anxiety that bled into and adulterated every joy, every delight. In this instance, she was fairly sure she hadn't come down on the wrong side of the moral divide.
But where was the sense of inner strength conferred by the right choice? Where was the peaceful slumber and the clear sense of purpose? Why, if she'd made the right decision, did it feel oppressive and, on some days, palpably suffocating?
She gave Freddie permission to resume his daily calls, to silence the gossip that the trip to Devon had generated. Freddie's renewed visits quelled the rumors but did nothing to soothe her agitation. The rapport they shared was still there, but the sense that they belonged together was becoming as frayed as a tenth-century tapestry, on the verge of disintegrating altogether with the least exposure to the elements.
“Freddie,” she interrupted him.
“Yes?”
She broke the moratorium on physical contact that had been in place since the day of Camden's return and kissed him.
It was always nice kissing Freddie. Sometimes even very nice. But she needed more than nice. She had to have something surpassingly ardent—a veritable conflagration—to erase the burning imprints her husband had left on her, to eradicate from memory her response to him, all hungry abandon and desperate need.
The kiss was very nice.
And she spent the entirety of it thinking of the very person she was hoping to forget.
She pulled back and pasted on a smile. “Forgive the digression. Go on, tell me more about the painting.”
Freddie looked to the door as if expecting to see tweeny maids giggle and then run off with news of what they'd espied. When the corridors remained silent, he leaned forward and tried to kiss her again.
“No.” She stopped him. She didn't want any more reminders of her vastly different reactions to the two men. Or of the fervor Camden effortlessly fomented in her. “We still shouldn't. That was my fault.”
Disappointment dimmed Freddie's eyes. But he nodded slowly, ceding to her wishes. “Three hundred and nine days to go.” He sighed. “I swear, the days are thrice as long as they were before.”
In this, at least, they were in perfect accord. She turned to his art again, since it was one of the few safe topics left to them. “I'm glad, then, you've been able to keep yourself busy. I hear Lady Wrenworth is pleased with her portrait.”
Freddie revived a bit at her compliment. “I had dinner at the Carlisles' two days ago. Miss Carlisle asked me to paint her portrait too. We will probably start next week.”
“It seems she has a high enough opinion of your skills, at least.”
“Well, she did warn me she would be highly critical if it didn't meet her standards.” Freddie smiled a little. “Did you know that she's been to an Impressionist exhibition? All this time I thought you were the only person in my acquaintance who knew anything about the Impressionists.”
Gigi bolted straight up. Freddie, startled, rose too. “Is everything all right? Is it Miss Carlisle? I should have asked you about it fir—”
“No, it isn't Miss Carlisle.” Oh, if it only were. If only Freddie and Miss Carlisle had been up to some mischief. “It's me. I should have told you long ago: I don't know anything about the Impressionists.”
“But you have the most marvelous collection I've ever seen. You—”
“I bought them wholesale. I bought out three private galleries. Because Tremaine liked the Impressionists.”
Freddie looked as if she'd just told him that all nine of the queen's children were illegitimate. “But—does this mean—were you—”
“Yes. I was in love with him. I wanted him for more than his title. But I overstepped and my marriage withered on the vine.” She took a long breath. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. Very sorry. I apologize.”