But even when they’d restored their clothing to a semblance of decency, he still found it difficult to breathe—an oppressive weight had settled over his chest.
This was not procreation. This was not even simple lust. He sought something—an echo of his own heart, perhaps, a consonance—and he found it in her.
No, no, it had been only an illusion, a moment of make-believe.
And never mind what he thought he’d found, what made him think it was acceptable, in the first place, to look for it in his wife?
He’d promised himself to Isabelle.
He opened the door for Millie.
“Booting me out now that you’ve had your way with me?” she said without quite looking at him, but with a small smile lingering at the corner of her lips.
The very faint note of flirtation in her voice was a sharp pain through his lungs. She never flirted otherwise. He’d given her the wrong impression.
“Just stepping aside so as not to be in your way anymore.”
“You weren’t in my way. In me, perhaps, but not in my way.”
She flushed and bit her lower lip, as if shocked by her own bluntness.
He was no less shocked: He’d thought her only capable of prurience in the dark. He wanted her this way, shyly raunchy. He wanted to—
He’d promised himself to another.
“I need to speak to Gideon before he leaves for the day, about the changes we want to make to the advertising prints.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll make myself scarce.”
She kissed him on his cheek—which she’d never done in the entire course of their marriage—and showed herself out.
He closed the door quietly, shutting himself inside.
Never mind what a man says; watch what he does, an exasperated chaperone had once said within Millie’s hearing.
If she were to go by this excellent advice, then she would disregard Fitz’s stated plan—that in six months he would leave her for Mrs. Englewood—and pay attention only to what he did.
On the surface of it, what he did might not seem so terribly significant: He’d taken their lovemaking out of her bedroom and into his study—and from night into day. But Fitz was a discreet man who understood nuances and who conducted himself accordingly. For him to be so carried away, like a balloon in a storm, was indicative of an enormous lust, at least.
And quite possibly much, much more.
She tried not to let her hopes get the best of her, but she burst at the seams with anticipation. Any day now, he was going to see that he had not waited eight years for Mrs. Englewood, but for Millie.
Since Helena was under Venetia’s chaperonage, Millie had the evening free. She quite looked forward to a nice dinner at home with Fitz, an interlude to let their desires build to a new ascendancy. And tonight she would not ask him to turn off the light. She liked the undisguised covetousness in his eyes when he looked at her naked form. He could look as much as he wanted.
For dining at home, she could have worn her tea gown. But it was a bit too brazen to wear the same dress in which he’d ravished her, so she changed into a pretty marigold dinner gown. No sounds came from his room, but she was not particularly concerned. She’d heard him in his bath earlier; he’d probably already changed and was again in his study.
But when she arrived at the drawing room, a few minutes late, he was not there.
“Is Lord Fitzhugh still in his study?”
“No, ma’am,” said Cobble, the butler. “Lord Fitzhugh has gone to his club. He said not to expect him for dinner.”
She blinked. That he’d have gone out in the evening was not so strange. He enjoyed seeing his friends at his club and occasionally dined there. But why tonight? He’d given no indication in the afternoon that he was headed anywhere.
“Shall I serve dinner?” asked Cobble.
“Yes, of course.”
A minute ago she was walking on clouds, now she was in a dungeon, with screws in her thumbs. She forced herself to eat normally. She must keep a sense of calm and proportion. Chances were she had overreacted both in her earlier euphoria and her current despair. The truth was probably somewhere in the middle: Their lovemaking in his study was not as significant as she’d made it out to be; and neither was his absence this evening.
He would be back at night. And he’d come for her again.
Eleven o’clock. Twelve o’clock. One o’clock.
He was having fun with his friends. She was glad.
No, she was not glad in the least. His friends were not going anywhere. They’d still be his friends when he was old and grey. She had less than six months and he chose to spend his time elsewhere.
Six months, dear God, not those words again. Just hours earlier she’d thought it would be a lifetime.
How quickly happiness shrinks to nothing.
He entered his room at a quarter past one. His lights turned off at half past one and he went directly to bed.
She shouldn’t be too greedy. It already happened once this day. She ought not expect more.