Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

She’d never expected to find her missing husband in the library.

Forster sat in a puddle of sunlight beneath the near windows, all dark hair and tanned skin. He’d removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and propped his dusty boot on her Chinese silk.

Her husband was home.

Cat had awaited his return for five years. Five long years of moldering in the country with nary a letter from him. Nary an inquiry or a simple message directed through an impartial third party.

Only once, in all that time, had she queried her errant spouse’s whereabouts. The family solicitor was “not at liberty to share such information.” But he did confirm, “The marquess is of sound health and mind.”

Catherine had received the news with a proud spine and undiminished composure. Inside, she’d been gravely disappointed.

Forster, it seemed, was not stranded on an exotic island with a strange disease. Or trapped by the ice in the cold north. Or eaten by a bear in the Americas. More’s the pity.

Beneath her disappointment, where dark emotions lurked like wriggly things in a deep well, she’d seethed with fury.

He could very well be cohabitating with another woman, starting another family while she awaited him till death did they part.

Now, she did not know what to think. She shook her head, but the apparition did not disappear.

Her husband was in the library.

Time, which was supposed to have stood still, or slowed, or demonstrated any other gentle kindness to make the moment easier to bear, instead raced forward and backward like a dog searching out a scent and not knowing where to begin. Her turbulent heartbeat scrambled along, a pulse behind, unable to catch up.

She took a deep breath. Then another. “So, you are home.”

Sunlight glinted off Forster’s dark hair as he lifted his head from the book in his hands.

He glanced across the room and met her eyes. His face was thinner than she recalled, sculpted into sharp lines and hollows. But his eyes were the same sky blue. Set against his tanned skin, they appeared only more brilliant.

Uncoiling his long limbs, he pressed to standing. He seemed taller, or perhaps that was the thickness of his shoulders. “Lady Forster.”

His voice was deep velvet. Somehow, her husband had become a man. The boy she’d known since childhood had lived an entire chapter of his life without her.

Sorrow, or something like it, knocked at the heavy door of her heart. Cat refused to let it in. She straightened her spine and closed half the space between them.

Faint lines fanned out from his blue eyes. A tiny scar, one she had never seen before, marked his right cheekbone. Another scar, the shape of a small star, sat high on his forehead. She knew that one. She’d put it there herself.

“Good afternoon, Jamie.” His name slipped from her lips. He’d once traced his name on her mouth, claiming when she said “Jamie” it appeared she said, “Kiss me.” Where was that boy who had brought her wildflowers and embraced her in the thick woods?

The man standing before her tilted his head to the side. “Good afternoon, Cat.”

It poured through her, the sound of her name. His deep voice. Poured through her like church bells ringing into the hills, awakening those who would forget their longing, their anger, their terrible regret.

She fingered the riding crop in her hand. “Whatever are you doing in the library?”

He arched a dark brow at her tone. “You sound surprised to see me. One might have expected my return after Sutton’s passing.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew of Sutton’s illness.” One does not expect things of a husband after five years’ absence. “My condolences on the death of your cousin.”

“Thank you.” Still, he did not approach but remained before the rosewood armchair he’d always favored. In a fit of pique, she’d had it reupholstered in pink and green damask with matching tasseled pillows.

The pillows were now on the floor.

Cat noticed it then, the tea tray waiting beside his chair. A plate of crumbs and jam.

He’d called for tea without even informing her he was home.

How dare he. The current of her blood burned beneath her skin, left her nearly breathless. She wished she could recall any of the set-downs she had practiced over the years. Any of the gracious welcomes that were to show her equanimity in the face of his absence. Instead, she blurted the only thing that came to mind. “I was in my dressing room.”

He dropped his gaze, slid it over her in a quick lick of heat that ended with her toes curling in her riding boots. When he met her eyes again, the left side of his mouth quirked in the half smile she remembered so well.

She ignored the quick flip of her heart. “What I mean to say is I have been home all day, should someone have thought to inform me of your return.”

Forster didn’t apologize for his lapse. He didn’t shrug his shoulders or shift his feet. He didn’t do anything.