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.
Infernal man. “Did you not even inquire if I were home?”
“It is not so big an estate. I assumed our paths would cross.” He swept his hand toward her. And here you are.
Her husband was either a hopeless idiot, a selfish arse, or still punishing her. Most likely all three.
“That is it, then? Five years and I get a”—she waved her hand in a motion that mimicked his—“crossing of our paths?”
He had the intelligence to look wary. “What would you like me to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about ‘How are you, Catherine?’ or ‘I’ve been in India and the goats ate all my correspondence.’”
His blue gaze was intent upon her. Once, this expression had made her feel like the center of his world. “It is good to see you, Cat.”
“Good to see me?” Her throat burned with the urge to yell at him. She tried to take a calming breath. Composure. Graciousness. Indifference. Those were the qualities she needed to strive for.
“Perhaps we should continue this conversation later,” he said.
“Later?”