That much appeared to be true. Felicity continued. “He is a good man, Lady Felicity—one who knows about life and about love. One who has showed a remarkable loyalty to his wife.” Felicity stopped. “Then she corrects herself. To his wives.”
“Goddammit.”
“My thoughts, precisely,” Felicity replied. “He will make you a good husband—”
Frustration turned to disbelief. “Is she gifting me to you?”
Felicity’s brows shot up as she considered the letter in her hand. “It’s unclear, honestly, as I rather fear she’s gifting me to you.” She paused, taking a deep breath, as though she had to gird her loins to speak the rest. “Some things you should know: First, he loathes asparagus.” She stopped. “Your Grace, I’m sure you’ll understand if I say I have no earthly idea why your affinity or lack thereof for asparagus is relevant in any way to a marriage—let alone relevant enough to be point number one on a list of important points.”
“It’s not,” he said.
“Well, the others are just as odd, so . . .” Felicity returned her attention to the letter. “He’s fascinated by the Greek myths. Read and learn them. He will be grateful for someone with whom to discuss them.”
The words felt like a betrayal of confidence. Mal remained silent.
Felicity moved on. “And this one is the strangest. Find yourself a red frock and do your best to get him alone once you’re wearing it. If you can do that in his private study, all the better.”
That’s when the rage came. He moved for the letter, as though he could somehow use it to turn back the clock and stop her from the madness that had clearly consumed her. “What in hell?”
Felicity looked up, eyes wide at his proximity. “I agree,” she said. “I don’t understand what she’s trying to do.”
“I do,” he said, the memory of the last time she wore red in this house—in his private study—etched keenly. How many times had he recreated that moment in his mind? How many times had he taken down her bodice? Taken up her skirts? Made love to her? How often had he imagined doing it again?
He snatched the letter from Felicity Faircloth’s hand, enjoying the release of anger that came as he folded it and began to tear it into pieces. “She wants you to seduce me.”
She blinked. “Well, I don’t wish to.”
“Which works out well, as I have no intention of being seduced by anyone but my wife.” Just as soon as he stopped being infuriated by her.
Felicity nodded. “That sounds eminently reasonable. Though, if I may . . .?”
He nodded. “Please.”
“It seems your wife remains uninterested in being your wife, Your Grace.”
The words should not have crashed over him. Should not have made such a powerful point. And still they did. Mal turned away from Felicity Faircloth then, hating that she understood the interplay of his marriage even better than he did.
No. She didn’t understand it better. She was simply more willing to accept it. But Felicity Faircloth had not been married to Sera.
He could not stop himself from walking to the bed where he’d stood nearly three years ago, and willed his wife to live. Where he’d pulled her back from death. Where he’d come, vowing to fight for her. To love her. To chase her, into the sky if need be . . .
Only to find her already on the run.
It was then that Malcolm realized she would always run from him. Away from love. Away from the promise of a future. And he would always chase her.
Blind and broken.
His punishment for never being worthy of her.
He’d be damned if she was getting a divorce.
Chapter 24
Successor Selected? Dangerous Daughters Turn Up In Town!
The Talbot sisters had been stuffed into the carriage for more than two hours, the night roads requiring more time than usual to get them back to London. But it was not the stuffing of the sisters that was noteworthy. After all, they’d spent the lion’s share of their traveling lives stuffed together.
It was their silence. The five sisters had never gone any length of time without speaking. Not even church services were sacred.
And so it was that when Seleste finally broke the silence with a frank, simple, “Well then,” the sisters had been more silent than ever in their lives—something Seraphina appreciated, even as it ended.
“It was interesting, was it not?” This from Sesily.
“I, for one, did not expect it,” Seleste replied. “I would have thought that Haven had a better shot at convincing her to stay.”
“He was willing to take a rock to the head for her,” Seline pointed out.
If she weren’t so desperate to be out of the carriage, Sera might have found the energy to look up at that. But instead, she remained focused on her fingers, tightly entwined in her lap, ungloved, still ink-stained from the note she’d dashed off for Lady Felicity.
The note designed to encourage Mal’s next wife.
If only he could see that their marriage was doomed, he could be happy with another. The thought sent a shaft of pain through her, constricting her heart and making it difficult to breathe. She willed herself calm, inhaling deeply, and returning her attention to her sisters.
“It’s a good thing the wager was on Haven’s intentions, Ses, and not Sera’s actions, else you would owe the rest of us quite a bit of blunt,” Seleste pointed out.
Sesily shook her head. “Oh, I never would have wagered on Sera wanting to win him back.”
“I would have.”
Sera snapped her head up, her gaze instantly finding Sophie’s. Sophie, who had been watching her since they entered the carriage, concern and interest on her pretty face. “What did you say?”
“I would never have wagered that you didn’t want Haven.”
“Why not?” Sera asked.
Sophie raised one shoulder and let it drop. “It was not long ago that you taught me a lesson about love, sister.”
The memory came from far away. Sera, laden with child on the Scottish border, sitting with Sophie, lovelorn and desperate for the man who would eventually become her husband. But that night, the Marquess of Eversley had been an impossible catch—until Sophie had gone to him and told him the truth. At Sera’s bidding.
Sophie seemed to have the memory, too. “Did you tell him?”
“Tell him what?” Sesily interjected, but no one answered her.
I never told Haven I loved him, Sera had said, trying to convince Sophie to do the same. And look at the mess I’ve made.
She looked out the window, into the inky blackness beyond.
Sophie would not allow the silence. “Sera,” she prompted. “Did you tell him?”
I love you.
She nodded, and her youngest sister reached for her, taking her hand tightly, without hesitation. Sera looked to her. “And?”
Sera shook her head. It didn’t matter. It didn’t change anything. It was all still a mess. She removed her hand from Sophie’s. Steeling her emotion. “And love is not enough.”
Silence fell in the wake of the words, until Seleste huffed a little sigh and said, “It may not be enough, but it’s something, indeed, if we all had to scurry home in the dead of night.” She waved a hand in the air. “I spend half my marriage sparring with Clare. It makes things interesting.”