Page 66 of Saved By the Belle

“Belle—”

“Listen to me, Arundel. I’m almost six and twenty. I’ll never marry. I want this with you—with someone I care about.”

He wanted this too. He dared not allow himself to think about how much he wanted her. “I care about you, Belle. And that’s why I won’t take your virginity. You could become with child, and even if you don’t, I’m obligated to marry you if I compromise you.”

“Compromise me? I’m not a duke’s daughter. I’m a shopgirl. No one on Fenchurch Street cares about such things.”

“I care. You’re worth so much more than you credit.”

“I’m a pock-marked spinster. No one has ever wanted me, and no one ever will.” She jerked up, and he caught her just before she could run. “Let me go.”

“In a moment.” Hew wrapped his arms about her from behind, knowing she had to be chilled now. “Let me explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain.” Her voice sounded resigned. “You have your principles.”

“It’s more than that,” he said, not knowing why he went on. He did have his principles. She wasn’t wrong. He didn’t have to explain further, but for some reason he wanted to. “I was married once,” he said.

She stiffened. “Once?” she asked.

He understood her confusion. Marriage was rather a permanent state. “She’s dead,” he said.

Her face fell. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not.”

At that she tore away from him and walked across the room. He didn’t watch her, didn’t want to see the disgust in her eyes. What kind of person was glad his wife was dead? After a time, her feet appeared before him again, and he looked up and saw she had slipped on a robe—his robe. One he had left draped over a chair the last time he was here. He liked her in the dark blue and gold silk robe. The sleeves hung down past her hands.

“Did you kill her?” Belle asked.

Hew was still admiring her in the robe, and her words penetrated his mind slowly. When they did, he jumped hard enough that a lance of pain slid through his side. “No. I didn’t kill her. She died in childbirth.”

Belle took a step back. “Then you have a child.”

Hew shook his head. “The child died as well, and in any case, it wasn’t my child.”

She stared at him for a long moment and then she moved to sit beside him on the bed. “Oh, Arundel.” She took his hand.

He turned his head to look at her. “You should probably call me Hew. At least in private.”

“Hew,” she said, seeming to test it. “Tell me about your wife.”

He didn’t want to talk about Clara. He didn’t want to think about her, but he owed some sort of explanation to Belle. “Her name was Clara,” he said. “The marriage was arranged by our parents, but I didn’t mind. She was beautiful and charming, very charming, and I think I was half in love with her the first time I met her. She had that effect on men. It should have been a warning.”

Belle squeezed his hand, and Hew closed his eyes, hoping to block out the memory of Clara’s dark curls and pretty green eyes. “At first we were happy.” He massaged the bridge of his nose. “I supposed I always thought we were happy. I never knew what was happening until she was telling me good-bye. I was such a fool.”

“I doubt that.”

“I was trained as a spy, and I didn’t even see what was happening in my own house.”

“You shouldn’t have had to be a spy in your own house.”

“I should have paid more attention. She didn’t like being the wife of a diplomat. I think the idea sounded romantic in London, but once we were on the Continent, and she was away from friends and family, the reality was not so exciting. I was away often and the other British women of our circle were older. Clara loved music, balls, the theater. She loved men, especially their admiration. I didn’t care that she had a dozen admirers. I didn’t have the time or the inclination to chaperone her to every event she wanted to attend.”

“And she fell in love with one of those admirers?”

“Love or lust, yes. The Comte du Guitreau became her lover. One night I came home from work early and found her packing her bags. She was leaving me to go to France with him. I was...”

Hew didn’t know how to describe what he’d been. Shocked seemed too mild a word. He’d simply stood there and watched her pack, watched her walk out the door and spring into the waiting coach. He’d stood rooted in place for hours, not knowing what to do or to say or to feel.

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