Page 72 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
She had never wished so strongly to be back in Hatfield as in this moment.
“I don’t know how to make things right between us,” he said. “But I doknow thatthisisn’t what I want. Couldn’t we go back to the way things were? Couldn’t we be friends again?”
Back to a time when all the coldness had been his? When he was free to carve off tiny bits of her heart until what was left was just a raw, aching mess? When he crawled into her bed deep in the night and out again before dawn? Had theyeverbeen friends? Or had she simply been too stupid to know better?
For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine this marriage he wanted—one where every overture was hers, where she would occupy some nebulous space within his house; more mistress than wife. Every boundary would be his, an impenetrable wall built of his indifference. And she would doubtless bash into it time and time again as he parceled out his time and attention sparingly, just enough and no more.
So long as she made no demands and had no expectations of him, he would think it agoodmarriage. That so long as there was no commotion or discord, that everything was just fine. And it would be—forhim. Perhaps he would dangle his approval above her head like a prize to be won provided his needs were met and hers subjugated, unimportant.
And she would die a little more each day, until there was nothing left of her at all. Until she had finally become the perfect wife he required. Until she learned to content herself with his benign neglect. Until whatever shreds of affection he spared for her became a feast in her mind, because she had learned never to ask for more.
She would rather thegoodmarriage they had now. She would rather weather this distant, frosty marriage for all eternity than wear herself down a bit at a time, hoping for something that would never happen.Couldnever happen.
“I…would prefer not,” she said at last.
Blessedly, there was only silence between them for the remainder of the ride.
∞∞∞
By the time they had arrived home again, Luke’s mood had deteriorated still further. They had hardly made it through the door before he had gone stomping off somewhere upstairs, yanking at his cravat as he had done so.
Lizzie had not been preciselyeagerto follow him up, and so she had dawdled in the foyer, unbuttoning her pelisse as the footman stared after Luke incredulously. As she handed the garment over at last, the footman recovered himself enough to say, “My lady, you have a caller.”
“A caller? So late?” Atthistime of night? “Who is it?”
“The coroner, my lady. He’s been waiting nigh on an hour for you now.” The footman gave a gesture of his hand toward the drawing room door, which stood ajar, the muted light of a lamp glowing within. “Shall I tell him to return tomorrow instead?”
“No,” she said, and a mounting sensation of dread curdled her stomach. She would never be able to sleep for the anxiety of it if the man left now. “No; I will see him. Thank you.”
“He was served tea, my lady, but it might well have gone cold. I’ll return with a fresh pot.” With a low bow, the footman backed away and then she was just…alone.
With the sense that she ought not to be. That whatever the coroner had come for, it was absolutely something for which she ought not to be alone. Her heart beating painfully in her chest, she moved like a sleepwalker toward the drawing room, coming to the doorway at last.
The man seated within had heard her approach; he was already climbing to his feet as she arrived. “My lady,” he said, and paused. “YouareLady Ashworth, are you not? And before that, Miss Elizabeth Talbot?”
“I am,” she said, in an oddly shrill tone. “And you, sir?”
“Nathaniel Beckett,” he said. “The coroner.” He gave a short, awkward gesture toward a chair. “Would you care to sit, my lady?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, though she braced herself against the door jamb with one hand. “May I ask the nature of your call, Mr. Beckett?”
“Lady Ashworth, I dothink you would prefer to be sitting,” he said, and his shoulders moved uncomfortably beneath the confines of his wool coat. “It is never easy to impart such news, and worse still to receive it, I should think.”
“It’s my father,” she said, and the words sounded slow, sluggish. “Isn’t it?”
He startled to that, surprised into silence. Somewhat abashed, he ducked his head. “I’m afraid so, my lady,” he said. “Unfortunately, I doubt it will be possible to divine the exact circumstances of his demise—”
Dead. Of course she had known it. But the words still struck deep.
“—but of course, as soon as his identity was uncovered, I thought it best to inform you straight away. There will be arrangements to make regarding his burial, I’m certain.”
“What do you mean, divine the circumstances?” she asked.
“If you’ll pardon me, my lady, I mean to say that he was found floating in the Thames two days ago. It’s not uncommon, sadly, for someone deep in his cups to go falling in—but it is also a convenient method some of London’s more…nefarious denizens occasionally take advantage of to dispose of a corpse. There was water in his lungs, but that tells us only that he was still breathing when he went in.”
Two days. Papa had been dead for two days already before she had known. She wondered at the pain in her chest at the news. She’d seen him only handful of times over the last ten years, and each of them had been full of conflict and anger, and she had carried so very much resentment within her over his abandonment. Andstillthere was hurt there,grief, beneath the layers of antipathy. Very suddenly, she felt just as lost, just as muddled as she had the day he had left Hatfield and the children in her care alone.
What was she meant to tell Imogen and the children? What was she meant todo?
