Page 63 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
Now there was an influx of invitations to contend with—balls and soirées and musicales, half of which Susan had discarded right off for no particular reason that Lizzie had been able to discern. But the handful of those Susan had suggested that she accept was still daunting. Half the point of theTon, Susan had explained, was toseeand tobe seen, and how was she claim her place in the world if she was not?
But thus far she had notoncebeen seen in the company of her husband, and she was wearying of the pointed question which had been asked of her time and time again.And whereisLord Ashworthtoday? Most frequently it had been asked of her by women who seemed to imply with a smug superiority that Lizzie had been unable to hold her husband’s attention for more than a moment.
Each time she had smiled and murmured something noncommittal. And each time that yawning chasm of apprehension within her grew just a little wider. It was impossible to say, in fact, where he was at any given time. Most days he was not at home at all. Most evenings he did not return until the early hours of the morning—though hehadbeen considerate enough never to crawl into her bed stinking of spirits again. On the rare occasions hewashome, he was generally tucked away within his office, managing whatever estate business required his attention.
Today was one of those rare days, and Lizzie stood now outside the closed door, reasoning with herself.Just ask, she thought.Just ask, and he’ll refuse, and you can be disappointed and go on with your day.
Holding her breath, she rapped upon the door.
“Enter.”
Now or never. Lizzie pushed the door open and slipped through, a stack of invitation cards held in her left hand. Luke sat behind a large, ornately-carved desk, his head bent over a sheet of paper upon which he was scrawling some sort of message. It was a long moment before he glanced up, his pen coming to a halt.
“Lizzie? I thought you had a garden party, or some other such nonsense.” A crinkle of confusion appeared between his brows.
Nonsense. Of course he would think it nonsense. She took a deep breath. “Not until two. Susan and her husband will be coming round to take me.”Because you can’t be bothered.
“Good,” he said, rifling through the papers upon his desk. His brows lifted, and a chuckle worked its way out of his mouth. “Three hundred pounds for the modiste,” he said. “Good God. I’d forgotten how expensive wives could be.”
Threehundredpounds? “I beg your pardon,” she hastened to say. “Susan said—”
“Lizzie,” he interrupted. “It’s quite all right. I was only teasing. I am not in want of funds.” He set the page aside, giving her his attention. “You can trust Susan’s judgment. If she says there is something you ought to have, you may, of course, purchase it.” He leaned back in his seat, rolling his shoulders. “Was there something you required?”
The stack of invitations crinkled in the tight clutch of her hand. “It’s just that I have so many invitations…”
“Accept whichever ones please you,” he said easily. “Susan will guide you there, I’m certain.”
Lizzie took a small step forward, pondering the sudden pounding of her pulse. “I wondered if you might attend any of them with me.”
“Unlikely. I don’t generally attend such things.”
Butdidyou, she wanted to ask.Did you before? With Celia?Still she persisted. “Noteveryevent,” she said. “But perhaps just a ball or a dinner party.” Justonetiny little event where she was not prominently alone, unaccompanied by her husband. Where she would not be the object of so much speculation. Where the eyes upon her would not be so damned judgmental. Where people would not ask questions that she did not know how to answer.
“Lizzie,” he said patiently, rising to his feet, with a slow shake of his head. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
Just thetiniestshred of your time, she wanted to say, though the words backed up in her chest.I want the man who comes to my bed not to disappear with the dawn. I want more than a ghost for a husband.
But that was not going to happen. She had known it already, of course, but the faint patronization on his face cemented it entirely. She had been a fool to ask, a fool even to hope. Even though she had known the answer he would give, still the disappointment struck deep.
“At least dinner this evening, then?” she managed to ask. “Georgie leaves for Eton tomorrow. It’ll be our last evening as a…as a family.” The word sounded like a lie on her tongue; a pretty word painted over an ugly truth.
“Just until the end of the Michaelmas term,” he said, with a crooked smile. “It’s only a few weeks, Lizzie, it shouldn’t—”
“Please,” she said, and suppressed a flinch at the desperation in her voice, casting her gaze to her feet. “Please,” she repeated. “He’s really quite nervous about it. It would mean so much to him if you were there to see him off as well.”
Silence stretched out between them. At long last he heaved a sigh. “For Georgie, I suppose I’ll make the time.” He bent to brush an absent kiss across her cheek. “Must be off. Enjoy your garden party.”
Somehow she dredged up the strength to summon a smile as he left, though she knew her eyes must be bright and glassy with the sheen of tears. For Georgie, at least, he would make time—but not for her. Never forher.
She did not matter at all. Just like Celia, she wasnobody important.
∞∞∞
Luke stared down into the glass of brandy that had been in his hand all afternoon and well into the evening. He ought to have been doingsomething, he supposed. Something rather than remaining tucked away here in a secluded corner of his club. He could be gambling—from the cry that had come up moments ago from the gaming room, someone had either won or lost a fortune. He might at leasthave taken lunch, or spent some time in the smoking room, or else amused himself with a book or conversation.
Hemighthave done any number of things. Instead he had done the exact same thing he had done for the last week, and sullenly contemplated the brandy he did not intend to drink.
It was the damnedest thing. Pursuits he had once enjoyed had lost their appeal. Had they truly even had any to begin with? Or had he simply thrown himself into them without regard for whether or not hehadenjoyed them? Had they simply become force of habit after so many years?
