Page 83 of The Lyon Whisperer
After the initial sting of betrayal, he’d quickly come to the mindset any woman who would prefer Gavin Huxley was not a woman well-suited for him. He viewed losing Millicent to Huxley as a near miss.
This situation was entirely different. Amelia was his wife. His vivacious, somewhat naive, undoubtedly gullible bride. She was also an innately passionate, damned delectable creature. Why wouldn’t Tully set out to seduce her?
He could see now the idea she might succumb to Tully’s renowned charm, and not the fact she danced a waltz with man, had caused him to lash out at her—unfairly.
He turned his head on his pillow and gazed unseeing in the direction of their dividing door.
She’d gone quiet on him after his stern admonition on the dance floor. Once they’d arrived home, she’d bid him goodnight and marched directly upstairs without another word.
Message received. She did not want him in her bed tonight.
He folded the bedcovers back and approached the door. He lay his hand on the cold door lever. Everything in him wanted to twist the latch and go to her.
But damn it, shehaddefied him, outright refusing to share what she and Tully had discussed.
He would not reward that behavior by crawling to her like a damned beaten puppy. They would discuss what happened at the breakfast table like two adults.
He stomped to his closet and snatched his robe off the hook.
A thump sounded, almost like the closing of a door, only it didn’t sound as if it had come from Amelia’s bedchamber. He held himself perfectly still and listened for several seconds. He heard nothing.
He cinched the tie around his waist and let himself out into the dim corridor. He kept brandy in his den. He’d have a medicinal glass, something he rarely did, and hopefully get some real sleep tonight.
He trotted down the stairs in bare feet.
No candles or oil lamps burned in the corridors, but moonlight poured in from the large window at the top of the stairs to partially illuminate his way.
He entered the den into pitch blackness. He’d need some light to unearth the brandy decanter.
He moved on sure feet to the large oriel window behind his desk and parted the curtains.
A golden flicker of light in the distance caught his eye.
He stared at the light as it moved in a linear direction away from the manse. A candle? A lamp? Squinting, he made out a figure in ghostly white who evidently held the implement to light her way.
Amelia.
Gauging from her trajectory, she’d departed via the back doors near the kitchen and was heading toward the coach house.
By God, she was leaving him? Over a simple misunderstanding? Not bloody likely. Not like this.
Grinding his teeth, he stalked through the house, and crossed the dark kitchens which, even at this hour, smelled faintly of fresh baked bread. Odd what details he noticed at a time like this.
He’d lived through just such a scenario nearly thirteen years before when he witnessed his own mother walk out of his life. Unspeakable fury and yet, a deep sense of icy calm filled him then, and now.
He let himself out into the night. The cold gravel drive stabbed at the soles of his feet as he strode toward the coach house. The smallest arched window above the rear wing, if it could even be called that, emitted a slight glow.
She must be sorting through her things. Probably realized she couldn’t hope to ready a coach herself and was having second thoughts about eliciting help from the household staff at this hour. Not that the grooms would likely deny her. As far as he could tell, every servant in his employ ate out of their new mistress’s hand.
Let them help her. That didn’t alter the fact that if Amelia wanted to leave him, she would have to look him in the eye and tell him to his face.
His gut clenched at the thought. What would he do after that? Try and stop her? Beg her not to leave?
No.He wouldn’t beg a woman.Not ever.
Still, he would never have expected this of her. For some reason, he took her to be a much more direct person, an honest one, and definitely not one prone to skulking about. It just went to show, you could never really know a person, much less trust her.
He reached the main door and found she had not closed it behind her but had left it cracked. He swung it open on well-oiled hinges that made nary a sound and eased into the shadowed space.
