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“You cannot expect me to believe that nothing is wrong,” she insisted, her voice steady despite the quiver of emotion beneath it. “One moment you were the cheeriest gentleman, the next, there’s never been a more irritable one,” she added, her words punctuated by her hands gesturing for emphasis.

“Is my mood supposed to be as predictable as the weather?” he returned sharply, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want the weather any similar to your mood,” Agnes returned in equal irritation, her own eyes flashing with a mix of annoyance and worry.

“Then you will know to refrain from being overly familiar and friendly with the Earl when next you encounter him,” her husband said abruptly, his voice cold and cutting.

Agnes found herself momentarily taken aback, her mouth agape, as the real issue at hand came into sharp, unexpected focus.

She recalled Asmont’s jest about Theodore’s jealousy. Could that really be the cause of his sudden outburst of anger? It seemed petty, almost trivial, yet it was the only explanation that made any sense given his recent behavior.

“Is this about my dance with the Earl?” She asked, her voice filled with incredulity as she tried to confirm her suspicions.

“It damn well is, Agnes,” he replied, his voice rising with each word. “The way you smiled and laughed with him, the way he held you, all of it was wrong!” He added, his anger spilling over.

And for some reason, his anger, and especially his jealousy right now only further ignited her own indignation. How dare he claim such feelings when he had so expressly denied her any deeper emotional bond?

“The nerve of you to get jealous, Theodore,” she scoffed. “You tell me you do not, and cannot ever love me, and then you feel jealousy over my cordial interactions with another man? Do you hear yourself?”

“Do you see yourself? I have every prerogative to feel whatever it is I feel, Agnes.”

“Why?” She took a step toward him.

“Because you are my wife. You aremine, Agnes,” he said, his voice deepening, his expression intense. He ate up the distance between them in one swift stride and took hold of her by the shoulders in a surprisingly gentle but firm grip.

Something about his mood suddenly softened, and as she held his unwavering gaze, she saw a longing that had perhaps always been there, hidden beneath layers of stoic detachment and societal expectation.

“Do you see yourself?” he asked again.

“No.”

“You are beautiful, Agnes, every man’s dream.” He drew her closer. “I cannot help the rage that nearly consumed me at the sight of you in Asmont’s arms.”

“He is harmless,” she whispered.

“You are mine,” Theodore murmured, lowering his head. He kissed her, sweetly and desperately. She had never felt both broken and happy at the same time.

Her heart swelled, yet she pushed down what hope bubbled within her. This was too much to bear. Agnes desperately wanted to believe that he truly cared for her. More than anything, she wanted his love. When he pulled away, he stroked her cheeks, looking into her eyes as if he was going to kiss her again.

“Can we not make this work, Theodore?” She heard herself ask before she could rein in her thoughts, her voice a whisper of desperation and hope.

He suddenly blinked, seeming as though he was only just realizing the gravity of her words. His hands abruptly dropped from her shoulders and he took a step back, his expression unreadable.

And Agnes had never felt more bereft. Nor had she ever regretted her words more. This was the price of offering him her heart.

“This was all a mistake,” he sent her heart crashing further with his words. His voice was low, filled with a regret that matched the pain in her own chest.

And as she watched him turn on his heels, she couldn’t stop the tears which burned a slow and painful path down her cheeks. The distance he put between them felt like miles.

The night was the most restless she’d ever had. And throughout, she found herself listening in for her husband’s return, each minute stretching into an eternity. Alas, Theodore never came back home.

The following morning, Agnes skipped breakfast, her stomach in knots and her eyes swollen from crying.

A brief knock came sounded at her bedchamber door. “I told you I’m not hungry, Evans,” she called out from where she sat on the chaise lounge by her window, her voice hoarse.

Her lady’s maid had been insistent. Where Agnes expected Evans to walk in—perhaps even bearing the breakfast she’d turned down multiple times—she was shocked to find Theodore walk in instead. His presence was unexpected, and her heart leapt and sank all at once at the sight of him.

She watched him silently take a seat beside her. He looked disheveled, his usually impeccable attire rumpled, and just as sleep deprived as she was, with dark shadows underlining his weary eyes.