Page 20 of A Lady’s Rules for Seaside Romance (The Harp & Thistle #3)

A nne rushed into Vivian’s receiving room, desperate for a moment alone.

The entire day had been spent at the annual London flower show, then they’d come to Vivian’s for dinner.

Vivian’s father, the Duke of Chalworth, had mentioned a photograph of Vivian and Bernard when they’d been younger.

Anne had known it was in Vivian’s receiving room and had offered to fetch it.

She was so tired and needed a moment alone.

She found the silver-framed photograph immediately on the sideboard and looked down at it with a small smile.

It wasn’t a perfect portrait—in fact, it was so full of movement, it was blurry.

Her husband was almost indecipherable as he cartwheeled across the picture.

Vivian stood nearby, grasping at her stomach and laughing loudly.

It had been taken before Anne and Bernard had met, and he seemed far more carefree. She could not imagine him doing a cartwheel nowadays.

Anne’s lip began to quiver, and her hand flew up to her mouth in an attempt to still it. She had to put the photograph down and collapse into a nearby chair. From a pocket, she revealed a handkerchief and began dabbing at her eyes, intent on not letting them redden or swell.

Recently, Bernard had come home in the middle of the afternoon unexpectedly, a strange new habit of his as of late. Usually, he did everything he could to stay away from the house, from her, from the children.

When he’d left again after being home for a short time, suspiciously changed into a new suit with refreshed cologne, he’d told her he’d been heading to Brooks’s and would need the carriage for that. It was where he often spent his spare time, so this part wasn’t strange to her.

But this time, Anne had run outside to watch Bernard and the carriage depart.

She didn’t know why she’d done it, really, as she had never done it before.

But though her husband had never been the greatest spouse, these last few months—ever since he had lost his inheritance to his sister—his behavior had worsened an alarming amount.

His drinking was nearly constant, his dislike toward her had become hatred, and she was bracing herself for him to escalate beyond cruel words into cruel touches.

As she had watched Bernard’s carriage that day, though, something odd had happened.

One block away, it stopped, and her husband stepped out to jog up to a townhouse.

Anne watched him knock upon a front door that belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Harrington.

Mrs. Harrington was a woman so beautiful, Anne always felt small near her.

One could almost feel the woman’s presence when she entered a room.

The way men stopped what they were doing to gawk at the woman seemed to change the air around everyone.

As Anne had gripped her doorframe, feeling the blood drain from her face, Bernard disappeared inside the townhome. She watched for fifteen minutes, hoping he would reemerge.

But he didn’t.

The carriage, the visit to Brooks’s—they had been a ruse. Bernard thought she was stupid, so easily fooled.

And she was, for a long time at least.

Holding back tears, Anne had then gone into his office, dug through everything, and found letters from Mrs. Harrington. She’d sat down and read through every single sordid word, words she wouldn’t dare utter aloud herself. Simply reading them had caused her to blush.

After reading through them all, Anne had leaned over into a rubbish bin and vomited.

Bernard was a frequent visitor to brothels, so infidelity was not new behavior.

She no longer let him touch her and the brothels kept his hands away from her.

Though she hated the visits, they also gave her some measure of peace.

Those women didn’t care about her husband—he was a means to an end for them.

Because of that, she saw it more as a relief than a burden, in an odd way.

But a full-blown liaison? With someone they knew? Someone they saw frequently at social events?

That was inconceivable. While Anne struggled at home alone, already distraught over their crumbling marriage, Bernard had begun to lay in Mrs. Harrington’s bed, the pair laughing, fooling themselves into believing what they were doing was fine because they were simply married to the wrong people.

A few days after that, Anne had met with a solicitor and had brought the letters for proof of infidelity. That morning, Bernard had grabbed her chin threateningly, which she’d told the solicitor about as well.

She’d spilled everything about his mishandling of their money, the thousands of pounds of debt he had racked up.

And that morning, the morning of the flower show, she’d finally heard back from the solicitor. “Unfortunately,” the man had written, “your evidence, your husband’s behavior, is not enough for Parliament to grant a woman of the aristocracy a divorce from her husband.”

It was simple, short, straight to the point.

And thus, this would be her life. The spot in her heart that had once held hope for love and romance was now filled with fear and terror.

As Anne sat in the chair in Vivian’s receiving room, the photograph of Bernard mocking her, a few sobs escaped to cut into the stilled air.

Unless Bernard was able to secure a divorce, as it was easier for men—though she’d given him no cause to pursue one—or he died prematurely, this would be her life.

The sobs turned into full-body shakes and the floodgates opened.

Followed by the door.

Anne flew to her feet, humiliated, and found herself face to face with a man she had never met before.

He looked a bit similar to Vivian’s friend Mr. Dantes McNab, with the same green eyes with that slight wildness to them.

He had hair the color of ink, and stubble where a beard should have been, as if he hadn’t shaved for a day or two.

And he was quite tall, with huge shoulders and thick arms and thighs, but a narrow waist.

He also looked really crabby. And quite uncomfortable at the sight of her.

“Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry,” Anne said with a hiccup. As she began dabbing at her eyes, she sniffed. “I made an excuse to come in here to gather myself, and everything hit me all at once.”

The dark-haired man didn’t say anything but continued watching her, unblinking.

Anne began sobbing again and when she was upset, sometimes she lost control of her mouth.

“My husband is having an affair with an acquaintance, after years and years of visiting brothels. He’s drunk all the time and yells at everyone constantly—on the rare occasion where he’s actually home.

When he is home all he does is try to make me feel as horrid as possible.

” Realizing what she had divulged to a complete stranger, she cursed at herself, then apologized again for her vulgar language.

“Who is your husband?” he asked. His voice was deep and oddly calming.

“The Marquess of Litchfield.” She paused. “Why did I tell you that? Why am I telling you anything? Oh, blast, I’ve lost my mind!”

“I won’t tell a soul.”

She looked up at him and could see in his eyes that he meant it. She felt very aware while being under that unusually sharp gaze of his. “Thank you.”

He took a few hesitating steps toward her. “Would you like to escape?”

“‘Escape’?”

“I have a hansom that should still be out front. You’re welcome to use it to get home. Just tell the driver Victor offered it, if needed.”

It took her a moment to understand what he was saying.

She had some coin on her, but she was too distraught to think if she had enough for a hansom or not.

He was offering to pay for her. This touched her more than she wanted to admit—this stranger was showing her more kindness in one small gesture than her husband had their entire marriage.

The door to the receiving room opened again and another man entered the room, his hands rubbing at his face. “What are they feeding those animals? That stench has burned into my nose for eternity.” As he moved his hands away, he startled at the sight of Anne. “Oh. Sorry.”

“This is Lady Litchfield,” the man she assumed was Victor said. “She’s using the hansom to go home.”

The other man, much younger than Victor, frowned. “Why?”

Victor’s eyes narrowed and his voice became a dark warning. “It’s none of your business why.”

The younger man gave Victor a strange look before turning to her. “I should warn you, the horse was rather…foul today for some reason.”

Anne put a hand to her mouth before looking at Victor.

“It’s true,” Victor said, pulling his shoulders back and straightening his spine. “It was actually rather ghastly.”

Anne couldn’t help but start laughing, and Victor met her laughter with his own. She accepted the kind offer, thanked him, and handed over the photograph with instruction to give it to Vivian. As Anne slipped out the door, she overheard the younger man say, “Did you just laugh?”