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T hat evening, Evelyn found herself pacing the estate’s endless halls. She had not seen Nathaniel all evening. She had expected he’d be home when she returned, as she had dined with her sisters and aunt, after all, but she’d been informed he had not yet come home.

Several hours had passed, and she’d wandered back to the window time and again to see if his carriage had arrived.

It hadn’t. Unless, of course, she had somehow missed it.

Not that it should matter. She didn’t even know why she cared where Nathaniel was.

He was a grown man. He could do as he pleased.

Still, her feet insisted on carrying her back to that cursed window.

Eventually, she tore herself away from it and resumed her pacing.

She told herself she had a destination in mind.

First, she declared she needed a book from the library.

Then, she decided she must find the perfect place to read it.

After that, she developed an urgent craving for sweetmeats—the best of which were kept in the blue drawing room at the far end of the house.

The very end that passed by the parlor where Nathaniel typically sat in the evenings.

By then, she’d given up trying to justify her roaming. It was true. She wanted to know where he was.

Had she a right to? Perhaps not. Still, she needed to know.

The conversation with her sister earlier that afternoon echoed in her mind.

What if he had gone to the club? What if he had encountered women of ill repute?

What if someone saw him? She would be ridiculed again.

She would be ‘the one-day widow’—and the widow who had been made a fool of.

The wife who was mocked. Or whatever other charming sobriquet the ton saw fit to bestow upon her.

She heard footsteps and rushed forward, only to see Carson—Nathaniel’s valet ascending the stairs.

“Carson. Has His Grace returned?” she asked.

“Not yet, Your Grace,” he replied with a bow.

“I see. Do you happen to know where he has gone?”

“The club, with Lord Lynden.”

“I see,” she said flatly, her spirits sinking.

So, they were at the club. But what kind of club?

And what precisely were they doing there?

She bit her bottom lip, silently cursing herself for caring.

Then she turned and descended the stairs.

Stomped was perhaps a better word, for each step landed with enough force to dent the floor beneath her.

At the bottom step, she paused and sat. The book she had fetched—a gothic romance in which she’d found little genuine interest—lay limp beside her. She removed her gloves and drummed her fingernails against the banister. The sound competed with the ticking of the clock in the corner.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, but eventually, she stood.

What was she doing—waiting for him? How ridiculous. She would not be the abandoned wife, sitting around like a puppy in the rain. Not the way he had done that afternoon when he’d—well, forbidden was a strong word, but he had insisted she not see Halston.

No. She was not going to wait.

She marched into the nearest drawing room—conveniently, the one closest to the front door. Not because she cared when he came home, of course. Simply because it was the only room with a fire still burning.

She kicked off her shoes, placed her feet on the chaise, and opened her book to the first page.

She read. Then turned the page. Then another.

She could not, for the life of her, remember what she was reading.

The book could’ve been written entirely in Egyptian hieroglyphs, and it would have made no difference.

She was somewhere in chapter three—a charming prince (name forgotten) had gotten himself into peril in the woods—when her ears pricked at the sound of a voice in the hall.

Nathaniel.

It was muffled; she couldn’t make out the words. But it was him.

A glance at the clock told her it was now one in the morning. Where had the time gone? Perhaps she had fallen asleep.

She remained frozen, willing herself not to leap into the hall and demand an explanation. But she did not get to move. A moment later, a knock came on the doorframe.

He always knocked before entering any room she occupied. It was a habit.

She sat up, spun around with such haste that a muscle in her back sent out a burning ache. She winced. The book flew from her lap to the floor.

How mortifying… Why must I always look undignified in front of him?

“Nathaniel,” she said, and instantly regretted it. She had been making a point to refer to him by title these past few days.

“You did not have to wait up for me.”

“I wasn’t,” she replied sharply, taking in his appearance.

His shirt hung loose from his pantaloons on one side.

The top button was undone, and his cravat was nowhere to be found.

His hair, usually immaculate, stood askew as if someone had run their fingers through it.

She scanned his shirt for signs—lipstick, pomade, anything incriminating—but found none.

“You were not waiting up for me then?” he said, a touch too amused.

“Why would I? If you require a governess to wait up and tuck you into bed, do let me know—I shall gladly advertise in The Ladies’ Magazine.”

“Oh, Evelyn. That sharp tongue of yours. Forgive me for assuming you cared.”

“If you must know,” she said, “I simply could not sleep.”

“Indeed? I’d have thought you’d sleep soundly after a day out. I always do, especially after a night out. A distraction does help settle the mind.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain there were plenty of distractions available to you,” she snapped—instantly regretting it.

“Are you jealous?” he asked, his voice all amusement. The rage that flared in her belly spread to her limbs.

“Why would I be jealous? Of what, precisely?”

“Perhaps you can enlighten me. It certainly seems that way. That bulging vein in your forehead gives you away. It only appears when you are thoroughly vexed.”

Her hand flew to her forehead, but of course, there was nothing there.

“You are impossible.”

“Well, if you are not jealous, then what is it?”

“If you must know, while I am most certainly not jealous of whoever has caused your current state, I am saddened to see that you’ve returned to your former ways.”

“My former ways?” he echoed. “If you’re referring to my life in Scotland?—”

“Precisely,” she said. “Your former life. I’m ever so glad you have managed to import it here. That said, I do beg you to be discreet in your… exploits.”

“My exploits?” He chuckled. “You do sound jealous.”

“I am not a jealous wife. I am a wife who has already been publicly ridiculed once on account of a husband she was forced to marry. I had hoped, at the very least, to be spared embarrassment the second time around.”

“I see. You find me embarrassing.”

“When you tumble out of a carriage looking as though you’ve slept beneath a hedge—hair a mess, stinking of brandy—yes. I find that embarrassing.”

“Well then,” he said with a bitter smile, “fortunately, ours is not a real marriage.”

“I daresay it is quite real to everyone who believes us wed. Real in the eyes of the law and God.”

“And I daresay everyone also knows it was not a match of love, but of necessity. So my mortifying behavior, as you call it, is entirely fitting. Every other wretchedly unhappy husband behaves just the same.”

Her cheeks burned as though he’d struck her.

“Nathaniel, I do not wish to quarrel,” she said, steadying her voice. “Live as you please. Embarrass yourself in the eyes of our peers—I care little. I shall live my life, and you shall live yours.”

She clenched her fists. “Speaking of which, I shall make use of our townhouse. Not as my residence—I’ll not relinquish my quarters here, which I am entitled to—but I shall use it.”

He laughed. “And what use might that be? Sitting alone and conjuring more insults to lob at your husband?”

“I intend to start a society for young ladies, if you must know. Unless you object. Though I imagine you wouldn’t—given this marriage is, as you say, only on paper.”

“Only on paper,” he echoed, his voice suddenly unreadable. “Very well. Go forth. Found your society. Host your little soirées. I care little.” He turned and marched away.

When he was gone, she dropped back onto the chaise and slammed her fist into the cushion.

What in the world happened?

Not two weeks ago she’d thought—hoped—there might be something between them. Hadn’t they stood right here, alone in this very room, his hand resting gently on her cheek? Hadn’t she been certain he would kiss her?

And now they were arguing, throwing barbs like common enemies.

It wasn’t the harsh words that upset her most—it was the loss of camaraderie. That sweet, fragile companionship that had begun to take root between them.

They weren’t lovers. They weren’t even friends anymore.

And that loss, that quiet absence of his presence in her life, was the ache she could not ignore, no matter how hard she tried.