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When the clock on the mantel chimed eight times, Mary rose from the armchair she had occupied for hours. Andrew obviously had no intention of returning to dine with her. She may as well retire.

Her stomach growled in complaint. She had not eaten. She could have asked the doorman to send out for something, but she was too nauseous to eat, her stomach rolled like a butter churn.

In the bedchamber, she searched through her trunks for a nightgown, then undressed, struggling to reach behind her back to release her buttons and the laces of her corset.

There was nowhere to store her clothes beyond the trunks, the one chest of drawers was full of his clothes. So, she put the clothes she removed in a trunk. Her clothes would have to stay in them.

You said you loved me. I love you, he had yelled before he left her. Was it true? How was she to know?

When she climbed into his bed the sheets were cold, and a little damp. She was unsure on which side to sleep.

This was nothing like the marriage she’d imagined, everything felt wrong, it was a nightmare.

When she heard the apartment door open, she threw back the covers to get up and greet him, but then she heard other voices in the sitting room – his friends, the men who had danced with her.

She lay back down and pulled the covers up over her shoulder.

They were laughing.

Her heart hammered hard as she heard Lord Brooke say, ‘So where is your hard-won bride? Hiding? I have only come back with you for the pleasure of seeing our trophy. After all, we all played a part in your victory. Her dowry will be the making of you, Drew.’

‘Wait a moment, I will fetch her,’ Drew answered. Footsteps walked towards the bedchamber. ‘She must be here…’ His voice did not sound too certain.

It would have served him right if she had left.

She shut her eyes as the door handle turned, pretending to be asleep. Through her closed eyelids, she saw candlelight enter the room and held her breath.

* * *

Drew stopped still. His heart had skipped a beat when he’d entered the sitting room and Mary was not there. As he walked towards the bedchamber cold fear hammered through his veins.

He feared she had left… But there she was, captured in the shaft of golden candlelight, her dark hair splayed across the pillow he usually slept on. The sight of her made him feel like weeping, and the smell of her in his room kicked him in the chest.

He lifted the brace of candles, casting more light into the room.

Her closed eyelids were puffy. She had been crying again, then, because of him, had not eaten, there were no remnants of her dinner in the sitting room. She had ordered nothing in.

He could have at least ordered it before he left, and not have stayed away so long, but once he was with his friends it was hard to get away.

I should not have gone out.

At the time, it had seemed the best thing to do. The only way to prevent his anger getting the best of him.

He had decided to say sorry before he even reached his club. But that had not turned him back because he needed normality, the sanity of his friends, to get over a day of Pembroke’s and Marlow’s ill-judgement.

While his friends talked, he had planned his apology.

But cowardice had still haunted him. He should have come home then. Instead, he had procrastinated, eaten at the club and played a hand of cards. Then, when he finally plucked up the courage to return, when his friends had proposed returning with him, he agreed when he should not have done, solely to have the shelter of their friendship when he faced her. His newfound cowardice running deeper.

He had left her alone, in an unfamiliar place, on the back of an argument. She would not welcome him bringing back his friends. He’d brought them as a shield for the wrath he expected to face.

Yet this was good, kind Mary. There was no wrath in her, only hurt, which he bore the guilt for.

Devil take it! The newly discovered voice of conscience no longer whispered; it yelled as guilt smote him with a double-edged sword. A coward with a conscience – that would be his lot as a married man.

‘My, my,’ Peter said, looking over Drew’s shoulder.

Drew shut the door. He did not want his friends ogling her.

Turning to Peter, Drew set a devil-may-care grin on his face; nor did he not want them knowing how vulnerable she made him. He would keep his love affliction to himself.

‘She is a prize.’ Peter smiled. ‘I like to think it was my prose that won her for you.’

‘You are not the only one who contributed to those words!’ Harry called from across the room, helping himself to a glass of the brandy Peter brought with them. ‘You cannot claim all of Drew’s success for yourself.’

‘Ah, but it is the prose that women love, and the prose was all mine.’

Drew said nothing, crossing the room to pour himself a drink too. The conversation carried on, as they all fought over whose words were the best, quoting their various contributions.

‘Well, if you think you helped Drew win Miss Marlow,’ Peter said eventually, ‘you can help me with Miss Smithfield. I am not getting very far, since Drew stole her pretty friend away, her parents will not consent to her driving with me.’

The others laughed.

Drew watched them in silence, as they developed a plan of attack. He sipped his brandy, wishing to be drunk, but for some reason the alcohol failed him tonight. He could not reach uncaring oblivion.

It was about two after midnight when his friends took their leave. He bid them goodnight, extinguished the candles and slipped into the bedchamber as quietly as he could, his heart thumping.

He stripped off in the darkness, leaving only his shirt on, before climbing into the bed beside her.

She did not move or make any sound beyond that of her slow, shallow breathing.

Sighing, he rolled to his uninjured side and let sleep claim him too.