Page 101 of A Foolish Flirtation

He enjoyed it, he really did, though he felt strongly compelled to treat his wife as though she were made of glass and he frequently had to reread a page or two when his attention wandered to dwell on her profile.

His attentiveness was amply rewarded, for day by day he could see Emmeline growing more relaxed in this arrangement until she scarcely paused before joining him under the covers and he could take her hand in his or even kiss her cheek without startling her.

He had not taken it further than that though. He felt he had no right to. Not after…everything he’d put her through in the past and present. He kept her rosewood box, stashing it in his wardrobe next to his dressing case. When he was feeling particularly masochistic, he would lift the lid and even handle those tragic remnants of their past.

They never failed to overwhelm him, so he could only imagine what effect they must have had on Emmeline over the years. He was both touched and appalled she had kept them all this time. She could not have treasured such items, so why had she kept them? As objects to reproach herself with? As a lesson to herself, never to care for anyone so undeserving again?

Presumably, she would want it back at some point, if only for the mementoes of her parents, but in the meantime, he felt he had a right to custodianship. He deserved that they should bring him pain.

He was still struggling quite a bit with his own feelings when it came to his wife. He wanted simultaneously to worship her, to share his life with her, and, ultimately, to lay his head in her lap and ask her to please love him. It hurt to know they might never be on such terms.

It was all his own fault, he knew, and he had no right to focus on the little ball of self-loathing that felt like a hard stone inside his chest, not when she had conceded him so much already. It was just that, without her forgiveness, he felt like it would grow bigger every year until it eventually consumed him and choked him to death.

But that was all nonsense, of course. He was just being selfish again, expecting her to make everything right with his world. Emmeline had been more than honest with him about her own feelings. She did not want to hear his confession. She wanted the past to remain where it was, dead and buried.

She did not trust him with her heart, and he could not say as he blamed her. He was a man, frankly unworthy and undeserving of her in every way. The only thing he could do at this point was watch his step and look to improve significantly in the future. Building an amphitheater really seemed the least he could do to make up for his shortcomings.

Should he cancel the conservatory he had hired Wimble to build? A couple of days previously he had the idea to make it an orangery instead. Would that be sufficiently removed from Emmeline’s painful memory to make it acceptable to her?

Emmeline cleared her throat. “I’ve been thinking about my duties,” she said one evening as they sat side by side in Emmeline’s bed, propped up with pillows and reading their latest novel, The Haunting of Jennings Hall.

Jeremy lowered his book and considered her blankly. “Oh yes,” he said, as his brain scrambled to catch up with her words.

“The things you require from a wife,” she prompted. “You remember?”

“Committees,” he murmured. “Something about getting along with my neighbors?” The details were rather foggy now in truth.

“Yes. Well, you remember I told you I met with the vicar’s wife?”

“Yes,” he agreed cautiously. “You said she seemed nice.”

“She did. She said she would put my name forward to someone called Lady Sharpe, in connection with her Good Works committee.”

Jeremy shuddered. “Lady Sharpe!” he repeated. “Lord preserve us!”

“Who is she?”

“A regular old tartar!” Jeremy replied roundly. “If you’ll take my advice, you’ll avoid her like the plague!”

She sat up in surprise. “I thought you would be pleased with my progress!”

“Oh yes,” he said hastily. “I am, of course.”

“Well…good,” she said uncertainly before returning to her book.

Jeremy read half a page but found he had retained none of it. He lowered his book again. “Emmeline?” She looked at him enquiringly. “That discussion we had. Remind me, did it even occur to me to enquire what it was you required from a husband?”

“Well, yes, I mean you asked my terms. Don’t you remember? I told you about severance pay for my father’s clerks and—”

“Oh yes, your terms for marriage,” he said, waving this aside. “I don’t mean that. What I should have asked you was what you desired from a husband.”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “Well, at the time I suppose my expectations were not at all high. You see, Humphrey and I”—Jeremy braced himself—“spent so little time together. The business appeared to have so many demands on him, and then I moved away from London, of course, but even when I lived there, we were rarely together. Once I knew his, well, his situation, the lack of courtship made perfect sense, but over the years I had become accustomed to feeling a fiancé was something quite distant from my everyday life. I suppose that will sound strange to you,” She sounded almost apologetic.

“Yes and no,” he admitted truthfully. “Amanda and I led almost completely separate lives under the same roof for many years.”

“Did you—?” She hesitated, plucking at the coverlet.

“What?” He turned more fully toward her, adjusting his pillow. “Ask me. I promise I won’t take offence.”