Page 13 of Cold November Rake

He was home.

His boots dragged down the corridor toward his adjoining chambers. A moment later, his door thudded shut, followed by a labored stumble.

He was drunk, she decided. Unforgivably drunk.

Unless...

The footsteps, the stumbling against the furniture, and now the sounds—first, heavy, ragged breathing through the wall, as though he had run the length of London, then a muffled gasp, followed by a low, strained grunt.

Temperance's fingers tightened on the arm of her chair.

The bed frame gave a long, reedy squeak. Then another.

A groan followed, deep and guttural, and she closed her eyes.

Seven years. Seven years of letters and rehearsed apologies and foolish hope, and this was how he chose to welcome her home.

The breathing quickened. The mattress creaked again. Then came a thin, high-pitched whimper.

Temperance froze, her stomach twisting into sickening knots. The sounds were raw, primal, and unmistakable.

Was her husband locked in the throes of passion with another woman?

He cannot possibly be entertaining a woman in the room directly beside mine!

She stood and stalked toward the connecting door.

Not in my home. She had not come to London to be humiliated this way.

She reached for the door handle and paused.

Her fingers trembled, her eyes stung, and her heart gave an aching twist.

She had never thought Sutton would be this vindictive. The man she knew, the man she had married, would never have hurt her like this.

Had she broken him this badly?

Was he truly ready to shatter their marriage beyond repair? Because once she walked into what she believed waited on the other side, there would be no turning back.

What was she thinking?

He was throwing his lover in her face after she had traveled all this way to fix things. She shouldn't be sad; she should be furious.

She turned the door handle, threw the door open, and stopped short on the threshold.

The room was nearly dark. The fire had burned down to a few dying embers, and a single candle guttered on the far side of the bed.

Sutton was alone, sitting on the edge of his bed, stripped to the waist, bathed in the dim light.

The scene she had painted of Sutton rolling around in bed with his lover had been a figment of her imagination.

Thank the Lord.

For a moment her gaze lingered on his chiseled torso, slick with sweat, gleaming in the candlelight. Temperance's breath caught, a low tingle stirring in her stomach.

But all her flutters stopped cold when her gaze moved lower.

His fingers were smeared with something dark. And was that a curved needle in his right hand?