Page 8 of Cold November Rake

"I would rather let my name die than lie next to you. So you had better not unpack your trunks, Lady Sutton, because you are going back to Sutton Hall at first light."

She took a step back, her face a picture of distress, but that was as far as she backed down. "You left me at Sutton Hall right after our wedding, and I accepted that."

"You left for the Continent within a fortnight! How is that acceptance?"

"You never told me I couldn't leave." She tossed her golden hair back. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that I returned to Sutton Hall⁠—"

"After three years," he muttered.

"—and you refused to visit me. Still, I accepted that, too."

"Well, you are here, in London, so that doesn't sound like acceptance to me either."

"If you want me to go back to Sutton Hall, to my exile and live out my lonely days not just without a husband, but without any other companionship⁠—"

"If by companionship you mean lovers, then of course I don't want that!" he exploded, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.

"—then the least you can do is give me a child I can love," she concluded calmly, ignoring the flare of his temper.

In all the time he had known her, he had never thought her name suited her until now.

"I am not asking you for a husbandly relationship," she added, her eyes burning intensely. "I am not asking for courtship, or talking, or attending events, or even dining together. You can continue your daily life as you always have. All I want from you is a child, Edward. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Chapter Three

Sutton Hall, Wiltshire

14th November 1815

Dear husband,

The moment you brought me to Sutton Hall, I understood it would never be my home. You did not introduce me to the household. You did not make me your wife in truth. And in the same breath, you did not tell me why I must never leave this place.

Perhaps you believed you had married a meek little mouse who would obey your every word and never dare to contradict you. If so, you should have chosen a different bride.

I shall not pretend I made no mistake. What you overheard that night wounded you, and I apologized for it. The kiss you witnessed was a farewell, and I apologized for that as well. But I shall apologize no longer.

I am your wife, from the moment of our vows—in name, in body, in mind. Whenever you recognize that, I invite you to write to me, and I shall consider returning to resume our marriage.

Until then, I shall be with m

y Aunt Lucy in Florence. Her direction is enclosed.

In marrying me, you gave me freedom, for a married woman may do what an unwed girl cannot. Forgive me for using it rather than committing myself to exile in Wiltshire.

Waiting, not altogether patiently, for your reply,

Your wife,

Temperance

And then she has the audacity to demand I give her a child."

Sutton lay stretched along a small velvet settee in Marie's dressing room, one boot dangling off the arm. He stared at the ceiling because it was the only place in the room he could look without seeing a flower.

The room was hardly larger than a cupboard, and Marie had crammed it to bursting. Gowns hung from rails along every wall—silks, muslins, and spangled gauze pressed together so tightly one could hardly make out what they were. Slippers and satin shoes in every color littered the floorboards, kicked off or abandoned wherever she had last stood. Portraits of her hung in crowded rows. Her vanity was a battlefield of rouge pots, powder, and pins, ringed with cut-glass perfume bottles that made the air thick and sweet. And everywhere, on every surface, were the flowers. Roses in pitchers, lilies in vases, violets spilling from a hatbox, bouquets stacked on the floor beside the settee, each one tied with ribbon and trailing a little card from some admirer. Notes were tucked into the frames of her portraits and wedged into the mirror. One had drifted onto Sutton's chest. He flicked it away without glancing at it.

Marie sat at her vanity with her back half-turned to him, dabbing away her stage rouge with a cloth.