“Well?” I asked, wondering what he could possibly have to say for himself.
“I must dress,” he whispered, apologetically. “I have an early appointment.”
Of course he did. Alexander Hamilton was a very important man. And I was just a betrayed wife. The business of the government, and his all-important administration, would go on. So, I sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb our sleeping son, and watched my husband dress.
At the appearance of his strong, well-formed arms—his naked torso as he stripped off his sleeping garments—I felt a stab of renewed pain. He was still as handsome as he’d been as a young officer; perhaps more so now, with a little gray at his temples, wearing a mantle of gravitas. Any woman would want him. Every woman did want him. And once, at least, he’d wanted them back, an instinct I’d been naive enough to believe love and piety held at bay in the dozen years since we’d taken our vows.
Now I couldn’t stand the sight of him, so my gaze fell to our son. “Was her child there when you made love to her?”
We both startled at my question, for I hadn’t meant to speak. And I doubt those were the words he’d expected to hear from me. “Dear God, Betsy, it wasn’t love. I’ve told you—”
“You said she had a daughter,” I broke in, unwilling to allow him to make a jury argument. “Where was the child when you went to this woman’s bed?”
A flush of scarlet crept up his bared chest. “The child was sleeping behind a curtain. You must understand it was a very squalid little apartment, to give the impression . . .” He trailed off, perhaps realizing that the picture he painted didn’t make a better case. “It was a sin.” He knew adultery was against the laws of God. I’d be lying to say that the sin against the Lord pained me more than the sin against me.
But I didn’t feel worthy enough, in this moment, to think his crimes against me merited notice. For he’d made true every ugly bit of gossip I’d ever heard or read about in the papers, and they all rushed back to me now.
“He’s a ginger tomcat. I doubt I’m the only lady to which he has pleaded, but the war . . .”
“He’ll surrender his sword to any pretty girl who wants it. Three by my count in the last month alone . . .”
“He will not be bound by even the most solemn of all obligations! Wedlock.”
I’d prided myself on being such a practical woman, but I suppose I must’ve been a dreamer to believe that ours was a marriage of true hearts. And now, as all my illusions were most cruelly stripped away, I found that I couldn’t ask the questions I wanted to ask for fear of the answers.
Is she prettier? More interesting? Do I not satisfy him? Had I ever satisfied him? Was it only the one time? Was it only the one woman?
I’d be a fool to ask. And I didn’t want to be a fool ever again.
“They want to ruin me with this, Betsy.” He sat beside me. “They can’t win an argument against me. They can’t win a vote against me. So they used the only true weakness I have. You.”
As if I were the liability! I gave an indignant little snort. “I mean nothing to you.”
He winced. “Never say it. You’re my angel. My beloved—”
“I’m not beloved,” I hissed, lurching off the bed, away from him.
“You are,” he insisted, coming to take my chin and forcing me to look at him. “It would never have come to this if I didn’t love you, after all.”
I quite nearly slapped his hand away. Was he blaming me? I was struck with a memory of the time I refused him when he bent me over the table. Of nights I’d been tired, or suffered a headache, or was preoccupied with the children. A wife had a duty to satisfy her husband’s needs, and this I’d apparently not done. But the only thing worse than to hear him blame me now would be to accept the blame.
I simply refused.
Faced with my quiet, defiant fury, he reached to tuck a tendril of hair behind my ear, but I flinched, and he dropped his hand. “Betsy. They could never have blackmailed me if it weren’t for my love for you. Your happiness is most dear to me. How could I, but with extreme pain, wish to afflict you with this confession?”
“The confession is not what afflicts me.”
He cleared his throat. “You’re the only person I dread to disappoint. If Reynolds had threatened me with death, I’d have faced it more manfully than the specter of hurting you. To prevent that, I would have paid nearly any price.”
“I don’t believe you,” I whispered, seething.
“Yes, you do,” Hamilton said. “And you must forgive me.”
“Oh, must I?” The look I gave him should’ve turned him to stone.
Somehow, it did not. “I surrendered to temptation, and I ask your forgiveness. Remember, Betsy, that you are a Christian . . .”
That he should dare throw that in my face!
Yes, God commanded forgiveness. Perhaps that should’ve been enough to soften my heart and resign me to the difficulties of this marriage that I’d undertaken in the Lord’s name. But it wasn’t. Wrapping my arms around myself, as if to guard from the chill in my own voice, I asked, “Would you forgive me if I surrendered to such temptation?”
He reeled back like a man kicked by a horse. It was a moment before he could even muster the composure to argue. “An unfaithful husband cannot be compared to an unfaithful wife, whose actions cast doubt on the legitimacy of their children. And what man would—”
He stopped, abruptly, before he said worse.
But I had a suspicion as to what he’d been thinking, and rounded on him. “If you think I’ve not had need of avoiding
