Nellie stared at him. “His Grace didn’t tell you?”
“I…I cannot say, Your Grace,” he repeated, his face reddening.
He looked so miserable, Nellie relented. “I shall just have to await his return to assuage my curiosity.” She forced a smile. “Thank you, Barlow.”
He bowed low.
The rose stabbed her fingers as she left the study and returned to her bedchamber. What reason could Charles have not to leave word for her of his whereabouts? She tossed the flower onto the dressing table and, sucking the sore finger, stalked the carpet, turning with a swish of her skirts. Peter trailed behind her, his big eyes on her, but then yawned and returned to his pillow.
There would be a logical explanation. She wanted to think the best of Charles. She did think well of him. But who sent the roses? The Frenchwoman? It could hardly be anyone else.
At luncheon, when Charles failed to return, Nellie dined alone. She barely ate a bite of food, her stomach tied in knots.
Charles arrived home late in the afternoon. He strode into her sitting room where she lay on the sofa, attempting to read a book, and stooped to kiss her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I was called away on business this morning.” He walked over to her desk and moved her pens and tidied her papers. “I thought it best not to wake you.”
Nellie sat up, her hand on her hair. “Barlow told me. Did the matter end satisfactorily?”
He frowned. “What did Barlow say?”
“Very little.” She waited for him to elaborate.
He avoided meeting her eyes. “There was endless discussion in the House.” He bent over and picked up the book from the sofa beside her and flicked through it. “Emma? It’s popular. I wonder who the author is.” He handed it back to her.
“It has definitely been written by a woman,” Nellie said. Ask him about the roses, she urged herself. She had moved the flowers onto an occasional table.
Charles’s gaze flickered over them, but he made no comment. “You think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“We are invited to dine with the Hammonds and attend their Victory Ball. These affairs tend to end close to dawn. You must rest.”
“Yes, I shall lie down.” Nellie turned to the door.
He stopped her with a hand on her arm, gazing down with affection. “I believe I shall join you.”
She wanted him to, so much that she almost agreed. But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. “Would you mind very much if I went in alone?” she asked. “I am rather tired.”
“Of course,” he said, disappointment deepening his voice. “Rest well, darling. I shall see you at eight.”
Nellie was relieved when he entered his own apartment before he could see the tears in her eyes. He had lied to her! Barlow had been evasive and uncomfortable, but he’d clearly said that Charles was not in parliament. The only reason must be because he’d been with some woman. Or perhaps he had gone to see his son? She put her hands to her wet cheeks and moaned.
How absurd she was, she didn’t understand herself. She expected too much from this arranged marriage. And she needed to stop. She must make a life for herself within it. The huge bed looked unwelcoming. With a heavy sigh, she lay down in her wrapper and pulled up the covers. Sleep eluded her as she studied the swag of heavy fabric above her. She began to take stock of the room, the wallpaper, curtains, the selection of art hanging on the walls. Even the furniture. She would change it all. Make it hers. Then she might feel a little less forlorn.
She drifted off.
A knock on the door brought her out of a deep sleep. She blinked. Her hopeful thought that it was Charles who could not stay away was shattered when Lilly entered with the tea tray. “I thought it best to wake you, Your Grace.”
Nellie plumped the pillows behind her and sat up. She felt much better; she had been tired. She took the cup and saucer from the maid and sipped the reviving hot brew. She didn’t know what had got into her this morning. Her thoughts had been nonsensical. Selecting a strawberry tartlet, she bit into it. “I hope the duke didn’t ask for me. You should always wake me if he does.”
“I haven’t seen him, Your Grace.”
Charles had said eight o’clock. She glanced at the mantel clock. It wasn’t yet six.
“I’ve laid out your apricot beaded gown, as you requested, and the matching slippers,” Lilly said.” Shall you wear your pearls?”
“No.” Nellie finished her tea and left the bed. “I’ll wear the red tonight.”
As the clock chimed seven, Nellie stood before the mirror, somewhat satisfied with her choice. Her mother would not approve of her new gown. It was exquisitely made, the low neckline quite revealing; the slender crimson satin slip featured a border of white satin and was ornamented at the hem with clusters of flowers. The three-quarter length overdress of silver-striped French gauze flowed about her when she walked.
Nellie chose silver kid slippers, and Lilly had braided her hair very cleverly with pearls in the style a la chinoise.
At the dressing table, Nellie pulled on French kid gloves, then clasped the sparkling diamond bracelet onto her wrist. It was Charles’s bridal gift. Her gaze settled on the hated rose Lilly had placed in a bud vase. The color almost matched the crimson of her dress. Drawing it out of the vase, she was about to throw it away but changed her mind. She pinned it to her silver beaded reticule.
While putting on diamond earrings, Charles entered. She watched his face in the mirror, fearing he might disapprove of the color or the low cut of her gown.
He came over to her chair with a large velvet box in his hand. “That’s a beautiful ballgown. You look stunning, Nellie.”
The black and crisp white evening clothes suited him. How handsome he was. She tried to ignore
