“Very,” she lied.
“The chamber . . . it is to your liking?”
“Quite so.”
“Because there are other chambers.”
Chambers that did not adjoin his. “It is fine.”
He nodded, sipping from his drink and meeting her eyes again.
“However . . .” Her voice faded.
“However?” he prodded, cocking one dark eyebrow.
“Would it be permissible if I made a few changes . . . minor renovations—”
It stuck in her throat to ask anything of him, but this wasn’t the kind of thing she could just take upon herself without first consulting him. There would be workmen and expenses. Mama would likely be in and out, voicing her considerable opinions.
“Of course. It’s your home now,” he replied quickly. “Do as you see fit. Whatever you want.” Almost too quickly. She narrowed her gaze on him. Was that relief in his voice?
He averted his eyes, and it dawned on her that he was glad she had asked this of him. A task to occupy herself and forget how less than satisfactory this marriage was for both of them.
A footman arrived holding a tray of correspondence. Max quickly went through them, plucking out one missive and then offering her the tray to browse through the remainder.
“What are these?” she asked.
“Invitations. I have no desire to attend any of them, but by all means, feel free to do so.”
Without him.
He really didn’t care if she went about Town without him. Heat slowly crept up her neck. She could just imagine the whispers and titters of those girls who had been so hateful toward her if her first appearance in Society as Lady Camden was without Max. The speculation would be vicious and as fast-moving as wildfire.
She swallowed against the thickness of her throat. They truly were going to lead separate lives. She attempted to look on the bright side. She would go where she wanted. She should have reveled in this freedom. Countless other wives would envy her situation.
So why did she feel so bleak? So alone?
She slid the tray closer and began flipping through the mail as a hollow sensation spread throughout her chest. “Thank you,” she murmured, focusing her tear-blurred eyes on the neatly penned script, keeping her head carefully bowed so he would not see she was affected. “I believe I will.”
The pattern was established.
A routine of actions and behavior that flowed in a comfortable rhythm. Inane chatter over breakfast, and then Max would depart, leaving Aurelia to her own devices.
He busied himself throughout the day—in his office, meeting with his man of affairs or investors, riding, walking, visiting his club. Essentially anything and everything that took him out of Aurelia’s sphere.
He rarely dined at home. His club was good enough for a tasty meal. Mornings, however, were the worst. He couldn’t run away entirely. Pride demanded he take his breakfast as he usually did. He insisted on sleeping in the comforting familiarity of his own bed, too.
Fleeing his home completely, eschewing his favored breakfast at his very own table, smacked of fear. Or cruel indifference to his wife. He could not have done any of those either.
The mornings were a torment. Seeing her, knowing she was his and yet not . . . that he could never think of her as belonging to him.
She watched him eat as she nibbled on her porridge and browsed his discarded invitations for any that might strike her interest.