At length, she drew a breath, her tone listless with resignation. "Yes, it's what I want."
He gazed at her then, his eyes cold and remote. "It will be as you wish then. I'll send word to have the house prepared for your arrival. The money is already in an account, established in your name alone. My solicitor will see to it you have all the particulars. Is there anything else you require?"
"No," she whispered.
Nothing else. Everything is over and done with now.
Straightening, he gave a curt bow, as though she were a stranger instead of his wife, then turned and walked to the doorless threshold that connected their rooms. "I'll have this repaired in the morning," he said.
Hefting the battered door, he stepped backward through the opening into his room, moving to prop the wood so that it covered the majority of the opening. "If you have need of me this evening, I'll be in my study," he stated in an unnaturally soft voice.
And that's when she realized he would not be coming to her bed tonight. He would never be coming to her bed again.
Standing still and silent, she listened to his footsteps as he made his way through his sitting room, then out into the corridor beyond. Once she couldn't hear him any longer, she walked to her bed, clutching her chest as though she feared her heart would cease to beat.
Perhaps it already has, she thought as she lay across the counterpane. I'm broken and will never mend again.
Hot tears slid over her cheeks, soundless and devastating. And as she'd feared, she didn't sleep the rest of the night.
Chapter 25
A week later, he and Grace left London.
Rather than set rumors swirling among the Ton, they'd agreed that it would be easier to depart together, then go their separate ways once they were away from Town. The plan served a second purpose as well, since it would help deflect difficult questions from their families-at least for a short while.
They'd already answered enough awkward questions as it was, starting the morning after the Pettigrews' ball. Concerned about Grace and her uncharacteristic behavior, the Byrons had descended to make sure she was well. Rather than admit the truth, Grace had fallen back on the excuse of illness and pleaded overexertion and fatigue. Jack had seconded her claim, saying a physician had already been called and that Grace just needed some extra rest.
He could tell that his family-his mother in particular-wasn't sure whether to believe them or not, but in the end, nothing more was said and the explanation was accepted.
Luckily, news of Meg's pregnancy helped circumvent further speculation-everyone was too cheerful over the prospect of a new baby to pay much attention to the tension between him and Grace.
He used the same explanation a few days later when he informed everyone that he and Grace would be leaving for the countryside a few weeks earlier than originally planned. It was late enough in the Season that many families were already shaking off the heat of the city for cooler country climes, so their early departure would cause little comment.
So here he and Grace were now, traveling into Kent. The journey to the house he'd chosen for her wouldn't take more than a few hours. Once there, he would see to it that she was comfortably settled, then he would depart.
For where, he still wasn't certain.
As he well knew, he couldn't go back to London-not for several weeks, anyway. And even if he were so inclined-which he most certainly was not-Braebourne was out of the question as well, since his family would be returning home before too long.
There was always Adam Gresham's hunting box in Scotland, he supposed. Perhaps a trip into the northern wilds would be just the thing. And Gresham was a generous sort, so Jack knew he wouldn't object to letting him open up the place for a few weeks.
Then again, he didn't know if he wanted to risk the possibility of company should Gresham and some of his friends decide to join him there. Naturally, they would inquire after Grace, and he had no stomach for their questions and speculation.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her shift slightly on the upholstered seat, her lovely profile in view as she gazed out the window at the passing scenery.
For a moment, he couldn't help but stare, tracing the familiar contours of her face, aware exactly how soft her skin would feel and how sweet her mouth would taste were he to lean across for a kiss.
///
Abruptly, he turned away, his chest tight with an anger that had consumed him ever since that dreadful night at the Pettigrews' ball. Even now, he couldn't believe she was leaving him. And part of him couldn't believe he was letting her go.
He'd thought about confronting her again, declaring himself and his love for her. But she'd made it clear that whatever tender feelings she might once have held no longer existed. She'd made her choice.
She wanted her freedom.
She didn't want him.
At length, the coach rolled to a stop in front of the house.
Her house.
After letting the footman help her down, he followed, casting an idle glance at the stately Georgian manse, with its red brick exterior and multitude of windows. She'd wanted lots of light and sunshine for her painting. She would find it here in this dwelling. And also in the big garden, where she could carry her easel and draw to her heart's content.
He waited in the front parlor, refusing to do more than take off his hat, while the housekeeper took Grace on a tour. Only a few minutes later, she returned.
"Does the house meet with your approval?" he asked.
"Yes. Even more so than I expected," she said in a quiet voice. "It's absolutely lovely."
Unable to look at her, he set his hat on his head. "If you have everything you require, I shall take my leave. You need only write should you find anything that is not to your liking."
"I am certain I shall be more than comfortable."
"Well then, I bid you adieu."
He strode to the doorway, intending to walk through without another word or glance.
Instead he stopped on the threshold, one hand curled against the frame as he looked back. "Grace?"
She met his gaze, her eyes looking very grey.
And for a moment, he very nearly poured out his heart, very nearly begged.
"Enjoy your independence, Grace," he said instead.
Then, before he could disgrace himself, he turned on his heel and strode into the hallway and out the door. Stepping into the coach, he gave the order to drive on. To where, he still had no idea.
From inside the parlor, Grace stood motionless. Part of her wanted to run after him. Another part told her to let him leave.
Then suddenly it was too late, as Jack's coachman gave a shout that set the horses in motion. Running to the window, she watched until the coach vanished from sight. Even then, she stood, one hand on the glass, as if she could call him back.
She didn't know how long she waited there, time slowing to an indistinct beat. The sun shifted in the sky, but she noticed it only as a change in the light and not as an indication of the waning day.
A brief knock came at the parlor door. "Excuse the interruption, my lady," the housekeeper said. "But will you be wanting dinner soon? We can serve it in the dining room, if you'd like?"
Dinner? No, she wouldn't be able to eat a bite. In fact, the very idea of food made her queasy.
"Just tea, I think," she told the servant. "And a bath. I'm very tired from the journey."
The housekeeper paused for a moment, then gave a nod. "You go on upstairs, your ladyship, and we'll see to you right and tight. Don't you worry about a thing."
Following the woman's suggestion, she did as she was bade.
Nearly a month later, Grace slid her paintbrush into a water-filled pottery jug set on the small table next to her painting. Leaning back in the cane-backed chair the footman had also carried out into the garden for her earlier that morning, she studied her latest efforts.
Lackluster, she thought. And dull. With none of her usual creative spark.
But then she supposed her artistic endeavors were merely a reflection of her mood of late, which was also lackluster, dull-and if she were being brutally honest-relentlessly melancholy.
Yet she couldn't assign any of the blame for her sad disposition on her new place of residence.
The house was beautiful, with comfortable, well-appointed rooms and gracious amenities. The servants were uniformly cheerful and exceptionally well-trained. The nearby village was comprised of charming shops, thriving townsfolk, and a fine old Anglican church that tried to keep everyone's sins in check, especially on Sundays. Her neighbors were a friendly lot, but respectful-seeming to understand her need for solitude without ever being asked to provide it.
And then there was the expansive garden that ran the length of the rear of the house-lush with color and fragrances that seemed to burst from every branch and bloom. Whoever had designed it possessed a keen eye for beauty, each plant chosen with obvious care and an affinity for nature.