The Ideal Wife(72)
But why had she not come to him? He had begged her just the morning before never to be afraid of him. He had told her that it was a marriage he wanted with her. He had not told her that he loved her. It seemed an absurd thing to say after only a week of marriage and such a very short acquaintance. But she must have known that his feelings were involved in their relationship. There had been the night before that with its magical lovemakings.
But she had not come to him. She had gone to Gerald instead. The thought made him angry. If he had her there with him at that moment, he would probably have stopped in the middle of the street to shake her until her head flopped on her neck.
Was that what had made her ill—the need for more money? She had been pale and listless and absentminded the evening before, and when questioned, had explained that it was the end of her month and she was always ill and out of sorts for a day or two. She had even chosen to sleep in her own room the night before and had given him a restless night as a result. He had kept waking and reaching out to the empty bed for her. He had missed her head butting and burrowing its way into the hollow between his shoulder and neck.
One of his former mistresses had always suffered cramps and headaches during that particular week of her month. Perhaps Abigail was the same, though doubtless a worry over money and an inability to confide in him had made it worse. She had not joined him for breakfast that morning, but had been sitting quietly in her sitting room—doing nothing—when he had gone up to her before leaving the house.
Damnation! he thought. He did not need this. He had married her because he wanted a peaceful life, because he had wanted to preserve his freedom and independence while enjoying all the advantages of being a married man. He did not want to be involved with a woman who had quickly become addicted to gambling or one who had the foolish notion that she could save a brother from ruin by paying off his enormous gambling debts.#p#分页标题#e#
If he were wise, he would go home, give her a sound beating, and pack her off to the country—preferably not to Severn Park.
Except that the notion was foolish. For one thing, he had never been able to see the logic of beating one’s wife—or one’s children, for that matter—merely because one was of superior strength physically. For another, he would not be able to pack Abigail off to the country without going with her. He had been mad enough to fall in love with her.
Besides, marriage was not as he had expected it to be. There was no way of preserving one’s freedom and independence once one was married. It was a contradiction in terms. Like it or not, his life was now bound up inextricably with Abigail’s, and hers with his. A beating and banishment might momentarily soothe his anger, but it would solve nothing in their marriage.
If Gerald was to be believed, she had not glibly asked for money. Her behavior had suggested that she was quite distraught.
Poor Abby!
His steps hastened in the direction of home.
• • •
ABIGAIL WAS SETTING in an open barouche, twirling a sunshine-yellow parasol above her straw bonnet, smiling brightly at the gentlemen of the party, who rode alongside, and chattering with great animation to Laura, Constance, and Miss Lestock, Constance’s friend.
No one looking at her would have guessed quite how wretched she was feeling. Or how embarrassed.
She had walked home from the park the day before, having sent the carriage home earlier, eager to find her husband, bursting to tell him the whole sordid story. Everything. He must take it as he would. Perhaps there would be grounds for divorce in what she told him. Perhaps it was possible for a man to obtain a divorce if a lady—a female—married him under false pretenses. Perhaps she was heading for the worst scandal the decade had known.
But whatever the results were to be, she was going to tell him.
If only he had been there when she had arrived home. If only! The nightmare would now be over. Instead, he had been from home, but his mother and Prudence had been upstairs in the drawing room, awaiting her return.
They had been most gracious. Prudence had hugged her and told her how happy Abigail’s visit had made her—and her children—that morning, and Lady Ripley had told her that she and Miles must join her party at Lord Sefton’s concert that evening.
“You have conducted yourself with a good deal of spirit in the past week, dear,” she had said. “And if it is true that you were forced to work for a living, it is true also that you have done nothing to hide your past, but have held your head high and been quite frank about yourself. And Miles is fond of you. That is clear to see. I am proud of you.”