Regency Surrender: Passion And Rebellion. Louise Allen

coat in which she’d got married. With such high hopes.

      Before she’d read his vile list and discovered what he really thought of her.

      Well, futile it might be, but she was jolly well going to let him know what she thought of him, too. Before she walked out of his house and his life.

      Telling Susan she could go and collect her own things, Mary buttoned up the coat and pinned on her hat.

      Then snatched up the list she’d just written, stormed along the corridor to the horrid blue room where her husband had taken up residence and slapped the list on to the bed.

      And then, recalling the way the list he’d written had ended up fluttering across the floor when the door shut, and knowing she was on the verge of slamming the one to this room on her way out any second now, she wrenched out her hatpin and thrust it through the list, skewering it savagely to his pillow.

      And with head held high, she strode along the corridor, down the stairs and out of his house.

      * * *

      God, but it had been a long day. He’d kept putting off returning to Mayfield, knowing that when he did return, Mary would have gone. But Julia was tired, cold and hungry, and in the end he’d had to bring her back. Had come upstairs to get changed for dinner.

      The first dinner of his married life that he’d have to face without his wife at his table.

      He had at least the satisfaction of knowing he’d done what he could to make sure her journey would be as easy as he could make it, without actually going with her. She’d been able to use the travelling coach, which had only just come back from the workshop. He hadn’t had to hire a chaise, and leave her in the care of strangers. Gilbey was an excellent whip. And she had a maid to save her from impertinent travellers at the stops on the way. He—

      He came to a halt just inside the door to his room, transfixed by the sight of a single sheet of paper, staked to his pillow by what looked remarkably like a hatpin.

      So she had left a farewell note. He’d wondered if she would. Heart pounding, he strode across to the bed, hoping that she... She what? A note that was staked to his bed with a symbolically lethal weapon was hardly going to contain the kinds of fond parting words he wanted to read, was it?

      But it might at least give him a clue as to where he’d gone wrong with her. Why she’d withdrawn from him when, to start with, she’d seemed so eager to please. So eager to please, in fact, that after her first refusal, he’d told himself she must be going through that mysterious time of the month that afflicted every woman of childbearing age. It had only been when she’d kept on refusing to allow him into her bed that the chill reality struck.

      She simply didn’t want him any more.

      Well, hopefully, this note would explain why.

      He snatched it up and carried it to the window, so he could make out the words in the fading light of late afternoon.

      Only to see the words What I want from a husband scrawled across the top of the page.

      With the word I underlined.

      A chill stole down the length of his spine as he scanned the whole page. Because it wasn’t just a damning indictment of all his faults. It was worse, far worse than that.

      The way she’d set it out, even the way she’d underlined certain words, the very choice of words she’d used—all of it meant she must have read the damn stupid list he and his friends had written, the night he’d decided he was going to start looking for a wife.

      A list he’d never meant her to know about, let alone read.

      No wonder she hadn’t wanted to sleep with him any more. She must be so hurt....

      No—that couldn’t be right. Heart hammering, he strode along the corridors to the bureau in his father’s rooms, where he’d taken to stashing his bills and letters. And found the list locked away, exactly where he’d put it when he’d moved here. Since he had the key on a fob on his waistcoat and that key had never been out of his possession, it meant she must have read it before they reached Mayfield.

      And still done her utmost to be a good wife to him. He shut his eyes, grimacing as he recalled one instance after another, when she’d made the best of his blunders while all the while she must have been trying to overlook this.

      Well, he’d just have to go after her. Tell her he’d never meant to hurt her...

      He got as far as the corridor, before it struck him that he’d never done anything but hurt her. Blundering, clumsy fool that he was...he’d watched her growing more and more depressed with every day that passed, wishing he knew what to say, how to reach her.

      And now he saw that it had never been possible. There was no way he could defend the indefensible.

      No wonder she’d left him. He would have left him if he’d been married to such an oaf!

      He staggered back into his father’s rooms, dropped into the nearest chair and put his head in his hands.

      What was he going to do? How was he going to explain this to her? Win her back?

      Win her back? He’d never had her to win back. Because he’d told her he wasn’t looking for affection from marriage.

      And this was why.

      When men fell in love, it made them weak, vulnerable. God, he hadn’t even realised he had fallen in love with Mary, until just now, when he’d read her list and realised how much she must hate him. Felt the pain of her fury pierce his heart the way her hatpin had pierced the soft down of his pillow.

      His feelings for her had crept up behind him and ambushed him while he’d been distracted by congratulating himself for being clever enough to write that list and pick such a perfect woman.

      Why hadn’t he seen that picking the perfect woman would practically ensure he would fall in love with her?

      Because he was a fool, that was why.

      A fool to think he could marry a girl like Mary, and live with her, and make love to her, and be able to keep his heart intact.

      Let alone keep her at his side.

      She’d gone and he couldn’t really blame her.

      All he could do was hope she’d find the happiness, away from him, that he couldn’t give her himself.

      And find some way of coming to terms with it all.

      * * *

      Gilbey informed Mary that the roads were too bad to make the journey all in one stage, so they stopped at an inn that wasn’t anywhere near as bad as her husband had led her to believe might be the case.

      It probably helped that she stalked into the building, still hurt and angry at her husband, and ready to take it out on whoever happened to cross her next. Susan did her part, too, making up the bed in the best chamber with sheets Mrs Brownlow had provided, with such disdain for the hotel’s bedding that all the staff treated Mary as though she was a duchess. But all the bowing and scraping from the landlord and his minions could not quite compensate Mary for the knowledge that when her husband had travelled with her, he’d hired a well-sprung, comfy little post-chaise, rather than put up with the antiquated, lumbering carriage that Gilbey had unearthed from somewhere. When she’d travelled with him, she hadn’t ended up aching all over and feeling so sick and dizzy that she would have cheerfully curled up on the rug in front of the fire, just as long as she could get her head down.

      And then, of course, thoughts of spending nights on hearthrugs in front of fires had churned her insides up so much that she could have been offered the finest, softest feather bed, and it would still have felt like an instrument of torture.

      * * *

      It was past noon by the time Mary reached London the following day. She heaved a sigh of relief when she finally alighted outside one of the largest, most imposing mansions she had ever seen.